Quincy High School - Goldenrod Yearbook (Quincy, MA)

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THE GOLDEN-ROD. great middle class.” He attended Williams and Knox Colleges and also the University of Missouri, and after finishing his education wrote for many periodicals, holding promi- nent positions on the4editorial staffs of leading western papers. Mr. Field was less widely known as a newspaper man than as a writer of charming, dainty verse and enter- taining stories especially relating to child life. He was often associated in his literary labors with James Whitcomb Riley, and also with Edgar Wilson Nye, familiarly known as Bill ” Nye, author of comic sketches. “ Sharps and Flats ” was written in defense of Mr. Nye, upon whom some aspersion had been cast. Some of Mr. Field’s best known works are “ Culture’s Garland,” Little Book of Western Verse,” Second Book of Verse,” With Trumpet and Drum,” and “ Echoes From a Sabine Farm.” His last poem of any note was “ Dream Ships,” particularly pleasing because of its weirdness and airy grace. R. Latin ’97 — Buskins or buck- skins.—Which ? What remarkably free transla- tions of the old Marquis’s oaths are given in the French class! One young lady excited the risibles of the whole class by exclaiming in a very energetic manner, But, for goodness sakes! madame the baro- ness, what do you want me to do?” Mediisque parant convivia tectis. (They prepare a feast in the midst of the palace.) Translation—They prepare a feast in the midst of the roof. I itefkfy rl)epWtn er t. Edited by Maude Cummings, ’96. Chas. J. Anderson, ’96. BEFORE A WOOD FIRE. The afternoon was damp and cloudy, and I did not wish to go out. So I took my Cicero and my Latin Grammar, and went up to my room, where I knew that I should be quiet. I wished to be especially quiet, as there was going to be a test in Latin the next day. I sat down near the open fire, and began to study very hard. I had been seated but a short time, when I heard a rap at the door. I said, Come in,” in a rather weary voice. When the door opened, to my surprise I saw an old Roman citizen walk in. I was amazed, to say the least. I asked him who he was. He answered in a very deep tone, “ I am Marcus Tullius Cicero.” What are you doing here, at this time ?” I asked him. Oh,” he said, I just came to make a call on you.” He then asked me what book I was reading, I told him Cicero’s orations.” I asked him if he re- membered delivering these orations. Ah,” he said, indeed, I remem- ber it well.” Can you repeat any of them now ?” I said. He an- swered that he thought he could. Then suddenly I heard a queer noise, and a troop of Roman senators came in at the open door. My room, where we had been sitting before, suddenly underwent a change, and I was in the senate-chamber in the Forum. Catiline was there and all the rest. Cicero began, Quo usque tandem, abutere Catilina, patientia nostra ? Quam etiam furor iste eludet ? Quam adfinem sese effrediuf

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Vol. IV. QUINCY, MA.SS., NOVEMBER, 1895. No. 2. Sk WILL BE PUBLISHED MONTHLY DURING THE SCHOOL YEAR IN THE INTEREST OF THE QUINGY HIQH SCHOOL. Subscription Rates. For the year, 50 cents | Single Copies, 5 cents For sale at E. B. Souther’s, Quincy, and W. D. Rots’s, Wollaston. Address all communications to Rose Coyle, ’96, Louis N. Chapman, ’96, William C. Wales, ’98, BUSINESS EDITORS. Entered at the Quincy. (Mass.,) Post-Office as Second-Class Matter. S ditoricil. General 1 Jacob Warshaw, ’96, Editors, | Beatrice H. Rotiiwell, ’96. O, this balmy, beautiful Indian Summer ! with its merry sunbeams and gentle zephyrs. How our young blood bounds in our veins as we trip away to school light-hearted and free, with Dame Nature, laying aside her usual regal stateliness, dancing attendance as merrily as any fairy elf. One almost fancies oneself far from the cold, cold north, and trans- ported to some mellow southern clime amid sunny vales and fruitful vineyards, with purple-capped peaks in the distance, where every winged songster is an Orpheus, thrilling live things and lifeless, as they fly to Heaven's blue, forgetful for the time being of wicked Jack Frost, the herald of King Winter, who follows in the train of our most lovely season—Indian Summer. R. It is very strange to note how an act done at the wrong time, a word spoken at a critical moment will change the most affectionate friend- ship to the greatest antagonism. And it is greatly to be regretted that such should be the case between our two foremost colleges,—Harvard and Yale. All athletic connection has been severed, and the only remain- ing bond between them is the annual debate, which many people fear will also be dropped, because Yale will not make the first advances, as she thinks it would be equivalent to acknowledging her fault, nor will Harvard, since, as she is convinced that she is in the right, she believes that Yale should admit herself to be in the wrong. Still this separation may be productive of good results. The two institutions will now get along without a great deal of their athletic excitement, and the students will apply them- selves more closely to their educa-- tion. jr. w. The earthly career of Mr. Eu- gene Field, the popular American author, ended Monday, the fourth of this month. Mr. Field, who was born forty-five years ago in St. Louis, Missouri, was of old Puritan stock. His early life was the ordi- nary one of an American boy of the

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THE GOLDEFT-ROD. Suddenly I awoke, and found myself gazing at an open Cicero upside- down. The fire had gone out, and the room was damp and cold. The rain was coming down in torrents. I then decided to go down stairs, and tried to study some, as I had wasted most of the afternoon. I thought of the test the next day, and trembled, while thinking of it.— Helen H. Gavin, ’96. THE ENCHANTRESS'S ISLE. Circe’s isle ! O horrors’ land ! Ye nymphs, ye fates, immortal gods, Are prayers of Ilium’s sons in vain, Has altars’ blaze ne’er hailed your name ? Why need you gather night shade dire To brighten Circe’s magic fire ? Whose deadly breath has blown us here ? What wicked deed had we to fear That we should sate a ruthless seer, A sorceress’s vile desire ? Why doom, O gods, our souls on earth To Hades’ savage beast, Why feed a witches’ cruel mirth With human bodies’ feast ? O wicked fates ! O cruel gods ! That Troja’s life-thread so should end, That heaven’s will we ne’er could bend— Fierce Juno’s wrath has ever raged, And everlasting war is waged, Against a race whose well won praise Is subject fit for heavenly lays. —C. J. A., ’96. JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. To read intelligently the works of this eminent author, the true scholar of American literature; one must possess both an extensive vocabulary and the power of concen- tration of thought. There are some books which one may “ skim ” and get the cream of the story, but Lowell’s are not among these, for unless one enters earnestly into the spirit of the author, omitting nothing, the result will be far from satisfactory. What a broad scope his mind has ! From discussing the minutest detail concerning a bird, it passes to poli- tics, examining in classic language, well strewn with references, the character of Abraham Lincoln. His thoughts are so deep and so diversified that at times in begin- ning one of his master sentences, one looks in vain for a predicate and finally after winding through a laby- rinth of thoughts, he finds it sur- rounded by a strong garrison of figures of speech. Read Lowell’s poem “ The First Snowfall ” which contains such sweet simplicity, of pathos, then take up his essay on Milton and you will have an excellent illustration of the wide range of his mind. As an authority on ornithology Lowell is often consulted, as a critic he stands unrivalled; as a states- man and patriot his name shall live memoria in ceterna of all loyal Americans.—Catherine E. Healy, ’97. MY FIRST EXPERIENCE WITH AN INDIAN It was during the early autumn of the first year I lived “ out west.” The Indians, or “ Siwashes,” were, I had been told, perfectly peaceful and harmless, and I afterward found out that it was a common enough thing to have them come selling clams, or wild blackberries, or more frequently begging at the door. I had just got home from school; my mother was away, and my sister had not yet got home. I was busily studying algebra, when I heard the back door-knob rattle violently j supposing it to be my mother or sister I went at once and opened the door. Perhaps my surprise can