Quincy High School - Goldenrod Yearbook (Quincy, MA)

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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.

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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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THE GOLDEN-ROD. Years accrued, the withering ages, E’er alert, a web of lore Ilad spun about this mass of ruins, The brooklet’s pride of yore. At dusky dawn, in evening’s twilight, O’er this nature’s wailing place The tinkling cow-bell low resounding The weary silence stays. Now revered by bard and traveller, Still, though long known but by pen, Its charm and fascination deepen Within the hearts of men. —C. J. A., ’9b. RUDYARD KIPLING. Four or five years ago the name and person of Rudy arc! Kipling, both rather peculiar, were practically unknown. At that time his stories did not command more than five or ten dollars apiece. But now what a difference ! His writings bring any price that he asks for them. c{ What’s in a name ? ” do you ask. There are over one thousand dollars for a story with Kipling’s autograph. There is one thing I admire in Kipling. He is not, like some of our modern authors, ready to rely on his fame. He does not write a story after a model. He follows his fancies and presents to us something new, not an old writing with the names changed. And if there is anything we particularly dislike, it is to find a “ sameness ” in all the works of a noted author. This is not genius. True genius creates thoughts, and new ways of express- ing old thoughts. Kipling’s works do not contain these characteristics of “ sameness.” Kipling is averse to being inter- viewed from “ morn till night ” by reporters, which is another good feature. He does not wish to be too much advertised, and scorns the delight of seeing his name in print too often. He lives a quiet, simple life, very refreshing in its simplicity. His home, near the “ pie belt ” is charac- terized as a model of domestic har- mony. He lives in peace with all the world and himself, and, if the report be true, is very fond of his adopted country.—Jacob Warshaw, ’96. THE FLAG ON THE SCHOOL- HOUSE. [a song of glory.] BY FREDERIC ALLISON TUPPER. Up with the starry banner! Let it float over roof and tower! Let it greet each pupil and teacher When cometh the morning hour! Let the first thought in the morning Be aye of the star-bright flag. Of the heroes who fought in its honor, Of the courage that could not lag. And all through the daily lessons, Wherever our duties call, Remember the star-bright banner Is floating over us all. If history is the lesson, Never forget the flag That waved through a hundred battles, From the sea to the mountain crag, The flag of a hundred battles, Stars brighter for f acli and all, With a glory ever growing, As its folds now rise, now fall. What if a pine-tree banner Floated at Bunker Hill ? Its glory was transmitted To the flag that’s floating still. So, from Lexington and Concord, From Boston’s wave-washed shore, From each spot where Freedom struggled, There cometh a glory more. So, each state shall see emblazoned Upon our standard fair, The sum of all local glory In a national glory there.