Quincy High School - Goldenrod Yearbook (Quincy, MA)

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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.

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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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THE GOLDEN-ROD 25 Ashes “Whisp-ring voices of yester-years, Ghosts of the smiles we used to know; Tinkling laughter subdued by tears— Whisp’ring voices of yester-years: lender phrases, sweet to our ears, Speaking our name in accents low, WhispTing voices of yester-years, Ghosts of the smiles we used to know.” Twilight had fallen upon the earth, twilight, with its shadows, its peaceful- ness, and its great gift of dreams. The blizzard which had raged all day was now calming down as if to blend with the ab- solute stillness of the hour. Roger, seated at his window, watched the snow as it softly fell, covering wood, mansion, cottage and street with a blanket sure and white. Occasionally he raised his wrinkled and shaky hand to wave at a merry crowd of young people out to cele- brate New Year’s. The shadows had deepened and the room grown cold when Roger called for his servant. Quickly James entered, and with a “Yes, sir,” was at his master’s bidding. His master, still gazing across the vast stretch of whiteness that lay before him, said with a tragic and almost pathetic voice, “Did you hear those sleigh bells a few minutes ago? That was a sleigh party off to celebrate New Year’s. Youth, love, and happiness. I had them once, but I played them against pride and was over- powered. What have I now? Nothing but memories, cold, dead ashes of an old love.” A sigh escaped from his lips as he rose from the chair by the window and slowly made his way to the comfortable arm- chair in front of the fireplace. “Better put another log on the fire, James; the room is getting cold.” The log soon crackled merrily on the open hearth, and James, dismissed for the evening, left his master alone. Seated before the glowing fire, his eyes constantly upon a painting of a lovely lady in brocades and lace, the old man gave way to reveries. “Ah, my dear Roger, it is very rude and by no means proper for gentlemen to sleep while young ladies call. Won’t you please wake up?” Shyly she asked it as she stood before him, lovely and fair in her crinolines and powdered wig. Half-asleep, half-awake, the old man gazed at her. Who was it that confronted him? A look of surprise and joy spread over his face as he cried, “Why you— you are Elizabeth, my lovely painting come to life.” “Yes, I’m your Elizabeth,” she replied, “the maiden who broke your heart.” Sitting at his feet, her head resting upon his old and shaky knees, they lived over again the bittersweet romance of their life. “Fifty odd years ago, can you think back that far?” she began. “That was ’way back in the days when you were a young gallant, and I was the Belle of the Debutantes. For over a year you had been courting me, and folks began to take it for granted that we were lovers. On New Year’s Eve, the night of the annual winter ball, you asked me to go with you. For no reason at all (it was only a whim of youth) I refused your invitation, and went with a young man who had long tried to court me. You, angered beyond reproach, appeared at the ball in the com- pany of a beautiful and notorious French actress. “Our romance then dashed upon the rocks. With Stubborncss piloting your ship and Pride piloting mine, we were un- able to get beyond the rocks and into smooth waters again. We broke apart, leaving after us many a heartache. “I’m sorry now, Roger, sorry when it is too late. That’s the way with life, isn’t it? Always too late—too late!” Roger awoke from his dream with a start. The embers had died down very low. Nothing but ashes remained on the hearth, and in the heart of an old man heavy and cold lay the ashes of a dead love. Leonora Aida Colombo, Feb., ’24.