Quincy High School - Goldenrod Yearbook (Quincy, MA)

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12 THE GOLDEN-ROD of soup descended on the head of another to the accompaniment of saddening wails. I was a bit bewildered by all the strange sights I had seen. I thought I was visiting a High School. I withdrew to the office to question the principal, where 1 found a lit- tle fellow weeping copiously against the door-frame. After school hours 1 saw the strangest sight of all. A little boy about three years old was standing by the post at the bottom of the stairs on the first floor, howling with all his might. The Charge of “Not so fast, not so fast, Not so fast,” thundered Teachers to freshmen For the lunch counter running. Faster up stairs they go, Freshmen are never slow, Especially when time to go, To the lunch counter. Upward they quickly climb, Only to fall in line. “Stop pushing, take your time,” Some one is saying. With noise of lots of feet. Forward they go to eat, Then they sound quick retreat, Hurrying to get a seat. Silently struggling. “What’s the matter, my little man?” I asked. “I want my muvver,” he wailed. This was certainly the last word in juvenile productions. I stood there completely puz- zled until I saw a woman, evidently his mother coming down the stairs. She had been attending the adult sewing classes and her little son had followed her to school. He was not, I was relieved to learn, a mem- ber of the freshmen class. I could not help feeling as I departed that he would probably be admitted in September—to Lilliput. Florence M. Hoagland, T9. the Freshmen Students to right of them, Students to left of them, Students in back of them Pushing and crowding. Kicked at with well aimed feet, They never sound retreat, For they must find a seat, Or they must face defeat. Forward, brave freshmen. Finally they reach the wall, ’Gainst it they heavily fall. The noise sounds through the hall. Then they start eating So fast you can hear them. They fall to with great delight, Gurgling their soups with might. It is a glorious sight. Well done, bold freshmen. Martin Battis, T9. The March Wind The March Wind is a strange fellow. He roves about all streets and corners, and plays pranks on everyone that he meets. At one time he will blow so hard as to cause many an old gentleman to run after his hat. The next minute he will brush roughly against the cart of a fruit vender, and cause that individ- ual to scramble hither and thither in pursuit of his apples and oranges, which roll in all directions. He continues on through the crowded streets of the city, and raises such dust, that it almost blinds the people. He scatters paper which frightens the horses, and causes such confusion, that everyone wishes that he may never have an opportunity to meet this mischievous person again. Morris Mirkin, T9.

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Quincy High Schoo Bradford Library THE GOLDEN-ROD 11 upon Mr. Carvel, she approached, and attached herself to him, to his ill-concealed chagrin, and the amusement of the by-standers. “It has grown so plebian here, since all these magazines started up,” I heard the aristocratic Aramis say, while on the other side, Porthas was grumbling because he had cream instead of lemon. Athos and D’Artagnan were ar- guing about the respective merits of Mary Pickford and Marguerite Clark. “So, Medea,” called Dr. Jckyll, just returned from a ramble as Mr. Hyde. A stunning young woman, sheltering her charms by a pink parasol, appeared. She car- ried a bag which looked rather lumpy, and I couldn’t help wondering if she carried her la- mented brother’s bones in it. As she walked towards us, I noticed that she limped a little. “What’s the matter with your foot, little one?” inquired Lord Leicester, jocularly. “That clumsy Ivanhoe wore his best suit of mail to the last Assembly, and while I was dancing with him, he tramped on my foot as hard as he could and lamed me for a week,” she answered pettishly. “Where’s Becky Sharper” asked John Ridd. “Oh, Guy Mannering came to call, and brought that new man, ‘K,’ they call him. So Becky had to stay home and entertain them. She was awfully bored.” Suddenly, Lady Rowcna pushed through the crowd. “Ah, ha! So you arc that mortal,” she said, dramatically, “You—” Siezing my shoulder, she began to shake me, and— I opened my eyes to find my sister bending over me. telling me to hurry, or we should miss the train. Marian Carter, T9. A Quincy Lilliput I did not know there was a colony of those little people, the Lilliputians, until, arriving at Quincy High School one March morning about eight-thirty I rang the bell and was ad- mitted by a small boy about two feet, six inches, in height. He toddled away from the door with a very bashful air and I followed him into a room on the left. It was full of them—infants like the one who answered the door. The tops of their heads were just barely visible above the covers of their desks while their legs dangled help- lessly in the air about a foot from the floor. A recitation was going on. The teacher called on one of the little dears to recite but he was so timid that she had to have him come up and whisper in her ear. Before the final bell rang I went down to the other end of the corridor where I ob- served a very tall man doubled up like a jack- knife trying to hear what one of those cute little children was saying. He straightened up suddenly and motioned some one to get down. I turned to see one of the extremely small infants boosting another up so that he could get a drink at the fountain. The classes were now changing for the next period, and the tall man disappeared in the crowd. A dignified sophomore as he ascended the stairs rested his books on the head of a sweet little girl with pig-tails down her back. At the very end of the long procession I noticed a freshman go running up and down stairs twice. Asking him what the trouble was I learned that he was unable to carry all his books at once and so he was obliged to make two trips. In room twenty-seven the teacher asked if one of the members of the class was absent but this was emphatically denied as the lit- tle fellow stood up in his seat in order to make himself seen. At lunch-time I heard a small freshman ask if he couldn’t have some bread and milk for his lunch. One of them spilled his milk and thereupon began to cry while a deluge

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THE GOLDEN-ROD 13 Mace’s Mansion Part One. The Spectre The rickety coach drew up to the inn door and stopped with a jerk that threw me from my seat. Grabbing my baggage, I jumped out and entered the inn, which was of the usual type, a low rambling affair, surrounded on two sides by a garden as unkempt as the hair on the head of a school boy. Inside J was met by a dapper clerk and the jovial innkeeper, who showed me to a table, where I made a hearty meal. Later, as I sat by mine host’s roaring fire, sipping my beer and puffing my pipe, an elder- ly gentleman entered the room and drew a chair up to the fire close beside mine. He in- quired for my health, introduced himself as Colonel Samuel Livingston, said he had “fit in the Revolution,” and gave me a great deal of his family history, all in a remarkably short time. Then gradually the conversation drifted to my own affairs and to the trip I had just made. He asked me a great many questions. Among them—“An’ did ye chanct to see that old house nigh the river, ’bout a half mile from the village ?” At my affirmative reply, he proceeded to tell me that the house was a peculiar cue. Most everyone thought it was haunted, and he knew it was. It was called “Mace’s Mansion.” Would I like to hear about it? ’Twas a wierd tale. I assured him that I would be very glad to hear of anything mysterious. The colonel took a slender, clay pipe from above the fireplace, filled it leisurely, and turned to me. “Have ye ever heered of Holebrook Mace?” he queried. “No, sir, T can’t say that I have,” I replied. “Nor of Montgomery Wallace?” “Not he.” “Well, then, I will tell you the story of those illustrious gentlemen.” Settling back in his chair he spoke in his high-pitched, rasping voice. His story ran something like this. Holbrook Mace was a lawyer, one of the meanest of that lofty profession. Wallace was a scientist, such as they went in those days, and made up in the good nature and most of the other good qualities which Mace lacked. However, he had a bad habit of losing his temper and consequently his head. On account of this weakness Mace had been able, by a contemptible stroke of professional strategy, to secure possession of Wallac’e house and belongings. When his anger had cooled Wallace realized how badly he had been beaten, and soon lost all of his kindheartedness in a burning desire for revenge. Upon meeting his enemy at this very inn, he asked that he be given a week’s time to get a few of his personal belongings. Mace consented and Wallace left, hissing at Mace, “Remember, you’ll gain nothing by this accursed trick.” The week passed, and as Wallace did not return, the new owner set out to claim his property. Upon reaching the house Mace rapped loudly and, receiving no answer, stepped in. A deathly silence hung over the place. Mace passed on through the empty rooms and, drawn by some strange power, which he could not ex- plain, he descended the stairs which led to the scientist’s wine-closet. All was quite dark and at first he could see nothing, but presently he could discern the figure of a man alarmingly close at hand. Mace stepped nearer and was about to speak when he detected a line passing from the man’s neck to the cross timber above his head. Ha! ’Twas quite plain. Mace comprehended in an instant and cold sweat came on his brow at the realization of the mournful truth. The blow had been too much for Wallace and so he had chosen this method of ending it all. Was Mace to blame? Well, there was nothing to do but cut the body down and get rid of it. A stroke of his sword and the corpse fell across Mace’s shoulder. How stiff and cold it felt. Mace started up the stairs with his gruesome