Quincy High School - Goldenrod Yearbook (Quincy, MA)

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8 THE GOLDEN-ROD Tbe Scales of Life Dizzily drove the snow, down, down, down; down on houses where young folks romped and laughed; down on small shacks where scraggly, pale-cheeked peo- ple huddled around a fire of gasping sticks; down on big stores where gorgeous things were displayed; down on small, dingy, back streets; down on Life! Through the slushy streets people crowded and pushed, smiled and frowned, sang and growled, many not thinking at all of other people’s troubles, but merely of getting home with packages and good- ies, home to warm fires, and eager, ex- pectant kiddies. “Buy paper, Sir: Buy paper for—” At this moment the speaker was rudely knocked off the sidewalk almost beneath the wheels of a large touring car. Speak- er: Indeed, he could scarcely be called that, because the word always makes one think of a “well-satisficd-with-myself” looking politician, and Patsy was just an under-sized, thin, scrawny, little chap with questioning brown eyes, a rather thin, freckled nose, and a mouth which was usually drawn into a straight line of determination. But. above all, Patsy had a heart beneath his worn little jacket big enough to hold all his own troubles, which were many, and those of all whom he knew besides. If the sentence could have been fin- ished, he would have said. “Buy a paper for Lily, Sir?” But as the man didn’t hear the name “Lily,” why of course he wouldn’t buy a paper. So thinking, poor little Patsy picked himself up and dashed into the crowd again. Lily was his dear baby sister, hardly eight years old. and. as Patsy was her guardian, he kept them both alive by selling papers and shining shoes. She was very much like a lily: so pure and waxen, with golden fluffy hair, thin deli- cate hands perfectly shaped, and deep blue eyes like shining mirrors that re- flected each sorrow and pain in her heart. It was no wonder that Patsy loved her. Everyone did. Very often the cruel neigh- bors told Patsy that he wouldn’t have her long because she was too good for this earth of sin. Bravely, the boy did his best, little realizing that his beloved sis- ter was breathing more and more slowly at the moment that he was almost run over. Oh! If he had known, he would have been but too glad to go with her, for Lily was the only thing that God had given him to make life bearable. Many times the boy was banged and cursed, many times roughly stepped on. One man. upon hearing the name Lily, cackled. “What d’yer think this is, kid, Easter?” And pinching Patsy’s cold little nose, he pushed him out of the way. His eyes burning with tears, Patsy ac- costed another man, who swore at him, and with a sweep of his arm knocked the waif into the street for the second time. But now a passing automobile mercifully brought surcease. Life went out as Patsy murmured “Lily” with his last breath. Xo one cared. Why should anyone? The following day was a holiday, and what good times it would bring! So all heed- lessly passed on, absorbed in thoughts of oming pleasure. Life is an evenly balanced pair of scales; for each joy there is some time a sorrow, for each song some time a tear. Surely, the scales must tip on the sorrow side at such times as this. Though every- one seems happy, what does this joy amount to? Only a glittering pin, or a stick of striped peppermint candy; only a passing gleam, soon to be forgotten. If we could remember that real happiness comes by doing small things to make others happy, and doing them not with cur hands, but with our hearts, how much we might help to tip the scales on the side of joy! Mabel Clark.

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THE GOLDEN-ROD 7 and when Betty and Buddy were able to be moved, Madeliene accompanied them to her home, to act as nurse until they were entirely better. Soon Betty and Buddy were able to walk in the garden. As the days passed slowly by, Betty began to be puzzled as she had been before she had left this land of roses. Buddy—he acted queerest of all. When he passed the room which was always locked he would stop and sniff, and then look puzzled. One day, as he and Betty were passing this room on their way to the garden, he stopped suddenly, sniffed—grasped the amazed Betty by the arm, and very ex- citedly exclaimed: “Rose! Rose! Now I know! Rose perfume!” Before astonished Betty could find an answer to this startling outbreak, he con- tinued: “My name is Bob—Robert Channing. My father is a New York dealer in per- fumes. Rose perfume—” At this interesting point, he was inter- rupted by the opening of the door of the locked room and Madeliene’s father fairly bursting out. With him came the most exouisite cdor of roses. “I’ve got it! I’ve got it! At last I’ve got it!” he exclaimed, rushing out to where Madeliene and her mother were picking roses in the garden. Betty stood speechless, not even won- dering to hear him speak in English. If he had suddenly soared into the air, and had blown into the garden, Betty, at this point, would not have been surprised or thought it out of the ordinarv. Mechan- icallv she followed him and Buddy to the garden. There, in due time, explanations were given. Madcliene’s father, an American scien- tist, bv the name of White, had been em- ployed by the Robert Channing Co., some twenty years before, to duplicate a rose perfume, the inventor of which had died without telling anyone his method of mak- ing it. A rival concern had offered bribes, and when Mr. White had refused, they had tried other methods, until to be able to work without being disturbed, he and his wife had gone to France. When they had been there long enough to get a good idea of the French language and customs they had settled down in this house to work, and to be known by the neighbors as a French family. Mr. White had never communicated with the Robert Channing Co., wishing to wait until he could bring them the much desired per- fume. Buddy, it seemed, was Robert Chan- ning. Jr. His father had shown him some of the precious perfume, and after one smell which he had never forgotten, he had decided to make a search for Mr. White, in hopes of finding, and being able to put the perfume on the market. He had afterwards gone to war, where he had received the wound which had blotted his memory. At this point, Betty glanced for the first time at Madeliene, and uttered a scream. “That locket!” she cried. “It is just like one my mother had!” “Your mother!” exclaimed Mr. White and his wife. “Yes! Yes!” cried Betty, “Mv sister was wearing it when they left for France.” “Your sister! then—then Madeliene is your sister! For she is not our own daughter, as we have given everyone to understand. When our boat was wrecked, a woman with a beautiful baby was one of the few saved with us. From the shock of it all, the woman went crazy, and in her delirium entrusted the baby to us. Shortly after she died, and we had no means of finding out who she was, the only clew being this locket. When Made- liene, as we named the baby, was old enough we told her, and gave her the locket. She has never worn it until today, fearing to lose it, as the chain was very ' frail. But a few weeks ago we sent it to a jeweler who strengthened the chain— and r day it came through the mail—how odd that it should have come today!” Thus it was that when Betty returned tv) America, her sister, Pauline, and her foster parents accompanied her. As for Bob Channing—he finished the proposal which had been so abruptly cut off, when he was known only as “Buddv,” and wired to his anxious father that he was at last returning home, bringing with him the long-sought-for rose perfume, and the most precious rose of all for a daugh- ter-in-law. Mabel Guilhop, February, ’25.

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THE GOLDEN-ROD 9 A Fugitive frorr) Justice Far off in the distant horizon a faint gleam of the rising sun appeared in the gray sky—it was dawn. The dew sparkled like brilliant diamonds on the soft green moss in the shady woods. The sleepy violets opened their blue eyes to greet the morning sun. and the tall daisies swayed their graceful heads in the gentle breeze. Emerald-green vines lay dormant in the bed of a tranquil shallow pool, while a lone frog on the bank gave forth an un- melodious note, rendering to his Maker the best he had. The twittering of the birds was broken frequently by the early song of a robin red-breast. A pearly- gray squirrel darted swiftly here and there, gathering nuts. A blessed peace- fulness had settled like a mantle on the enchanting spring beauty of the silent woods—it was, indeed, God’s handicraft. The rustic of leaves, the crackle of twigs, and the huge bulk of a burley man made a zigzag path among the sheltering trees. Who was the unwelcome stranger? He was a rugged man, with hair clipped short, and a lean, bronzed face covered with a shaggy beard of two days’ growth. His course hands and stubby fingers were scarred and scratched. In his drab shirt, threadbare and collarless, his dun- colored trousers torn by the brambles and thorns of unruly bushes, he seemed the very embodiment of lawlessness, as he moved hurriedly along, crushing the frail violets under his thick-soled boots, and continually looking back with anxious, furtive eyes. A solemn hush fell on the atmosphere. The birds stopped chirping. The squir- rels stopped scurrying about, and, cocking their furry heads on one side, watched the intruder intently. From a heavy cloud trailing across the rosy sky a de- pressing drizzle settled on the earth. The rush of footsteps and the hum of low masculine voices broke the stillness. Cries of discovery, the sharp report of a gun, then—the sickening dull thud of a bullet reaching home. The huge man fell in a pitiful heap on the ground, clutching fiercely at his throat. He lay twitching and struggling for a moment. An ex- pression of repentance took the place of the hunted look in his eyes. “Oh God. be merciful to me, a sinner,” he mur- mured weakly through white, parched lips. Warm crimson blood flowed on the cool moss—and the man lay still. Priscilla De Coste, September, ’23. Reflections I. Ye Orbs that shine in Infinite space. As I look back on eons which ye appraise As milestones in the progress of your path . How infinitely small doth Man appear. What a mote in the colossal scheme of God: Set wandering by His express command. Who held ye in the hollow of his hand. Ye. that were there when earth was not. Who still your changeless orbits will pursue When earth, and sun, and moon, dissolved Return unto the state wherein they first began; And Man, in the image of his Maker formed. Has vanished from the common ken of things: Then do I wonder whether He Who from His throne above, directs your ways, Tenantlcss. will He let ye put behind The crowding years that arc to you and Him As a wave crest upon the Sea of Time? H. Heart swelled with pride, and still unsatisfied With Fortune’s off'rings, far beyond my needs. I walked along past orchard, field and stream. Unheeding, self-absorbed, the pinking buds. The flowering fields, the tuneful chorusing Of meadow lark and robin, red of breast. As thus I wandered, blind to Nature’s charms, I chanced upon a tree long since decayeJ, And leaning ‘gainst its ancient, time-worn trunk. 1 fell into a sea of selfish dreams. How long 1 thus remained, what time had passed I cannot tell; but suddenly I heard Above my head the crystal, flute-like tones Of meadow thrush resounding clear and sweet. Soon followed by an answer far away. “Doubtless his mate responds.” thought I. And, turning slowly. I beheld a boy, Barefoot, sun-tanned, between whose puckered lips Came forth the liquid, flute-like tones. While thus bird answered boy, and boy the bird, Until the notes were lost far down the field. I slow retraced my steps, my dreams forgot. My heart astir with longings new and vague. Eli Riciiman. Feb., 1924.