Quincy High School - Goldenrod Yearbook (Quincy, MA)

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THE GOLDEN-ROD 5 show our school spirit by displaying such appreciation for this grant to the exercise of our personal liberties that Mr. Collins and the School Committee shall see what an excellent move they have made, instead of thinking they are dealing with un- gratefuls. Next year, probably, if the privilege is abused, it will be revoked, thus making the underclasses suffer for our shortcomings. Even if preceding classes were not considerate of their successors, let us show that we, at least, have the proper fore- sight and school spirit for ours. ROUTINE OF A SCHOOL DAY 7 A. M.—When Big Ben goes off, what a sleepy feeling you have. “It grows on you daily.” 7:30 A. M.—When you get the ham and eggs, “Your nose knows.” 8:15 A. M.—With no history done, “Ask Dad, he knows.” 2nd Period—And hard at Math., you have that common feeling—“As solid as our granite hills.” 3rd Period.—Another couple zeros. “There’s a reason.” 4th Period.—And some more of that German—“It’s great for the kiddies.” 11:15 A. M.—With grub on the third floor, “It’s 99 44-100 pure.” And the big line waiting for that macaroni—“It’s all in shreds.” 5th Period,—A test in English with a school pen. “It hasn’t scratched yet.” 6th Period.—A study period with all the boning and so forth. “It’s a great life if you don’t weaken.” —M.L.Abele, ’21. A CERTAIN INQUISITIVE SENIOR WONDERS: What makes Bennett so tall? Why F. Wilson can’t keep still? If Jenness talks in his sleep? What makes W. Couch so busy? What makes E. Hart so short? How Jackson recovered so quickly November 12? What makes E. Shyne so happy? What or who affects G. Jenkins that way? Why Young looks so sad? What makes Carter so quiet? Why J. Russell so often mismates his socks? Why Lundin is interested in French? If J. Lane is aspiring to be a poet? Why W. Middleton blushes in “Math”? What interests our girls in Room 32? Why our Literary Editor looks so sad before the publication of The Golden-Rod? Why Kennedy parts his hair in the middle? If Crowell likes to have his name mispronounced? What Freshmen think they don’t know? Where our school spirit has gone and if we’ll ever recover it? English, as written by a Freshman: “O king,” cried the messenger, “your flag flies from the market-place tower and you will soon be there.”—Ex.

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4 THE GOLDEN-ROD proverb. It is not for school, but for life, we learn.” To some of us this Alma Mater of ours is our last place of education. If we arc not going further into the realms of education, let us make the best of what remains to us. If we do intend to go to some higher institution, let us make this glorious school of ours a more solid stepping stone to that higher education. An element of school spirit also enters here. For. if we have the proper re- gard for our Benefactor, the High School, we would go out into Life so that our edu- cation would reflect on it; we would each and every one of us wish to be a living ex- ponent of our glorious Quincy High School. NOVEMBER 4. 1919. Of the days which Massachusetts has from year to year added to her history none will be more honorable, none more creditable, than November 4, 1919. There have been other dates famous alike for honor and credit in our history: November 11, 1620 (Old Style), the date of the signing of the Mayflower Compact; December 11th of the same year, when the Pilgrims landed at Plymouth; April 19, 1775, the day upon which the minute-men of Massachusetts fought, at Lexington and Con- cord, the first battles of the American Revolution; February 6, 1788, the date of the ratification, by the Massachusetts Convention, of the Constitution of the United States; April 19. 1861. when Massachusetts soldiers, rushing to the defence of the National Capitol, were attacked by a mob in Baltimore. These are but a few of our memorable days, days which will always be remembered from generation to generation as times in which Massachusetts showed where she stood and where she will stand at all times. And now to this glorious array we have another—not less price- less, not less worthy to be remembered—November 4, 1919, the day upon which the citizens of Massachusetts, through their votes, answered the challenge of those who claimed the right to debauch the state; flung down the gauntlet to those who would make this state a breeding place for the larvae of Bolshevism; and, by re-electing the Governor who, in the face of tremendous opposition and criticism, had taken his place squarely and courageously on the side of the right, proclaimed that in Mass- achusetts law and order shall forever prevail. —William II. Couch, ’20. Have you noticed how much more attractive, sunshiny, and pleasant some of the rooms have become since the teachers have turned their attention to floriculture? It is a natural instinct for people to love the beautiful, and high school pupils are not unusual in this respect. They, too, like the beautiful; they prefer a clean, bright room to work in far more than a dull, dingy room. Can’t everyone of us do our bit toward boosting this good work? —Doris Bisset. SENIORS! Do you realize what a privilege has been granted to us in the re- moval of the ban on dancing at senior social functions. This ban has been main- tained for several years, and now, through our Principal’s request to the School Committee, has been lifted. An excellent opportunity is herewith presented us to

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6 THE GOLDEN-ROD THE TREMBLING HOUR It was after sunset that a car ran up to the gate of the old Dexter place, and stopped. A young man sprang quickly out of the whirring car. He carried a suit case and wore a light travelling coat. “Well, good night, Dick,” he cried cheerfully. “Ever so many thanks for the lift from Waterbury. It’s been a great run. hasn’t it?” “Not bad,” came the answer in less exuberant tones. “So long, old man.” The car sped away swiftly, almost noiselessly, after the manner of giant automobiles who can afford to be mild- mannered when they like, and the young man opened the gate of the house and went in. Inside with the fresh, aromatic odors about him and the pleasant murmur of wind-stirred trees in his ear, he paused a moment. How many times he had come there, just at dusk, greeted by this atmosphere of homelike, fragrant com- fort—as a little child coming home from school to spend the holidays with Aunt Kate, as a boy, as a man. What a funny indulgent smile the old house had, anyway; he remembered how it seemed to beam upon him in welcome, as he entered the gate. He walked up the gravel path slowly, obsessed with the notion that for the first time the house did not seem to smile and for the first time in his life he found the wind in the maples melancholy in- stead of soothing. He went up to the steps and knocked on the brass, knocked with something akin to a shiver. The door opened and an elderly woman in black waist and apron, with a stern wrinkled face and neatly banded iron- gray hair, confronted him with the some- what grim greeting to which he had be- come accustomed through twenty-five years. “How are you, Lisbeth?” he asked gayly, entering the hall and placing his suit-case on a settee. Jove, it’s good to be home again with the prospect of some more of your famous pancakes.” As Lisbeth vouchsafed no reply, the young man continued, “Aunt Kate isn’t here to see me?” “No, Mr. Harvy.” Something peculiar in the old woman’s tone caused Harvy to turn. “Lisbeth,” he gasped, “she’s not ill?” “No, not ill, Mr. Harvy.” “Then what has happened, Lisbeth?” “They took her away this afternoon, Mr. Harvy,” replied Lisbeth in her dry tones. “Lisbeth! Dead!” Harvy Dexter’s handsome face was stone-white in the dim lamplight and there was a look of unfeigned horror in his eyes. But Lisbeth was unmoved. She only asked, “You’re surprised, Mr. Harvy?” “Surprised! Good lord, yes! And yet when I entered the house I had a feeling that—that something was wrong.’ 'I dare say you did,” said Lisbeth in untranslatable tones. “What happened to her, Lisbeth?” “She was murdered!” “Murdered! Impossible! You must be mad.” “Not at all. She was stabbed in the back and when I found her, she was lying in a pool of blood with her face all twisted with fear and signs of a struggle.” “But there was no struggle,” cried Harvy. “How do you know?” asked Lisbeth. “Why I -I had a feeling there wasn’t.” “I see. Perhaps you would like some supper,” continued Lisbeth in a hard tone. Supper in the pleasant, homely din- ing-room was familiar and yet strange. The room with its prim curtains and