Quincy High School - Goldenrod Yearbook (Quincy, MA)

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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.

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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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THE GOLDEN-ROD 11 Lee F r s Sip The dense, wet fog that hung over Chinatown like a blanket, prevented any one from being comfortable. It was im- possible for one to keep one’s thoughts on all that was good in that dark, empty street, with only the sound of the cop’s footsteps that fell heavily on the dead air. Somewhere out in the world a clock struck eleven. The cop continued on his beat down the road which led to inner China- town. Here lived Lee Fang, a rich, influ- ential Chink of the underworld. He was thought to smuggle opium into his tea shop, but he had never been caught with the goods. It was the duty of Duncan, the voung, good-looking cop, to catch Lee Fang smuggling. More than once, when a cargo of tea came to the shop, did Duncan go in “just for a good cup of tea”; but really to investigate. Lee Fang had a daughter; that was the whole trouble. Loy was v.ery sweet and pretty as Chinese girls go, and Dun- can liked to have her sit across the table from him and pour his tea; she chattered with him and made him laugh, and he told her of the happenings on his beat. Loy worshipped Duncan and Fang knew this: Duncan was unaware of it. On this dark, foggy night, Duncan saw a cargo of tea being taken into the tea shop, so he dropped in for his tea. Near the doorway stood Fang and his daughter talking. “You do as I say, Loy; that man has ruined you and will ruin me,” Fang said threateningly to his daughter. “Father, no, no, not that, he is just good and kind to me!” cried Loy. Standing over her like an ugly demon, he hissed, “But me, me, what about me? If I am caught—” He stopped abruptly for Duncan had entered. “Hist, you Loy, do as I told you to,” was his warning as Duncan advanced. “Are you ready to pour my tea for me, little Loy?” asked Duncan laugh- ingly. “Oh, hello, Fang,” this dryly, “how is the tea business coming along? “As well as can be expected in such weather,” Fang replied, bowing low. “Come Loy get Duncan his tea and seat him where he can watch me!” This with a touch of dry humor. “Watch you, no, no, not to-night, Fang.” Loy led Duncan over to a table that was screened off from the rest and left him while she went out for his tea. After she had gone, Duncan thought, even on that dark, dreary night, in the dirty hole, it was good to be alive. Life was sweet. Life was not so sweet out in the back, for Fang was once more frightening Loy, but it was for the last time. “Oh, no, Little Loy,” said Fang, using the name Duncan called her, “it is all lixed, the tea. You may take it to your Duncan, and may there be a curse of all gods known and unknown on his soul!” “I am afraid, my father! please have pity,” sobbed little Loy. Fang pushed her out of the door with the tray in her hands. “Come, little Loy,” said Duncan. “What, do I see tears in your eyes?” “No,” said Loy softly, “I am not cry- ing.” Duncan stood up and took the tray from her and set it on the table. He watched Loy as she was drinking her tea; what a little, sad thing she was; he felt sorry for her and resolved to be kinder to her in the future. Loy was sipping her tea without looking up when an awful, sharp pang shot through her; she stood up, her face deathly white, gave Duncan one pitiful look, and with a moan sank to the floor. Duncan stood up; he felt dizzy. What had happened to Loy? Then it occurred to him, “Loy, Fang—Fang had thought!” “God,” he muttered thickly, and his head sank to his arm on the table. Fang, behind the screen, rubbed his hands together and went away chuckling; he had to make sure, so he had poisoned both. Duncan, the good, clean, great- hearted, Irish boy, and Loy, the sweet, wistful Chinese maid were dead. Somewhere out in the world a clock struck twelve, and the world went on un- mindful of Lee Fang’s sin. Ellen Pratt, September, ’24.