Quincy High School - Goldenrod Yearbook (Quincy, MA)

Page 6 text:

2 The Golden-Rod vicinity, and it is hardly ever used. Mr. Thompson has followed the track game for years and knows the game from start to finish. Mr. Paulson also knows the game and is willing to give his services. If the boys do not respond, these men cannot show their coaching abilities. More spirit is needed, and when the call for candidates for the inter-class meet comes, let everybody respond. Robert Davis, To. I wonder how many girls have seen the. last editorial in one of our latest exchanges, the February “Tripod. How many of you read the editorials carefully anyway? How many gain something from them? Again, I will ask:—How many girls have read this editorial? It asks why the girls of that school do not start an athletic association like the boys. Now, why can’t we start an as- sociation among ourselves? It is true that we have played a few basket ball games this season, but how many showed up to practise or to cheer? The Sophomore 1st team is the only one that has practised and played faithfully. The Senior girls evidently thought it wasn’t worth while to represent their class. Only about three of them turned up, not enough, anyway, to make a complete team, so some of the Juniors were thrust into the background that these Seniors could play. Is this fair? “It is never too late to mend,” so when Miss Anderson calls for candidates to make up Field-Hockey teams, as she in- tends to do, let us have enough girls to make it worth her time, for I know that she will be more ready to help if she finds that we are interested in athletic sports. You can try to be eligible at least. Now, remember, girls! Gymmie, T7. APRIL. What month is it when just a touch of green On every bush and shade tree can be seen? It’s April. When May-flowers scent the woodland air And brooks flow along without any care? It’s April! —D. Brown and M. Atwood. The birds begin to return from the South, the trees begin to bud, the grass grows green, the little brooks begin to flow, and the sea and the sky try to out-blue each other, in the beautiful month of April. —Bernice Stoddard. JUST SPRING. I love the emerald pastures And I love the budding trees; I love the flitting bluebirds And I love the springtime breeze. I love the brilliant crocus And I love the balmy air; But, oh, I hate the heavy, Itchy, winter underwear! —Frances Horton, T7. LIFE. Life is a joke. All things show it; Look at the Freshman, Then you’ll know it —Frances Horton, T7.

Page 5 text:

tTbe (gol englRofr Volume XXIV. April, 1915 No. 5 GTfje olben=ftob Published seven times during the school year by the PUPILS OF Q. H. S. Address The Golden-Rod Quincy High School, Quincy, Mass. EDITORIAL STAFF EDITOR-IN-CHIEF.....WILLIAM MacMAHON LITERARY EDITOR.....HAZEL LIVINGSTON NEWS EDITOR...................ARTHUR BOWEN ART EDITOR...........GUSTAF VonCOLLN ALUMNI AND EXCHANGE EDITOR LOUISE CHURCHILL JOKE EDITOR..........REGINALD H. GAY ATHLETIC EDITOR........ROBERT E. FOY BUSINESS MANAGER . . .WILLARD CROCKER ASSISTANT BUSINESS MANAGER HOWARD BOWEN For Sale at Quincy High School Advertising Rates per Seven Issues $3.00 ... Card Space $5.00 ... Double Card Space $20.00 - - - Per Page Half Rates for Three Insertions EDITORIALS. Another class meeting has again shown the poor way in which these meetings are conducted. The senior class held a meet- ing on Friday, March 19, at which the class picture was discussed. Mr. Crocker, the chairman, called for a vote by raising hands and announced that Mr. Nerses’ plan of having separate pictures put together for a combination class picture had been defeated, and that the class would, therefore, have the usual group picture. The ruling was dis- puted and a ballot vote called for. Im- mediately there was a rush for paper and it would have been easily possible to have voted three times and thus caused another ballot- ing, for the votes were taken on papers of all sizes, shapes, and descriptions. That vote, especially when all particulars of the cost were not announced until later, cannot stand. It would be well if every class avoided this difficulty by procuring cheap but distinctive ballots, and impartial, or at least uncom- municative, tellers who would distribute one ballot to, and collect one ballot from, each member present. 'I'he junior number of the Golden-Rod was a success, at least from a literary point of view. The juniors furnished a great deal of excel- lent material. We are sorry to say that this is not wholly true in the sophomore number. The boys have furnished about 90% of the material while the girls are re- luctant to contribute their best efforts. Two of the sophomore girls contributing in this number have done so before and can be classed as workers. We have tried to pick out the best themes from those passed in. but we hope that the freshmen will give us more work to pick from for their number. Why is it that track sports do not flourish in the Quincy High School? There are many boys every year who have not the weight, nerve, or ability to play football, basket ball, or base ball; but they might make good in tract events. No boy should moan over the fact that he is too small or too slender for football: he may be able to run or jump, and thus do something for his school, and win his “Q.” Very little interest is shown in the inter-class meets which are held every spring; little, if any, practise in preparation for the meet is held. If enough boys will come out for the inter-class meet this year, a good team may be picked from the winners of the differ- ent events, and later be developed into a good track team. We have not had a track meet with an outside school for three years. If this team is formed, perhaps meets with other schools may be arranged. Quincy has one of the best tracks in this

Page 7 text:

The Golden - Rod 3 THE RED DEVIL, NO. 7. Part I. In the darkened living-room at 65 Kemp- ton Road, Pleasant Valley, N. Y.,a boy sat motionless, with his head on his hands, listening dully to the monotonous ticking of the clock on the mantle-piece. With heavy strokes, it struck the hour of seven. The noise penetrated through the silent rooms, and into the brain of the stooping figure on the chair. A moan escaped him as he raised his head. Mechanically, he moved across the room, and reached for the matches as if in a dream. He struck a flame, and touched the wick of the student lamp on the table. As the flame burned higher, it threw its shadow fantastically across the boy’s countenance. It lighted up a mass of brown, curly hair, thrown back in a pompadour, but now sadly disarranged. The deep set eyes, matching the color of his hair, looked sunken and haunted. The well shaped lips were compressed in a straight line above a de- termined jaw. His whole appearance was one of utter despair, as indeed it might be, for a great sorrow had come to seventeen year old Roy Gordon. But five days pre- vious he had received a telegram from a town in New Jersey, saying that his parents had been killed in a railroad wreck, on their way home from Florida. Poor Roy, he had re- lated the sad facts by telephone to his near- est relatives, an aunt and an uncle. They had come on at once to take charge of the funeral and to assist Roy. It was now even- ing on the day of the funeral, and they had left for their home, to arrange for the moving of their goods to Pleasant Valley. Roy, left alone, thought deeply. Only the day before the arrival of the fatal telegram, he had been intensely interested in the news- paper accounts of an automobile race. He had always had a mania for speed, and had been interested in races, auto races especially. An idea suddenly same to him, a stupendous idea. He cared nothing for school, or play, or home any more, now his parents were gone. He would be through the high school in a year anyway. Yes, he would do it. He would go to Indianapolis, where the drivers were quartered, and become the pupil of one of the racers, but which one? The boy pondered. “Yes,” he mused aloud, “the very one. Old Jack Winston is the cream of them all. He knows more about autos and auto racing than any one out there. I ’ll be his pupil—if he’ll have me. I’ll slip out tonight, leave the door unlocked, and write a note to Aunt. But the money; I can’t get mine from the bank till I’m of age. Where can I get it?” Then he recalled the visit of one of his father’s tenants that day. He had left thirty-five dollars as his monthly rent. His parents would never need it, he sadly reflected, and added to five of his own, would be just forty dollars to carry him to Indianapolis. He would be economical, and find work as soon as he got there. With Roy, to think was to act, and at once he hurried to his room, took from his drawer fresh underwear, shirts, collars, and ties, and hastily packed them, together with his toilet accessories, in his suit case. He then procured the money, and after considerable thought, wrote the following note: Dear Aunt, Much as I would like to live with you and Uncle Jim, I cannot remain where old memories would constantly come before me, so have gone West., Don’t try to find me, for I shall change my name, and find work somewhere. Your loving nephew, Roy. He then went down the front stairs, and out the door, leaving it unlocked. He took a final look at his home, and turned his face toward the station and the West. About eleven o’clock that night, a very stiff and tired boy slowly walked toward the