Quincy High School - Goldenrod Yearbook (Quincy, MA)

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THE GOLDEN-ROD 23 have to study me say, ‘Wish I could throw that darn thing in a river,’ and—the—” “W ell, whatever did you cress so many rivers for, anyway?” I demanded, helping him to his feet, for he looked so pitiful trying to get up. ‘W —you see, it was a marshy country, and when I came to a r—river I had to cross it to—cr—cr—get on the other side,” he explained. “W hatever makes you lose your breath so?” I demanded anxiously. “It—it’s the way I’m treated,” he sobbed. “I’m knocked about so that—I— I’m nearly all in. Why, even today ’Red’ fell out a window during Latin period and carried m—me w—with him. Then Eddy, Izzy, Ted, and lots of the others tear the very insides out of me, and m—m—make —airships! Oh, I—I—c—c—can’t hold out much longer!” “Oh, can’t you? I’m so glad!” I ex- claimed enthusiastically; then turned crimson as I thought of what Mother would say if she heard me being so rude. He groaned, and I quickly changed the subject by saying: “Didn’t you ever lose any battles? It’s terribly monotonous to read of your old victories all the time.” “One doesn’t boast of one’s defeat,” was the simple answer. “Then you admit,” I asked quickly, “that you bragged of your victories?” “But weren’t they glorious ones?” he questioned. “But, oh! I wish I’d never written that book. If I hadn’t I could be sleeping peacefully in my grave now, as a dead man should. As it is, I have to haunt delinquent pupils!” “Latin is a dead language, As dry as it can be, It killed all the Romans, And now it’s killin’ me!” I quoted, “and that’s the truth!” “Oh! I’m so glad!” he cried. I regretted having turned crimson for being rude; he was every bit as rude as I! “Really, I’m sorry,” he apologized, ■ catching sight of a dangerous gleam in my too expressive eyes, “but it’s my business to conquer, and it looks as if I were going to have an easy job this time.” “Why!” I ejaculated, “whatever do you mean by that?” “You seem to be won over to my cause already,—that means another victory for me to brag about. You sec, there is more than one kind of battle: this time it’s a battle between ‘duty’ and ‘laziness.’ You know you ought to study Latin, but you’re too lazy to take time. Thus you’re lettin’ a litt'e ‘thing’ like me conquer you.” “Never!” I shouted. “I wouldn’t give you another victory to brag about if—if— if I had to stay up all night!” “Oh!” he murmured, “you—you’ve ch—changed your m—mind?” He was gasping for breath again, and growing smaller and smaller. “How preposterous to think otherwise.” I grew quite eloquent as he slowly shriv- eled up. “W—why did you g—give up b—b— be—before?” he inquired. “Oh,” I answered casually, “merely one of my idiosyncracies; I always feel better after a spell like that; however, in the future I shall not be so inconsistent. I shall conquer you in the beginning instead of making such a disturbance.” “My 1—1—last b—battle with y—y— you, my b—b—breath—” “Yes, an’ you’ve lost it! You’ve—” He had shriveled into nothing. I was sitting with “Caesar’s Gallic Wars” open on the desk in front of me. A short while after I sought my Mother and rather shamefacedly apologized. “I’m sorry for acting so, Mumsy,” I confessed, putting my arms around her. “An’ I didn’t mean what I said—most of it, anyway—and I’ve finished all my Latin.” How she survived the shock of hearing me apologize for anything is more than I can say,—but I guess she must have learned bv now not to be surprised at anything I do. She looked at me with her face screwed up into a question mark, then she laughed. “Rcallv, Megsy,” she said, “you do beat all!” Then she added as she looked at my rumpled curls and swollen eyes: “Gracious, child! Does Latin affect you that way? You look as if you just woke up from a long nap!” Mabel Arnold Glilhop, Feb., ’25.

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22 THE GOLDEN-ROD “Next morning, as we took our seats a breakfast, our eyes met with an under- standing none but we two could ever know. The passengers babbled on, little Caesar’s L, Bang! Crash! Blinkcty-blank, bam! “Caesar was hurled to the floor with such a terrific blow that it brought Mother hurrying in to see if Pd fallen and broken my precious neck. When she saw me sitting apparently in good health, but glaring down with a fero- cious countenance at “Caesar’s Gallic Wars,” her anxiety was relieved, and ex- asperation immediately took its place. “Migs!” she demanded rather sternly, “did you deliberately throw that book on the floor:” “Yes, I did!” I burst out, giving vent to my emotions. “An’ the darn thing’s goin’ to stay there! ’Magine that poor fool takin’ two whole pages to tell how he crossed a blamed ol’ river. All the con- founded bug could do, anyway, ’cept shoot off hot air!” Having relieved myself of this much of my indignation, I sat back and glared disgustedly down at the book. Mother surveyed the wreck on the floor—the book had landed so the pages were crumpled and tossed—and then me, deliberating probably on what course was the wisest .to follow. “Migs!” she commanded, “pick that book up at once, and finish your lesson.” “No, I won’t!” I retorted. “I ain’t ever goin’ to have any more to do with that lunatic! Why in the devil did he have to write an account of his fool wars anyhow, —poor ham! Oh! I hate him, and all the darn rivers he ever crossed!” Mother was plainly shocked—not only at the outburst and terrible language I had used, but also at the idea of her darling and only child deliberately sauc- ing and disobeying her. and, having de- scended from good old Puritan stock, at the idea of anyone actually expressing hate. In my present state I was beyond reas- oning with,—and she knew it from ex- perience. She left the room quickly. After she had gone mv better nature knowing their narrow escape, while he and I silently thanked God for His mer- cies.” Jean Hepburn, June, ’24. ast Battle prompted me to pick up the book and set it with some reluctance upon my untidy desk. Then I started to cry—force of habit, I guess; it was not the first time “Caesar” had reduced me to tears. I usually felt better afterwards. 'Phis time, however, I began to sympathize with my- self, and was finally convinced that I was being treated very inconsiderately when I was made to take Latin in my college course; then I began to denounce whoever had invented the college board require- ments. If I had elected Latin I should probably have thought it lovely, or at least I wouldn’t have given in that I didn’t; the unfortunate part of it was, though. I had been made to take it. That’s what I resented most, for I was never made to do anything I didn’t want to until I entered High School,—and then it was rather late to begin my much-needed training. Then there were so many other subjects I should much rather take, and so many other things I should much rather do, for instance,—at that moment I would much rather have been dancing, skiing or read- ing some delightful book of Dickens’, in- stead of helping Caesar across another Gallic river. This proved too much for me, and again “Caesar” landed crashing on the floor. “Oh! please don’t do that again,” a feeble voice protested. “It—it m-most knocks the little breath I’ve got left out of me.” I jumped! Turning around, I beheld “Ciesar” struggling to get up. “Great Caesar’s ghost!” I muttered. “It’s pretty bad when one begins to see things.” “Ooh!” wailed Caesar, “there I’m being called a ‘thing’ again; they all do it!” “Who?” I asked, my curiosity getting the better of me. “Oh, my dear,” he said. “Why, all the High School pupils that see me say, ‘think I’d study that thing!’ And those who

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24 THE GOLDEN-ROD. (With sheerest apologies to Miss Cummings, my English teacher, who has worked unceasingly in trying to teach her pupils to spell correctly.) The Chainge Blithe Bloos Act I They’s too burds wauking roun this burg in a sullen sorta way; They ware a sad and dreery look, and they ain’t got much ter say; Now, frens, I'll bet my powder puff that if yew were in there shoos Yew wood n’t look no different—they got the chainge buthe bloos. Act II They’s a caige up in the attic with pad- locs all aroun, And a cupla gards ter gard it—and I mite add they’s a houn. They’s copses tew but their inside. I’ll admit there sorta strainge, Frens, allow me tew introduce tew yew the place ware yew get chainge. Act III Now this aint a transfur stashun, we only deel in cash; Coarse acashunly we get foney koins; sometimes they throe in mash. But my pardner and myself admit (and by gosh it aint no fib) That handing out chainge tew pewpils aint the best we ever did. Act IV The gang cums dashing up at the begining of pieces, And they croud around the chainge buthe in an orful sorta mess. “No pennies, please”—“No coppers”— “Hay, take that hen fede out”— These wurds ring in our eers all day; they cum frum evrv mout. Act V Sum want this and sum want that, its ac- cord in tew they’re buil’, And yer gutter soote them all, they’ll be surved, they shoorly will. And when the rush is over and the last one’s turned away, We flop into each other’s alms, and we just sorta sway. Curtain. Walter Cullman.