Plymouth High School - Pilgrim Yearbook (Plymouth, MA)

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AW of va Pam, BEST GIRL CITIZEN This is the seventeenth year that the National Society of Daughters of the American Revolution has asked high school seniors throughout the United States to choose their Best Girl Citizens. We, the class of 1954, have selected, on the basis of ability, character, and service, Marilyn Rossi. Marilyn has been outstanding during her three years of high school. Consistently superior in schol- arship, she is a member of the Honor Group and Honor Society. For two years she has served efficiently as our class secretary. She is also one of the leading office assistants. We are proud to present Marilyn Rossi as Best Girl Citizen. ONCE AGAIN, THE STARS f w P l 1 l Vice president Francis Merrit President, Ira Carling Advisor, Mrs. Raymond: Secretary, Marilyn Rossi Treasurer John Vancini.

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fa efalfcf H if 'T Best natured Joyce Pederzini 'W-mf' Francis Merrit Best dancers June Wood Wallace Crowell Most talkative Most flirtatious Elizabeth Wood Edward Borgatti Robert Vandini Elizabeth Bobb 'WV Most likely to succeed Marie Hasz Ira Carlin E F4 4 1 5 o , 1 , X' P . , b ' v , .. ..fl4 ,f m ' g: I I

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AMERICAN DRAMA I hear America singing, the varied carols do I hear. These memorable words of Walt Whitman's have set the question spiraling through my mind: What do I hear, and what are the carols of America? First, I hear the carol of the honking Canada goose, wild and free, winging northward with his mate. I hear the sounds of the chase-the pounding of the horses' hooves, the panting of the hound dogs, and then the triumphant shouts of the hunters as they halt before a fallen prey. I hear the shouts of American boys and girls bicycling through the country, stopping now and then under the shade of the Horse Chestnut for a mom- ent's rest, and to drink from the cool spring. The muted song of the hermit thrush, the cry of the whippoorwill, the hoot of an owl, the wind rustling in the trees are all music to my ears. Then, I hear the tramp of American troops fighting on some far distant hillside for the freedom they believe in, and dying desolately for the heritage that is theirs. I hear the whipping of our flag and see that the star spangled banner yet waves in the cold dawn's early light. I hear the clear notes of the bugle at revielle, and at the closing in of day the distant sound of taps trembles on the air. I hear the laughing cries of the happy child at play as she flits from one game to another. I hear the shouts of young boys busy at baseball in the neighborhood sandlot, the future servants and leaders of America. I hear the hopeful humming of the teenager as he tinkers for hours with a souped up jalopy, hoping to make the radio blare still louder, and the anguished cry of the high school girl, But Mom, I'll simply die wearing rubbers to school at my age! I hear the cheery morning of the janitor, and the tapping of the secretary's typewriter keys as she transcribes dic- tation. I hear the scurrying about ofthe part time salesgirl as she searches deftly to satisfy some fussy customer's demand, and I watch her eagerly eyeing the clock at 5:25 p.m., wondering how she will ever finish all the homework and still manage to go to the movies. I hear the stock boys whistling their tunes as they go blithely on their way, good naturedly jostling one another. I hear the song of the farmer plowing and planting his field, the greet- ing of the neighborhood mailmang the lusty Eh, Cumpari! of the fisher- man, just returned with his daily catch of cod, haddock, and mackerel, and I hear the impatient screech of truck brakes as the driver hastens to Hnish his run for the day. I hear the hum of the presses and the blatant cries of the newsboy, Paper, get your evening paper! as he advertises the daily news on each street cornerg and I hear the chatter of the pneu- matic drill at work with the construction gang. And all over America I hear the clarion call of the school bells, thous- ands of young feet hurrying or lagging, thousands of raucous youthful voices, then the din of the cafeteria and the screaming silence of the class- room clocks. The chanting of the priest in the church as he intones the ritual of the mass, and the lofty hymns of the choir threading their way up to God, along with the mighty strains of the organ I hear. I hear the song of the rabbi in the synagogue, the fervent entreaties of the Evangelist on the street corner, and the benediction of the minister from his pulpit. Such is America, my heritage. I hear America laughing and sobbing. I feel her pulse beat as she sleeps and I hear the throb of her great all- embracing heart, as she wakes I Carol Brooks Foley