Quincy High School - Goldenrod Yearbook (Quincy, MA)

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THE GOLDEN-ROD. ominous little books containing the still more ominous little marks ? Does sensitive Dame Conscience prick you with her sharp needle guilt, or, have you wisely learned, under the guidance of the stern teacher Experience, to close your mouth very tightly in order to main- tain the proper rigidity ? Have you forgotten the puritanic maxim of your childhood to speak only when you’re spoken to by the “ powers that be ? ” I should not be following the golden rule to the letter if I meant these few remarks to be in a “ moralizing ” strain, for verily we are “ brothers of the flesh ” in whispering as in the other small sins of life. Perhaps you don’t call carrying on an animated conversation with your neighbor across the way sinning, but remember Pope says: “ And who but wishes to invert the laws of order, sins.” That being the case, the best thing that we can do, boys and girls, is to borrow the Moslem’s angels and let the good one rest on our right shoulder, that its righteous pleadings may check the assaults of the naughty little demon on the left. r. The new woman seems to be creating a great deal of discussion nowadays. Not a magazine or newspaper that does not have some- thing to say about her. She is cari- catured, condemned, and yet upheld. All the gossip about her reminds me of an article I read somewhere about the “ new woman.” It was entitled, “Is the New Woman a Woman? If Not, What Is She ? ” It went on to say that the writer had heard many opinions concerning this ques- tion. Some people contended that however she might disguise herself, she was a woman at heart. Those opposed to this opinion said, that if she was a really lady-like woman she would never do the numberless foolish acts that “ new women ” were committing; that in their opinion the woman who confessed that she was a “new woman” was not in reality a woman at all, but a reduced edition of that class of creatures known as the genus “ dude,” which forms a connecting link between man and woman. The writer rambled along for some space, and ended like the case of Mr. Shobb and Mr. Nobb, who fought a duel, and the result was unknown whether Nobb was shot or Shobb was not. w. Physiology ’97. Teacher—“Where is the alimentary canal ? ” Pupil—“ Back of the neck.” The Head-master of the Quincy High School and the editors of The Golden-Rod wish publicly to thank those enterprising and public-spirited citizens and non-residents who ad- vertise in the school paper. All the readers of The Golden-Rod are urged to patronize The Golden-Rod advertisers. Total number enrolled thus far at the High School since 3 September, 1895, 335, by far the largest number in the history of the Quincy High School, or of any other Quincy school of similar rank. Attendance for September, 98.2 per cent. ; cases of tardiness, 6; cases of truancy, 0; visitors, 13; average age, 15 years, 6 1-2 months,

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No. 1. Vo i,. v QUINCY, MASS., OCTOBER, 1895. Me $0lte-§0d WILL BE PUBLISHED MONTHLY DURING THE SCHOOL YEAR IN THE INTEREST OF THE QUINCY HIQH SGHOOL. Subscription Rates. For the year, 50 cents | Single Copies, 5 cents For sale at E B. Souther’s, (Quincy, and W. D. Ross’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-Oftice as Second-Class Matter. f ditorikl. General { Jacob Wakshaw, ’96, Editors, l Beatrice H. Rothwell, '96. It was quite a coincidence that the senior class should have had the “Life of Oliver Wendell Holmes” for a lesson on the first anniversary of his death, for it was exactly one year ago on Monday, the 7th of October, that the last bright star of that brilliant New England galaxy was dimmed by death. The current of one’s thoughts flows in the same channel as those of the thousands of fellow-creatures who knew and loved “The Autocrat” through the me- dium of his works, and thus it was that with mingled sadness and lov- ing remembrance we recalled that singularly beautiful and beneficent life, for kindness, geniality and lively sympathy which tends to strengthen the “ brotherhood of man ” were predominant in him, and the world was “ better for his being.” R. This is the season when The Golden-Rod is in bloom, twining its golden stems around the hearts, and, likewise the pocket-books of all loyal students and well-wishers of the dear old High. Its management has been given over to the guidance of a new crew, who are hopefully looking forward to “ Point Surplus.” It has heretofore been rather diffi- cult to attain, struggling in a sea of debts, but it’s “ a bad sea that can’t be weathered.” Still, we need the aid of every person in Quincy, and we’re not at all bashful in asking for it. The expenditure of fifty cents will ruin no one, and you may be sure that such an investment is for a good cause. And the best way to make The Golden-Rod a success after subscribing, is to pay for it, as many forget to do. Then you will be sans reproche and nobody will be able to address you in somewhat the manner that the dentist addressed a debtor : “ Remember, sir, every time that your wife eats anything, that she does not eat with her teeth, nor with yours, but she eats with my teeth.” w. The Moslems implicitly believed that every man had two attendant angels—a good one and a bad one. Which of the two, think you, has made necessary the use of those

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THE GOLDEN-ROD. hitefkfy ©epkftmeqt. Edited bv i Maude Cummings, ’96. rented by j Chas j AnderS0Nj ’96. BEFORE A WOOF FIRE. Seated in a comfortable arm-chair before a glowing wood fire is an old man. It is just dusk, and the flames throw fantastic shadows as they leap and flicker. As is usually the case, when one is alone with nothing to do, he thinks about the past. So it is with this man. Now the flames represent an old- fashioned farm house in which he sees his family seated about a large open fireplace. His father is read- ing a newspaper, and his mother is knitting. His younger brother and himself are lying on a rug reading. While the family were thus seated, they were surprised by the arrival of an uncle who came from the city. This uncle was very rich, and was also a bachelor. The object of his visit was, as they soon found out, to take his eldest nephew to live with him, and to be educated in the city. Still gazing at the flames he sees his childhood’s home, as it was when he left it, and now in the bright flames he sees the city, as it first appeared to him. He thinks of his feelings as he entered college, and of his college life, and finally of the time when he was admitted to the bar as a lawyer. Still as he looks, his childhood’s home again appears, as it was when he was called to the deathbed of his brother. He remembers the sad faces of his parents, and the funeral in the little churchyard. Then he thinks of the change when his parents came to live with him in the city. He sees all his thoughts pictured in those glowing flames. He thinks of his great success as a lawyer, and the tender pride of his parents. Then of the death of his father, and how he and his mother are left alone, and how contented they seem in their quiet, comfortable home. As his thoughts thus travel back to the present, he is roused from them by the appearance of the housekeeper, who lights the lamps and prepares the table for tea. All the pictures disappear, and there is nothing left but the glowing wood fire.—Margaret L. Burns, ’96. AN OLD GARDEN. Far remote from house and hamlet, Scorned e’en by the highway’s wind, A mansion old ’mid weeping willows Its furrowed brow reclined. Wide about a garden murmured With a brooklet’s patient flow, Where oft the Muses loved to linger, And Cupid twang his bow. Year by year it bloomed and flourished, Never ceased the brooklet’s flow, But ruin soon with shade enveloped The garden’s youthful glow. Then no longer bloomed the lily, No more flushed the fiery rose; The shivering poplars e’en more shivered, The brooklet sang its woes. Ever wept the weeping willow, Ever sighed the murmuring pine; No voice of comfort longer echoed In this all nature’s shrine. Thorn and thistle scaled the portal, Moss assailed the crumbling wall, The nettle mustered in the gateway, The night-shade lounged o’er all. By the paling spiders bivouacked, Serpents ambushed near the cave, In tree and busliwood traitor-vultures The winged hosts did brave.