Quincy High School - Goldenrod Yearbook (Quincy, MA)

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The Golden- Rod 11 SPRING. The Golden-Rod’s call for a Spring con- tribution Will bring, once again, a swift retribution. For again, I must try, with some doggerel poor, To convince Miss S. Dawes that I’m work- ing for sure. I never succeeded in doing that stunt, For the doggerel never got more than one grunt. The janitor gets some more work from my pen, And Miss Dawes hopes once more that I won’t try again. However, I will try but not guarantee That my energy lasts till it equals mv. While I wade through the slush that hails Spring here in Quincy, I read of the athletes in sunny Miami: How Hammering Hank hit his first long home run, And Fitzy is out to give Evers some fun. It gives me some hope, some assurance that’s real And for April’s oncoming, I root with great zeal. And April gives promise of days still in store When the ocean will beckon us on to its shore. But over it all hangs a beautiful haze; I dream of the future, I walk in a daze. I fear that we all know this sure sign of Spring, My laziness pleads: “It’s Spring-Fever----- this thing.’’ William MacMahox, '15. THE EAST. Written ajler reading, “The West” ix “The Ixdepexdext.” Here’s where the men of the West were made, Here’s where we trained them for their trade, That is the Easterner’s boast. Here’s where the tears of their parting were shed, For the love of the East their brave fore- fathers bled, If it weren’t for the East the great West would be dead, That is the Easterner’s boast. Here’s where the famous men had their start, Here’s where Ambition and Work never part, That is the Easterner’s boast. Here’s where great structures near reach the blue skies, Though their sunshine and breezes the Westerner’s prize, We have artists and wonders that dazzle the eyes, That is the Easterner’s boast. Here’s where you feel the great thrills ofjlife, Here’s where you come for the world’s big strife, That is the Easterner’s boast. Here’s where enjoyments of living are near, For we did young justice and liberty rear, We still are the leaders in freedom’s good cheer, That is the Easterner’s boast. F. E. Tobix.

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10 The Golden- Rod frightened voice, “I didn’t mean nuthin’ sah, I didn’t mean nuthin.’ I was only takin’ a couple of apples sah, when he caught me, sah.” The negro pointed a shaky finger at Fatty who was still in Mr. Miles’ clutch. Fatty, suddenly realizing the situation, calmly returned the puzzled look of Mr. Miles. “Just as the nigger says, Mister Miles. I was cuttin’ across your field when I saw him in your orchard. So I sneaked upon him and got him right there. An then you came out.” Mr. Miles allowed the negro to go after threatening to have him hanged. He then patted Fatty on the back, saying, “My boy, you’re a brave young fellow to tackle such a character.” Fatty pushed his chest into greater ex- pansion. “Come into the house,” continued Mr. Miles, “while I tell my wife and daughter what a brave act you just did.” The next day Lenore gave her premature decision. R. C. Johnson, T7. THE PAINTING FAMILY. Father paints; you bet he paints The house, the barn, the fence; And daubs up our old furniture And makes it look immense. Pa’s handy with the paints! Mother paints; you bet she paints; Cupids, vines, and bugs, And fancy flower things on silk, And on our cups and mugs. Ma certainly can paint! Brother paints; you bet he paints; Big pictures, six by eight! With houses, rocks and animals, And burning sunsets. Great! Yes, brother sure can paint. Sister paints; you bet she paints; What? Say, leave that to Grace! She paints her eyes, her lips, her cheeks, And kalsomines her face. Yes, sister, sure can paint! And how ’bout me? Oh, I just paint The old town one bright red, When our home team runs up the score, And leaves the Red Sox dead! Gee! That’s when I splash paint. Gunnar Carlson, T7. SPRING. After the chill winds of winter, After the ice and the snow, When the day lingers now a bit longer, And the sun has a rosier glow— Mother Earth awakes from her slumbers, Clad in her loveliest green, Cheering all hearts with her presence— Joyous, peaceful, serene. Violets wake in the meadows, Birds from the tree-tops sing. Brooks babble sweet in the woodlands, To chant the fair message of Spring. Mildred B. Harrison, TO,

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12 The Golden- Rod THE BOMBARDMENT OF HARTLEPOOL. If the boys and girls of America, when they read of the account of the bombardment of Hartlepool in their newspapers on that eventful day of December sixteenth, nineteen hundred and fourteen, had felt the depression that was felt by myself and in my home in Quincy, they would have known something of the sensation that the news of the bom- bardment of my birthplace gave me. In the following, I would like you to remember that I know Hartlepool, in the same way as any of you know your native place. Hartlepool, (which has existed since the Norman conquest) is an old fishing town. It is now a coaling station, shipbuilding, marine engine and an electrical plant making town. It was on the grey morning of December sixteenth, nineteen hundred fourteen, when a mist hung over the sea, that Hartlepool, for the first time in its history, was under shell fire. As the cruisers at the command of the Emperor of Germany came from the east, only shadows of their dark forms could be seen. The guns opened fire. Long flashes bursting through the mist, the deafening roar, as the batteries returned the fire, the gasworks flaming up, shells bursting in all directions, shivering glass and falling houses told the people that the enemy had surely come. Mothers quickly gathered their children together with little food and clothing, and rushed out toward the country, while fathers and husbands quickly left their work and hurried home. The German cruisers were flying the Eagle ensign, which even in the clearing mist could not be well distinguished from the British White ensign. Hartlepool has but one gun, but this did not seem to make any difference to the Germans, who soon escaped. Mr. Hill:—“Name three things contain- ing starch.” Student:—“Two cuffs and a collar.” —Ex. The following is quoted from letters re- ceived from Hartlepool. Mrs. Applegarth, as soon as she heard the noise of shells, ran upstairs, took her two small children, wrapped them in a blanket and put them in their carriage, then with her other child hurried toward the country, until a man on horseback told her that the firing had ceased. Mrs. Inglis and family, who recently lived in Quincy, and one of whose daughters be- longed to the class of nineteen hundred eleven, and attended the High School one year, also had an experience. Agnes had been sent on an errand. When the bom- bardment started, Mrs. Inglis went in search of her. As she was walking along, a shell came over her head and struck the ground a few feet in front of her, covering her with soil. Another of her daughters, Elizabeth, was going to her work and, although frightened at the noise, kept on her way, until she saw the houses falling, and then she turned and hurried home. Her nerves were so shattered, that for some time afterward, she had to live in quietness in the country. A young boy, named John McGuire, was taking the forman’s breakfast to the factory when a shell burst, and fractured his skull, causing his death. The sorrowful part of this incident is the fact that the boy’s father was at work in Lawley’s shipyard in Neponset, when he got the news of his son’s death. This bombardment, which lasted oniy forty minutes, and during which one hundred and eighteen women and children were killed, is one reason that, when Kitchener called foi troops, eleven thousand men volunteered. Mary Burgess, T7. Music Student:—That piece your’ve just played is by Mozart, isn’t it? Hurdy-Gurdy Man:—No; by Handel. —Ex.