Quincy High School - Goldenrod Yearbook (Quincy, MA)

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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.

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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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10 THE GOLDEN-ROD Tbe Te se The tease, according to Webster, is one who vexes or irritates another person by petty requests. Who hasn’t been the victim of one of these infernal teases at least once in his life: When you were first learning to sit up as a baby, didn’t your brother or sister tease you with a cookie, or when you enjoyed sucking your thumb,didn’t someone tease you by pulling it out of your mouth just for the pleasure it gave her, and not because it was a bad habit that she was trying to eliminate: So it is all through childhood—continually you are teased. When you enter high school and meet some wonderful girl to whom you are attracted as a magnet attracts steel, you are teased about her by your chums at school. Even mother teases you by say- ing, “Such puppy love!” Your first love is soon over, and many more follow, but later, about your last year in high school, you meet some girl whom you could swear to stand by for life, and face the cruel world with all its cares together. You fall deeply in love with this pretty creature, and of course she allows you to, but soon you find she is a tease. She torments you by going out with other fellows, while you, devoted lover that you arc, stay at home thinking of the beloved lady. And that is not all, for she caps the cl max by tellng you what a perfectly wonderful time she had. You shout, “Oh death, where is thy sting?” If she would not tease you, she would be perfect, but if she did not tease you, what would take the place of her teasing: We learn in chemistry that nothing can be destroyed, which leads us to the con- clusion that it is best to endure teasing, for any substitute might be worse. William Hodgkin son, September, ’23. MV GARDEN’ Who’cl like lo coine to my garden. And see the flowers there? Who’d like to sec all my roses. And all my lilies fair? My garden is a lovely place: My true friends make it so. For they plant precious seeds for me. And I just make them grow. The sweetest flower that I have Is love’s own fragrant rose: Sincerity is a lily tall That in my garden grows. Goodwill is a shining buttercup. So bright in fields of green: The daisy stands for purity Wherever it is seen. Kind deeds, of course, are goldcnrod. Rich clusters on a stem; The lilac sweet is helpfulness. A worthy, purple gem. The violet is the thoughtfulness Of many friends of mine; While friendship true and steadfast is The clinging ivy vine. Who'd like to come to my garden, And see the flowers there? Who’d like to sec all my roses. And all my lilies fair? Mabel Guiliiop. Feb., ‘25. I WAS A GOOD CHILD ON THE WHOLE I killed our cat. Squashed him flat. Ditto to the old man’s hat. Yet I was a good child on the whole. I shinnied up many a tree, Wore out many a trouser knee. Also put snuff in grandpa’s tea. Yea. I was a good child on the whole. I ran away. Stayed all day. But 1 came back to hit the hay. Verily. I was a good child on the whole One day 1 stole my father’s pipe, For that. I was sick all night. Gee! my head was awful light. But I was a good child on the whole. My pop and I had many a row Because I refused darned good chow. But say. ain’t licorice the cat’s meow? Yet I was a good child on the whole. Now as my years increased. My boldness has indeed decreased. My everlasting tricks have ceased. Yet I was a good child on the whole. Wendell Bishop.