Plymouth High School - Pilgrim Yearbook (Plymouth, MA)

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SUNRISE S the blackness before dawn melted to a reddish grey, a group of men on a half-built bridge waited breathlessly for the first sight of the sun. Hanged at sunrise were the words which were running through the minds of all. With a circle of death draped loosely around his neck, a short, blond Confederate soldier glanced nervously toward a younger Yankee lieutenant. The sun was rising, in a moment there would be one less Confederate soldier in this troubled world. Bowling Stuart had lived all his life in Virginia. At the age of twenty- five he had married a fair young Southern belle and had taken title to his father's plantation. With two children, he had lived happily for six years and now, when he was the happiest, the Yankees were separating him from all that he held dear. Enrolled as a colonel in the Confederate army, he had been captured just twenty miles from Southern territory. He had been sentenced to be hanged as a spy at sunrise on this morning of October 31, 1863. When the lieutenant signaled, Bowling felt the support beneath give way. Down, down he went, the rope tightened, his neck snapped-was this water? Gasping for air while shots whizzed by from the bridge above, he ducked his head and drifted with the swirling current. A mile down the river, he staggered upon the bank. Shivering from his wet clothes and the cold of the morning, he set out on a run to keep warm. Only twenty miles to safety, he thought. Ah! they won't catch me this time. It's a good thing I kept my eyes open while I was a captive. As the sun climbed high overhead, he left the river to avoid a North- ern encampment. How ironical! A week ago I was a condemned man in that very place. It would be fine indeed if I can get food there and steal a horse and uniform without being caught. Let me see, how can I do it? My matches are dry. I'll set the woods on fire and draw all the men from camp. Quickly he lighted the surrounding underbrush and darted as fast as possible to a thicket outside the mess hall. There's the alarm. It won't be long now-there goes the chef. He slipped silently in among the steaming kettles and ate hurriedly. Having found a worn uniform and a good horse, he left camp without much difficulty. By morning he would be sleeping in his own bed. He would see his children and hold his wife in his arms again. Dawn streaked the sky as he rode past the fields which had once been filled with singing darkies. Then Lincoln had given to the nation the Emancipation Proclamation. The soft southern morning lightened his heart as he lifted the knocker on the front door. Steps were approaching. Bowling, it's youg you're home, darling! sobbed his wife. How tightly her warm arms held his neck-she was choking him! Everything went black, Colonel Bowling Stuart was dead. Right shoulder arms. Forward-march! - The squad disappeared over the brow of a hill while the body of Colonel Stuart swung silently in the morning mist. MALCOLM CHAMBERLAIN '43 Page 31

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,1-11 . ,,i in V. L- 91 -4 'f Y. .5 ' '- yn' wi' 'TTY y ' ..-Q-. ,,,,,- yy- ' -tl -5 4 jrzf gi . T, 'LN '-fr-:ig T1 f - - f, y-f . if Us A .- ' Q-' VVJZE: , A t 1.11 Jr., ' 6' ' T - -at Q - W ! . i ., -.,. -, 1 2 U it 'A' V I 1- X g U-if 4 Y 4' iffy! gf : 1 - . y fi. , ' iff qg' A 12'-7-Q71 Qi. V - - ' . .' Q-7:1 L n LPf- 1-is-.1:?-21'-- 4.4--Du Jas! ani! just Beside the back piazza And bordering the lawn, There stands a stately ash tree That I love to look upon. In spring, when all the neighbors' Have sprouted sprigs of green, Our temperamental ash tree Is still Zeafless, stark, and clean. But ere the heat of summertime Requires protecting shade, Our guard against the sun is then In verdant garb arrayed. When other trees in autumn With matchless hues abound, Our ash tree stands denuded, Its leaves upon the ground. And these, obedient to her call, As winds blow high and low To Nature's most eccentric child, Are last to come, and first to go. FAITH Mn.LmAN '42 trees x -f . 3f'if'f -e?fT' 1 'Q-11-fl? ' ' , .4 2-2 ,Q-TIL 'L y 7 1, ., -if .f.L.Qa'.: i .Y :'1Q1l l ---... f we - . - 3 -ff--,,f - Q '.. Li? Mr if n 5 W Sf' A W - ' 'A ,'f,,- . -XV Y! , . , 4 W xk 'K .f I :-if - . ' 1iNI ' 3!1 ' is .7 ,. - 4 KX fi B ...-y 7, ,yy lup- Page 30 My ..J41loa5e My house is on a grassy knoll And overlooks the seag It battles all the winter storms, But safely harbors me. My house is low and rambling With cozy little rooms, Where in the winter evenings No fear of world strife looms. My house has two large sen- tinels Which guard my sleep at nightg The wind soughs through their branches And soothes my dreams till light, My house is more than shelter, It grows in strength each year: It has a personality That will not disappear. BETTY Vmtrs '42 www V1.1 VI, f ' 'EF' a' 9' W 'Y up 7 'QL lf' . R .. V, Mya ' ,fi ,' '. ,,.. f fy fi -.1 il 4 If fy!! I Qs Q I 9 , Xxx li i -f I If! fx 1 ,f ff? tg, A a ,iff gif l fu 4 K xy XXL' ' X 4 ml, fr , A uk I -4-e , 2 ,x .f f . 4 'N ' Q ks . I ' N J ' , Z! fi r j , hxmgix if . ','.-91: ' xl . vi I- i L . 7- V, .K 1.28 'A ' V, 53024. 44. .,z'.ff.l, The sun is set,' and darkness creeps So softly o'er a weary country- side. Dark clouds hang low: the pale moon peeps Between the clouds, then slips away to hide. Soft snowflakes fall: all nature sleeps Beneath a glistening blanket, far and wide. So rest, my sweetp in slum- ber's deeps I leave you now. Sleep well till morningtide! J ENNETTE Fmmxs '42

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jhuifafioh MANHATTAN NIGHTFALL HE With blood-red glow I love this debonair young lad I'd always seen the sun sink low With straight, black hair and winning smile, Behind the pine tree and the fir- Eyes with power to beguile: But once I saw her splash her fires Dangling hands and awkward feet, On every pane Tall and slim, but always neat: In soaring, man-made towers: A hand held out in friendliness, Each tiny square A smile which speaks of manliness- A blazing flash of light I love this debonair young lad, Which all too soon flared out and died The brother that I never had! As daylight melted into night. JoAN ELDRIDGE '44 ISABEL BROWN '44 RHYTHMIC REFLECTIONS Each gleaming flame Is a graceful sylph Dancing a ballet On charred logs of white pine. The wind breathes- Each leaping flame flickersg The logs break- Each shivering fiame quivers, Then gently fades away! WALTER ROBERTS '44 - THE SEAMAN The Seaman is a wrinkled man- MASQ-Egpgggg A man who's scarred and aged, His face is like the sea itself' Last night, .with frost crystals, A sea that is en,-aged. Mother Nature painted A woodland scene upon my window pane The Seaman is a withered man- A man who's old and grayg Feather? ferm- His sunken eyes are haunting eyes Fairest flowem- Which dream the uvelong day. Etched on a background of majestic trees The Seaman is a mystic man-- Mommy brought the Sun- A man from story books: Semfg we fomst Though he's sailed the seas and seen the Aware 'mth froaen fire- wofld' ROBERT VAN AMBURGH '44 He always seaward looks. Mn.'roN GLAssMAN '44 Page 32