Quincy High School - Goldenrod Yearbook (Quincy, MA)

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THE GOLDEN-ROD 11 DESOLATION It was midnight. Twelve brazen notes from the distant curfew echoed sonorous- ly in the still night air. I nodded a mo- ment longer over my book, closed it, looked up, and behold! before me on the table was a huge, imposing tome. I looked closer. In what mysterious manner had this curious volume come here? I leaned over and examined it. A very ancient book it was, as large as a dictionary and closed by two immense clasps. The cover was decorated in an intricate design; great scrolls circled about in endless arcs, interlaced in a fine meshwork of delicate lines, and became lost in the inextricable maze of meaningless figures. And the clasps; of what mystical import were these? Pluto might have formed them, I thought, as I gently touched one with an extended finger. If this book had thus appeared before me in an entirely and strange, unnatural manner, was it not meant that I should read what it contained? Reasoning thus, I released the fastenings and timorously turned to the first page. Yellow and mouldy though it was, I could still dis- cern, faint, shadowy and gauze-like, the tracings of an unknown pen. What won- derful tales were written here? Or per- haps there were no tales, but logic, pro- found as Pluto. Curiosity overcame me. I read; the walls seemed to crumble around me, and dull, gray mists rolled upon me and enveloped me. Then I de- scended. Transported by an invisible power, I moved gently as the summer breeze, but as swiftly as the lightning. Then, sud- denly, the mists crept away, dissolving into the infinite atmosphere, and left me alone, alone in the uttermost parts of space. And there happened there won- drous things, so terrible that the mere telling of them would make mortal man aghast. From a lofty orifice on a barren rock there poured forth the waters of the river Styx; which was not water, but black, and dreadful. And all around was wet with dew; and yet it was not dew, but blood, and sprinkled everywhere in ruby drops. And high up upon the rock, at the very summit of the precipitous glade, was writ the name of the place, which must not be spoken, for it was writ with the blood of martyrs. Scarlet and ghastly it looked from its mountainous position in the darkened musty cavern. And all around were weirdness and desolation. The inky stream wound serpentine among gigantic boulders, spreading broader onward in undulating blackness, bathing its cold, bare banks in muffled sibilation. All was dark, save distant tongues of flame that lapped their slender heights forever up- ward and cast a hideous luminosity throughout the fearful place. Dark and loathsome was this ponderous dungeon; lonely and dreary it was. Now, all who would pass by this place must first drink deep of Lethe’s soporific wave, and, as the deathly potion steeps their feeble flesh, then Charon comes (dread ferryman of all the underworld), and leads them, in their stupor, swiftly on. Against the banks of Acheron awaits a boat. And in that boat the boatman leans upon stupendous oars, while, on his glis- tening skin, there flicker Stygian shadows. His back is bowed, not from age, but bent by work, from driving on that mas- sive bulk throughout the night. Noise- less, the ferry moves, no ripple sounds, and inky drops drip silent in the stream. At length the wide expanse is crossed, and on the farther shore there is no quiet, but all is tumult, and the groaning dead unite in awful concert. Furious thunder rends the adamantine stones, the stream, the air; which is not air, but stench, and heavy, striking pungent on my nostrils as I wonder at the sight. The bitter intoxicant has done its work. The arch-fiend comes himself to show me on. What death and terror in his eye- balls glare! He searches me with a ma- lignant stare, and I must follow. The place of pestilence we passed. I shut my eyes,—and opened them again to witness all the tortures of the doomed. I saw a man, chained in the penal fire, with deadly serpents writhing all around. I

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10 THE GOLDEN-ROD JACK Dear Reader: I am writing this introductory note to give you an idea of what the following letters are about. The members of English E 1A had been reading “Adrift on an Ice-Pan ’ by Dr. Wilfred T. Grenfell, and we had been very much interested in his dogs, espe- cially in his little retriever, Jack. When we finished the story we wondered if Jack was alive or dead, and so all of us wrote letters to ask Dr. Grenfell about him. The best letter, which was written by Louise Roberge, was chosen and sent to Dr. Grenfell. Her letter and his reply are printed here. Sophie Kaufman, English Division E 1A, Room 12. Quincy High School, Quincy, Mass., December 19, 1921. Dr. Wilfred T. Grenfell, Grenfell Association, 156 Fifth Avenue, New York. Dear Sir: You don’t know who I am, but I have heard a great deal about your work. I am just a Freshman at Quincy High School. We are reading your thrilling story, “Adrift on an Ice-Pan,” and I assure you that the whole class is very much inter- ested in it. The other day a question came up in class as to whether your dog Jack is still alive. As no member of the class could answer it, our teacher suggested that we write a letter asking about it. Everybody is trying hard. If you answer my letter, do you mind if we submit it to our school paper, “The Golden Rod”? If you ever come to Quincy and have any spare time, we cordially invite you to visit our school. Hoping to hear from you soon, I am, Yours very truly, Louise Roberge, English Division E 1A, Room 12. 20 Beacon Street, Boston 9, December 20, 1920. Dear Miss Roberge: Yes, Jack is very much alive still, but it is only in the realms of memory and in- spiration that he lives. His poor, affec- tionate little body lies sleeping in the frozen North, but whenever I hear his name he seems to speak to me to be true and loving and unselfish and brave as he Was; so, you see, he lives still, and that is why I hope all die children want to live so that they will never die, but always live on in inspiration to those who come after them. And so with the next generation in the Quincy High School when those that are there today are in the realms where I believe Jack is—the place that is reserved for all that is beautiful and noble and unselfish. You certainly can do anything you like with what I write to you. If I cannot get time to come to speak to the school my- self, there are a number of friends here who know all about our work, and, I am sure, would be glad to come and give a little talk to the school about Labrador and its people. Sincerely yours, Wilfred Grenfell. REAL OBJECTION OF CATULLUS (As Seen by a Junior) 0 Cicero! with speech of world above, Irresistible in argument, immovable in debate, Man of parts, of wisdom, with patriot’s zeal, If in you there is the slightest love Of fellow man — leave Catiline’s hate, Leave your tale of woe for the public weal. Actions speak louder than words, And deeds are reckoned more Than speech; wherefore, cease to weary The helpless schoolboy and the men of forum; Would not the allies welcome you, as if Pompey, If you come to subdue the enemy? Is not a praetor of the Roman people Worthier of better deeds Than idle speech? That is breach of precedent, That is neglect of the interests of the Roman people, To waste the ballot of your countrymen. Abraham Pactovis, ’23.

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12 THE GOLDEN-ROD saw another, in a moment, plunge head- long down to bottomless perdition. But with the speed of light we went, and all, again, was quiet. It was a place of desolation. The very shades of the departed had melted into the ground to make it so, and all the winds were withered in the stagnant air. No vegetation showed, and nothing moved. But there was light, a sombre light, that came not from afar, but seemed a sort of fixture in itself. I looked again, and there I was alone; no other living thing in all that amplitude. The very rocks stood single and apart, and all the sound I heard was the beating of my own heart, that sent the hot blood cours- ing through my veins. My temples throbbed, and but increased my fear. I dared not move, and yet I could not stay. I longed to run, but my limbs were rigid. I tried to shriek, but my tongue was dry and parched. I wished that I could swoon, but no, I was condemned to stay thus, upright, and hear that fiery liquid palpipate within my pulse. Transfixed by fear, I could not move nor speak, but stood, another rock in this deserted waste. Cold perspiration gathered on my brow and each hair rose erect upon my head. The overpowering stillness quenched the peace of solitude and cruel silence har- rowed up my soul. How long I stayed I do not know. But at length the demon came, and broke the spell; and I found pleasure in his com- pany. How I returned, and whence, I can not tell; but what I know is this:— There is no terror like the terror of silence and desolation, and he who mocks at thunderous noise and sneers at agony will quake and fear when all is gloomy, silent, dark, and still. Gordon Watts, ’22. TEACHERS TEACHERS (a la Kipling) I have taken my fun where I have found it, I have talked and gassed in my time, I have had all species of teachers, And that’s the excuse for this rhyme. One was a half-sized teacher, One was a woman at High, They tortured me so by studies That ofttimes I thought I should die. I was a young one at Quincy, Wise as could be to begin. They all did their best to reform me. And they were as clever as sin. The first one I mentioned was Ruthy, More like a side kick she were, For she’d kick me along, till I burst into song, And I learned about teachers from her. Then I was shifted to others, Much as a wreck was I then, And I got me a live young quarrel Through refusing to write with a pen. Donald Mackay, 22.