Quincy High School - Goldenrod Yearbook (Quincy, MA)

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THE GOLDEN-ROD 15 It was cruelly scarred. What a pity that such beauty should be thus ruined! Then he wished for the hundredth time, since he became a farmer, that he had led a better life. What difference would the scar make? But it was now too late! too late! He walked up to Jim, his fellow work- man, and inquired about the scar on Miss Parker’s face. “Well! it’s a long story,” replied Jim, “but I’ll try to make it short. One night, about two years ago, Miss Parker heard that a certain young man (she won’t give his name) was living the wrong kind of a life, and she, the good angel that she is, went to him and tried to persuade him to turn over a new leaf. For her kindness the dirty brute (that’s just what he is, and if I could only het a hold o’ him I’d break his dirty neck!), well, he went and hit her in the face with a glass of wine. Now she will be marked for life.” Edmund felt a cold chill go through him. All at once a faint recollection of that horrid night at the Cafe came over him. Weak and faint, he stumbled to his room. For two weeks he lay very sick, faith- fully nursed by Mrs. Parker and her daughter. During the days of his con- valescence he refused to see anyone, expecially June. He resolved to go away and see her no more. If—if he could only make good, probably— probably— A year later the “New York Times” published the following: “Lieut. Edmund Prescott—Killed in Action.” There Teacher: “What kind of a tree is there around here that lives on air and water?” Pupil: “Braintree.” Heard in English:— All birds have wings. The man is a jail bird. The man has wings. were very few to mourn his loss. Possi- bly his comrades in France would re- member him, but that was all or was it all? One evening, some time later, June was seated on the veranda of her country home, knitting socks for the soldiers. (Her whole time was devoted to some form of war work.) As she looked up from her work, she saw an officer coming up the path. Soldiers were not unusual visitors at the Parker home, but why did her sober face suddenly lighten? Why did she drop her work and run down the path? Why? because the one-armed officer who was proudly walk- ing up the path was—Lieut. Edmund Prescott. “Edmund!” “June!” he cried, “I’ve come back to explain, but where—where is the scar?” “It is I who should explain,” she re- plied. “I promised my cousin, Allan Richards, that I would be a sister to you.” “Nothing else?” he interrupted. “Please wait until I have finished. I have tried to keep my promise. If you had been in your right senses that night you would have known that the glass went past me and that the scar that was on my face was put there purposely to bring you to your right senses. It cer- tainly did work.” “Thank God, that scar is gone. It was the only thing that seemed to mar our future happiness. Now with that scar off your face and mine off my heart, and if you have no objections to a one- armed husband, let’s begin life all over again.”—Margaret M. Johnson, ’20. Pupil: (trying to transcribe a word in shorthand) “This word has something to do with water.” Low voice: “Slush.” Our Senior class should surpass all others, past and future, with Shyne, Best, and a couple of Goldens in it.

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14 THE GOLDEN-ROD lost among the bright lights of Broad- way; for the longing for freedom had never left him. Many times he refused to attend midnight parties only because his faithful “pal” persuaded him to do so. This strong friendship lasted for more than four years and ended only when Allan died from a shock his weak heart could not withstand. His untimely death proved a severe blow to Edmund who was loved, and had loved for the first time in his life. Now, his last and only true friend was gone. Thus, friendless in the great city, with no home but the cheerless “Mansion,” he wandered down the path of life. Like many, many others, he discovered that it was much easier to go down than to come up. He tried to forget the death of his friend by indulging in both drugs and strong drink, but this only served to pull him lower and lower. He became a constant visitor in the “High Life Cafe,” and other places of low character. One night he was at the above men- tioned hotel eating and drinking with two chorus girls, who were so intoxicated they hardly knew what they were saying, when his merriment was interrupted by the sound of a highly refined voice. Looking up, he beheld a woman very heavily veiled. “Mr. Prescott, you do not belong here. Why are you letting your good family name fall to the dust? Get away from these silly, painted dolls and become of some use to the world.” One of the “dolls,” noticing Prescott’s sobered countenance, said in a baby voice, “Eddie dear, are you going to let her insult us like that?” The young man staggered to his feet, lifted his glass of wine, and, with all his strength, threw it into the face of her who had come to help him. The woman gave one cry and ran to the door. Six months later Edmund Prescott felt, for the first time in his life, what is was to be penniless. To be sure, he still had the “Mansion,” for there was a speck of pride left, even now. He was completely discouraged, both with him- self and the world in general. What was there in life worth living, anyway? He walked to a secluded corner of the park and pulled a revolver from his pocket. Just as he was about to bid adieu to the world, a hand grasped the weapon. It was quite dark, but he could distinguish the calm face of a young woman, “Be a man,” she whispered. “Don’t give up so easily.” He was so surprised that for a second he lost his power of speech. “If you are out of work,” she continued, “come with me and you can work on my war garden. Laborers are awfully scarce, you know.” He allowed himself to be led by the young woman to a car waiting nearby. What was going to happen next? Little did he care. Wasn’t he ready to end it all only a few minutes ago? Nothing mattered now. The car stopped in front of a large farmhouse. The girl ran to an elderly woman standing on the steps. “Mother, here is a young man who, I believe, is out of work. Please see that he is given enough to do.” During the weeks that followed, Pres- cott seemed to profit by his sudden transplanting. He thought a great deal about the girl who had saved his life and wished he could see more of her. June Parker, however, was so engaged in war work that she paid little attention to her new employee. In fact, she had never seen him face to face, since the night he was employed. For the first time in his life, Edmund worked hard and willingly. Many a time he would pause in his work and murmur, “She is just the kind of a girl I could love, but she wouldn’t even think of being a friend to a fellow with a past like mine.” One day while Edmund was coming from the “fields” he met June. How beautiful and lovely she was! He gasped as he noticed the left side of her face.

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16 THE GOLDEN ROD TO OUR FOOTBALL HEROES OF 1919 Listen, my children, and you shall hear, A tale of our football heroes dear, Who’ve labored and struggled the whole season long, And surely are worthy of this humble song. First the captain, Don Bennett is he, The tall youth who plays at left tackle, you see. Right tackle is played by a fellow named Jack, You all know it’s Wentworth; we’ll not stop for that; Next there is Davis, we all call him “Hap,” You never will catch him taking a nap; Then too we have Leavitt, who’s sometimes called “Lariy” He can tear through a line like the very “Old Harry,” He was injured somewhat the first of the season, And was out of the line-up for just that reason. Another one whom we here wish to mention, Is a lad who vindicates every contention; The one whom we speak of is great “Stonewall” Jackson, When he’s in a game there is plenty of action. Mullarkey also deserves a place here, But there’s nothing to rhyme with his name that’s so queer. At the pivot position plays Carter or “Robby,” The latter’s head gear is always on “lobby.” Jenkins and Young are two blood-thirsty ends, And either one backward an end-run bends. Carl Hokenson is another end too, He was manager also I s’pose you all knew. Oh where shall we put Curtis, Lindsay, and Gould, Who so many times our opponents have fooled? Three guards are Houlihan, Fitton, and Hannon, The latter can kick like a shot from a cannon, Three more guards are Vallee, Holden, and Shaw, We has six ’stead of two,—we don’t know what for! In this ballad let us not forget all the scrubs, Who’ve taken so many hard wallops and rubs And who’ve given their best for the good of the team, Without a murmur or symptom of spleen. And last but not least, as the old saying goes, Are those who have taught the team all that it knows. Messrs. Green and Ball have helped keep the works goin’, By helping the coach and by gathering coin. And here’s to THE ONLY coach, Mitchell, himself! Who looks after players when they’re laid on the shelf, And who gives of his time and money and knowledge, To make up a team that could lick one from college. Of course, many trials and setbacks ensue, But not even once has he ever looked blue;