Quincy High School - Goldenrod Yearbook (Quincy, MA)

Page 17 text:

THE GOLDEN-ROD lo Essays Modeled after Addison (Anyone desiring to see original copy may find it in Room 8.) EDUCATION OF THE MODERN GIRL {From the Daily Observer) Some months ago as I was walking down Hancock Street, one of the main streets of Quincy, Massachusetts, I chanced to meet a student of the Quincy High School. Being much interested in the education of the modern girl, I chatted with her for a few moments. Indeed, the height of learning reached by this young lady was amazing. She in- formed me that she liked to go to this school but they made her study awfully hard. She said she only had a chance to go to the “movies” two or three times a week. Her range in reading was wide. Her favorite authors were Robert W. Chambers, Arthur B. Reeves, Ralph Henry Barbour, Zane Gray and Gene Stratton Porter, who, she declared, wrote “swell” books. She had also read two of Shakespeare’s plays and three of the Nine Orations of Cicero. From all this I gathered the idea that her education had been along very varied lines. As she has had such a very wide range of reading it has given her a particular way of thinking, so even her dress, speech and manners arc affected by it. —Gladys Fletcher, ’21. ADVERTISEMENTS Powdered Wigs at Cranby’s Shop. Ye Old Corner Book Shop. Books on sale today at low prices. Crawfords Coffee House. Take a mug of ale and a bit of cheese and be merry.—Mary Townsend, ’21. Lost! A man’s shoe, with high heel, large silver buckle and size, y2 inside. Finder please bring to 71 Tory St. Re- ward. Buy your “Night Owl” early; avoid the rush. Thank ye. —Esther Campbell, ’21. THE CLUB (From The Taller) The first member of the Bachelors’ Club is Mr. Rocks, a venerable old man, known throughout the country as a profiteer. He made his money buying sugar at seven cents a pound and selling it at eleven cents a pound. He is a bachelor because he cannot help him- self, not through any fear on his part of the bonds of marriage. Another member is Mr. Oil, who dur- ing the war was famous for his marvelous ability in giving a pint of gasolene short in every gallon. In this way this man became rich and powerful in the world of business. He has never tried mar- riage because he thinks it is too expensive a proposition for a multi-millionaire. The third member is an army man, his father having gotten him a commission through his “pull” at headquarters. This poor fellow went across the Potomac to Washington and was stationed in the Ordnance Department. There he slaved like a beast for two hours a day, signing checks and looking out of the window at the Yeomen (F) in the street. He never married because he thought it would take away from his glory as a hero of the great war. The last member of the club is a post named Archibald A. Anderson. The poet has all his work published, since he owns a magazine. He did not enlist be- cause he thought the service uniform un- becoming to him, and, since he weighs nearly three hundred pounds, this is not to be wondered at. He is a bachelor because his poetic soul has never felt a longing for a mate. There are a few other members but I have selected these as the most virtuous and the best examples to be shown the public. —John Laverty, ’21.

Page 16 text:

14 THE GOLDEN-ROD ton. Some dude came hear and open it up in Clancy’s Opera House over Paint’s Store. I went their last weak. They had Alexander Bismark in “Smart Aleck” and John Bunny in “Jerry Mira.” There was a terrible crowd their. I counted twenty-seven. The show went on fine until somethin happened to the piano player. She was chewing gum and got some stuck on her fingers and her fingers got stuck on the piano. We thought she was sick or somethin so tel- ephoned for “Miram” the Undertaker (you know lie’s the town doctor also). But before he come the janitor went down with a chizel and scraped the gum off the keys so she started to play again. The rest of the pictures were swell. Our plimoth Rock hen laid three eggs last weak. Thats pretty good isn’t it Helen? Jim and I went fishin the other day and caught two rabbits on the way home. Jake Skinners henhouse burnt down this morning. We had the town pumping apparatus out but the hose was clodded up and it wouldn’t work. It didn’t make much difference anway because the brook was dry. Mary Burns was married to a feller from Yonkers the other night. They served doughnuts and sider. I read about the Boston Police Strike in the Smithy (our paper.) Those fellers want to much. Why I be a cop just to wear the uniform. Uncle Dudley opened a dry goods store last month, he’s sellin meat and groceries and most anything. There was a burglar at Weatherspoon’s Monday night and he took all the nives and spoons but we found them near the orchid. So I guess that he thought they weren’t worth luggin any farther. You know I’ve told you all the news except what I forgot so I guess I close cause I’ve two cows to milk and three chickens to kill in the mornin. I am, as I alwavs was, crazy over you! ARCH IK. —John T. Lane, ’21. A MIDNIGHT ESCAPADE At twelve o’clock I hie away, A worn out, weary guest, To lose my cares as e’er I may In calm and quiet rest. The light is out, the window high; I jump into my bed, And with a deep and settled sigh, I drop my tired head. But lo! upon my peaceful ear A hideous shriek there falls That fills my heart with awful fear, And mocks the coyotes’ calls. “A woman in distress!” I cry, And, quickly springing out, I hurry forth, prepared to die Or put the crook to rout. The moon is shining clear above, And to my dimmed sight Shows plainly on the ground, a glove As black as blackest night. I snatch it from the barren earth And scrutinize it o’er, When sudden comes such fiendish mirth, I’m frozen to the core. I gaze about with nerves alert, And in the yard behold A mass of black and flying dirt,— The scene of crime so bold. I hasten to the fatal spot And clutching, feel a scratch That’s deep and keen and very hot,— And find out—’tis the cats! And though in dire, profound chagrin I softly tiptoe back, I’m glad I silenced such a din Without a single whack. —Dorothy Cole, '20.

Page 18 text:

16 THE GOLDEN ROD THE PRODIGAL SON Heedless of the fierce storm that raged without, the aged couple gazed into the fire before them. They were dreaming of one who, since his departure a few years previous, had been the subject of many an earnest and heart-felt prayer. In fact, since John Harvey’s birth, his parents had prayed constantly for his welfare. Tonight, as they sat there, each wondered if God would answer their prayers; and each wondered if their prayers were too late. The sweet-faced old lady broke the silence. “Father,” she murmured feebly, “somehow or other I feel that John is very near me tonight. I—I really think he is on his way home.” “Tut-tut!” replied the old man assum- ing a very harsh tone of voice. “He seems near to you because it was just such a night as this when be bade us good-bye. Then he continued bitterly, “We ought to be proud of our grateful boy. Think of the way he treated us after the many years we skimped and saved in order that he might go to college. Most likely he’s serving a time in jail and therefore is ashamed to write us.” “Father!” cried his wife, and she stared at him with tearful eyes. The expression of pain that passed over her countenance caused the old man to repent his rash statements. “Father,” she repeated, “you don’t mean what you say. Deep down in your heart you know there is still a chance for our boy to make good in the world. You know that some day he will come home to us, and—” Unable to continue she broke into sobs. “Mother, my dear, brave comrade! I wouldn’t be able to bear the loss of our boy if it wasn’t for you.” “Let’s continue to hope and pray,” she whispered. “John did what most country boys do when they reach the crowded, pleasure-loving city.” For the first time during the evening the two realized what a bitter, stormy night it was. Terrific storms were com- mon in the north-central part of Maine, but tonight the wind seemed unusually fierce as it howled and whistled through the evergreens, now covered with snow. “Father, what was that noise?” sud- denly gasped the old lady. “Why, Mother, I do believe you’re hearing things. It’s nothing but the wind.” “I was just thinking how awful it would be if John should attempt to come home in this storm. No one could ever come through it alive.—We are getting old, Father. We have but a short space of this life left and oh!—I could not die without seeing my boy, or at least without the assurance that I was to meet him later.” “There’s no use, my dear, if he is spending his time gambling and drinking as Farmer Nathan’s son said he was doing two years ago.” “Listen! There! I knew I heard something at the door. Hurry! I know it’s John.” The old farmer opened the door and a young man covered with snow tumbled into the kitchen. The two bent forms welcomed the stranger. Their eyes dim with age did not recognize him. “John, is it you?” cried the mother eagerly. “Ye-es,” stammered the young man and he fell prostrate to the floor. Two pairs of hands worked over the boy, but alas!—he did not regain con- sciousness. In the middle of the night the tired old man fell asleep, but the faithful, gray-haired mother watched the sleeping form through the long, quiet hours. While her husband slept John Harvey’s mother made a discovery! A burden was lifted from her heart, and the tears she shed were tears of joy.