Quincy High School - Goldenrod Yearbook (Quincy, MA)

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14 THE GOLDEN-ROD EIN KOPFBRECHER VERTI KAL 1— Was man am Tage im klarcn Himmcl sicht. 2— Ein Xarr. 3— Einc untrcnnbarc ’orsilbe. 4— Weibliche Endung flier auslaendische Haupt- woerter. 5— Verbindungswort. 6— Nimmer. 7— Hocchst. 8— Unsterbliche Freundschaft. 9— Nicht ein. 10— Untrcnnbarc Vorsilbe. 11— Pracposition, die den Dativ oder Accusativ regiert. 12— Was man am Anfang cines Bricfcs schreibt. 13— Ein Baum. 1-1—Verbindungswort. 15— Fucrwort. 16— Ein Kocrpcrteil (Mehrzahl ohnc Umlaut) 17— Ein Tcil des Beines. 18— Ein Bccher. 19— Das Gcgentcil von jawohl. 20— Pracposition, die den Accusativ regiert. 21— Abkucrzung fuer Doktor. 22— Rinde. 23— Verbindungswort. 24— Das Imperfekt von scin. 25— Untrcnnbarc Vorsilbe. 26— Mcistcrhafte Arbeit (Anfangsbuchstabcn). HORIZONTAL 1— Was ein unartiger Knabc gem wirft. 2— Andernfalls. 3— Pracposition. die den Accusativ regiert. 4— Was die Dcutschcn gem trinken. 5— Das Elend. 6— Bcvor. 7— Xicht richtig (Anfangsbuchstabcn). 8— Die esrten zwei Buchstabcn im Wort, welches spaerisch bedeutet. 9— Italienische Industrie (Anfangsbuchstabcn). 10—Pracposition. die nur den Dativ regiert. 1—Ein bekannter Wasservogel. 12— Ein besitzanzeigendes Eigenschaftswort. 13— Unverfaelscht. 14— Abkuerzung fuer untcr andern”. 15— Fucrwort. 16— Abkuerzung fuer Herr’’. 17— Pracposition, die den Dativ oder Accusativ regiert. 18— Oeffnung zwischen den Lippen. 19— Xicht alt. 20— Fuerwort (Im Dativ). 21— Sachc. 22— Fine Intcrjektion. 23— Zum Schluss bringen. 24— Interrogatives Fuerwort. 25— Ein klcincs Stucck weissen Pappcndeckels. 26— Ein Tierchen, vor dem sich die Macdchen fuerchten. For solution sec R. Anderson, F. '26.

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THE GOLDEN-ROD 13 The Spring “The Spring is here,” cry loud the joyful hills. Her heralds are the Southwind and the Showers. Lo! here she comes now. tripping down the rills, Her face aglow while from her hands fall flowers— White plumed lilies and the primrose fair. The modest violet and the tall bluebell— And perfume rising from her golden hair Lures hov’ring bees away from honey’d cell. Let’s haste, my friends, and wile away dull care; Springtime and Playtime call within the dell. Let’s wake and smile and greet this season rare In which the feathered warblers’ anthems swell. Why waste our lives in toil and sin’s alloy? Springtime is ours,—to love and to enjoy! Barbara Walker, 1925. Saved Around the roof of a great yellow house floated wisps of gray, cloud-like smoke. Suddenly darts of flames burst from the upper windows and leaped to- ward the heavens. Quickly cries rang out, windows and doors opened, and the sharp tones of the fire whistle reached the cars of the townfolk. Bob Cummings was a new member of the ranks of the firemen at station 13, and took his duties very seriously. When the whistles blew and the fire bell shrilled the signal of his first fire, Bob sensed a strange feeling which he later described as ‘‘having his heart in his mouth.” He soon grew calm, however, and took his place among his comrades. He felt a thrill and a cold rush of air as the en- gines raced madly forward and then the men, hopping down, rushed to that yel- low house, now almost hidden in the masses of stifling smoke. The inhabitants of the house were huddled like sheep in a corner, watching with hopeless eyes as their possessions were caught and devoured by the cruel flames. Bob could never tell how it happened, but he found himself- on a ladder, going up, up, up,'up, smoke and flames curling around him. With difficulty, cutting sash and glass with his axe, he made his way through an upper story window into the nursery. As he jumped inside, he heard falling timber and at the same time saw the crib, in which lay a small figure, move. A baby—and it was his job to save it! Not stopping to look or think, Bob gently lifted the tiny, light form in his arms, covers and all, fought his way to the window, and slowly reached the ladder. As he went down, step by step, only saved from the flames by his mask and heavy coat, he was conscious that the slight shape never moved. A cold chill shook him; had he been too late? He stepped from the ladder and hold- ing his burden closely, made his way to the little grief-stricken group which was a bit happier now to know that the fire was under control. Slipping off his mask he parted the covers in his arms— “O! You’ve saved him!” cried a child- ish voice beside the fireman. Bob grinned as he turned to a small girl whose blue eyes were shining through her tears. “Well, sister. I guess he’s safe all right!” Then to the amusement of the specta- tors he placed a huge, brown Teddy, minus one shoe-button eye in the arms of the delighted child. Doris Ricker, Feb. ’26.

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THE GOLDEN-ROD 15 Scrap Iron Robert Wilson witnessed a dark and stormy June night as he gazed out of one of his dormitory Windows, but his thoughts were not of the weather but of something—or rather, someone else. It is well at this point of the story that the reader should know a little of Robert Wilson. To begin with, this young man of twenty-one years was better known as Scrap Iron or Scrappy. lie had re- ceived this name and prized it because it signified his wonderful physique. His build was that of a well-trained athlete, strong-looking and well filled out. In harmony with his well-proportioned fig- ure, Scrappy was somewhat of a good looker. Scrappy’s home was in the east, but he was now attending the University of California. When Scrap Iron had left his home town high school, he had gained the distinction of being the fastest miler of the neighboring schools; but when he arrived at California University he found his ability as a runner gone. Somehow he had lost control of his winning stride, of his lightning start, and of his whirl- wind finish. Maybe it was because of the change in climate or because of the multitudes of people who watched him perform. Whatever it was, Scrappy didn’t know. His first three years at this college were disastrous, as far as his running was concerned. It was only because of his never-failing nerve and the shortage of milers that Scrap Iron was kept on the squad. However, he decided that, after the last meet of his third year at the University he would leave running for- ever. But as Scrappy was trotting to his locker room after having run his usual ragged race in that last meet, he came face to face with a chattering mob of young girls from a neighboring college. He was about to make a dash for the dressing room when he was confronted with this remark from one of the girls, “So that’s the sort of runners they make in the east.” Scrap' Iron turned in his tracks and the blood rushed to his face, but he said nothing and passed on. As he dressed, he muttered to himself, “I guess I won’t quit.” When Scrap Iron returned to the Uni- versity after his summer vacation, the first thing he did was to mark off a mile course. As the out-door track season did not open until the first of April, he had seven months in which to train him- self for that event. Every other night Scrappy pulled himself over that mile course, and throughout those seven months he trained hard and relentlessly. It was during those cold, crisp nights of December, January and February that lie learned to take the punishment that every good miler is forced to withstand. Although Scrap Iron was wise enough not to overdo himself, he began to feel the old-time lightning start, the winning stride, the whirlwind finish, and, most of all, the old-time confidence in his running ability. With the opening track meet on the nineteenth of April, he amazed the head coach and many of the students of the University by “nosing out” Lefty Dun- can, a miler of considerable fame, in a spirited race. Scrap Iron had staged a real “come-back.” To get back to the real story, the read- er left Scrappy in a thoughtful mood. First and foremost in his thoughts was the big meet of the season of California with Penn State, which was now only three days away. The second, but prob- ably the most brooded over of his thoughts, were those of a certain girl of his home town whom Scrappy knew very well. Who was this girl? It was Marion Meredith, Scrappy’s sweetheart, — the “flower of the east” he called her. Marion was a real sport and an exceptionally good-looking girl; even Scrappy admitted it. When he had visited her during his vacation, she had said to him on one of their many moonlight strolls, “Scrappy, when we were at high school together you would win whenever I wanted you to,—I wonder if you would win for your col-