Quincy High School - Goldenrod Yearbook (Quincy, MA)

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THE GOLDEN-ROD 17 John Harvard’s Holiday Mutt and Jeff, as they were called by their friends, returned to their rooms in the Y.,.M. C. A. on Huntington Ave- nue, Boston. They had just been dis- missed from Harvard for the Christmas vacation, and because of the fact that they lived so far away, were not planning to go home for the holidays. Their real names were not Mutt and Jeff, of course, but they were called that by their friends because of the great difference in height between the two young men. John Watkins, alias Mutt, was six feet two inches in his stocking feet. He was dark-complexioned and always dressed in dark clothes. He did not dress that way because he was in mourning, but merely because he was of a retiring na- ture, and did not like to attract atten- tion. Despite his clothes, he was always playing jokes on some one, and in turn could appreciate one, even on himself. His friend, Morris Stoughton alias Jeff, was different from Mutt in every respect, except that he too, was forever playing jokes. He stood barely five feet four, with his shoes on. His hair was a bright red and his complexion nearly matched it. Instead of dressing like his friend, he assumed the loudest clothes imaginable and was, therefore, aped by all the “cake-eaters” who came in con- tact with him. However, Mutt and Jeff were the best of friends, and in Jeff’s room at the Y they were both occupied with their own thoughts. Finally Jeff broke the silence with, “Say, Mutt, let’s think of a way to get back at old Skeezicks, who bawled me out for putting a little glue in his ink yesterday.” Skeezicks was none other than Profes- sor Hopkins, the Greek instructor at the college. “Yes, and I would like to give him a Christmas present that isn’t all honey, too,” replied his friend. “Listen,” continued Mutt, “YVe will both think of a way to get back at him.” So for a few minutes they both thought, and then they compared ideas. Mutt told his plan, which was at once picked apart by Jeff. “Well, if you think that you are so clever, let’s hear yours,” said the dis- gusted Mutt. Jeff then unfolded hjs plan, and although it hurt to do so, Mutt had to admit that it sounded good. The two friends then went to eat, after which they went down town to buy some things which were necessary to carry out Jeff’s plan. They came back to their rooms carrying a long coffin- like box, which would have been in- spected by the police at any other time except Christmas. For the next five days they were continually plotting in whispers, and laughing whenever their eyes fell upon Jeff’s closed closet where the mysterious bundle was hidden. f inally Christmas evening came, and the two friends dressed up in the oldest clothes they could find and, taking their bundles, started in the direction of the campus. Next morning Professor Hopkins awoke with a start. He had heard four shots directly beneath his window. Jump- ing out of bed, his feet striking the ice- cold floor, he uttered a howl of agony. Just as he started back for bed he heard two more shots, so, overcoming his de- sire for the warm bed, he rushed to the window. To his dismay it was frosted tight and he could not see through it. Just then three more shots sounded, and the professor, thinking that someone was being murdered on his door step, rushed down a flight of cold stairs to the front door. He then stuck his night-capped head cautiously out of the front door. Upon seeing nothing dangerous he came outside and looked around. At first he saw nothing, but then advancing farther, his near-sighted eyes saw John Plarvard, the founder of the University, drinking from a bottle, while in his other hand he carried an old blunderbuss. The pro- fessor, as he approached ankle-deep in the snow, was a most curious sight. His

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16 THE GOLDEN-ROD lege and for me at the University of California The day of the big meet had finally arrived, the day when Scrap Iron was to show his metal. At three o’clock the meet was well under way with Penn State sev- eral points behind. Scrappy was getting the final rubdown when a welcome cry came floating into the dressing room, ‘‘all runners out for the mile.” As he dashed to his place, he caught a glimpse of that same chattering group of girls he had encountered the previous year. Now was the chance to show them “what eastern runners were made of.” As the runners made ready for the start. Scrap Iron glanced at the three sturdy men of Penn State and picked out the veterans, Mark Moulton and “Flask” Smith, the two crack milers with whom he and his two teammates had to battle. The starter stepped behind the six runners. It was then that Scrappy thought of Marion Meredith and her parting words. “On your mark!—Get set!”—Bang!— At the crack of the revolver Scrap Iron jumped into the lead to the great sur- prise of all, especially of “Flask” Smith, who usually lead his opponents at the start. But the race was far from over. At the four-forty mark Scrappy still held the lead with the two stars of Penn State at his very heels. It was a few seconds later that the relentless Moulton wrenched the lead from Scrappy, determining to tire the man from California University. The pace that Moulton set was a killing one, but he could not shake the runner who had failed to give him any trouble the previous year. At the half-way mark Mark Moulton decided to slacken his pace which was killing him rather than his opponent. But, as the mighty Moul- ton cut down on his pace, Scrap Iron slipped into the lead and surged ahead. While the race was going on, it was evident that the crowd was anything but quiet. As Scrappy swung into the lead his feat was met with much applause; but Scrappy did not forget that Moulton and “Flask” Smith were worthy oppon- ents. At the three-quarter mark the Penn State “Flask” became completely upset over the outcome of the race and decided it was high time for him to take the lead. “Flask” surged past his team- mates and gave all that was left in him in an effort to overtake Scrap Iron; but this effort cost “Flask” Smith a place in the event and he dropped out crestfallen and thoroughly licked, leaving Scrappy, Moulton, and the three other runners, who were far behind, to battle it out. Scrap Iron had proved himself a hard taskmaster. Three hundred yards from the finish Scrappy made ready for his old-time fin- ish. He called upon the remainder of his giant supply of energy and, as he did so, he heard the hurried, faltering steps of Mark Moulton trying to cut the for- mer’s lead. Two hundred yards from the finish Mark Moulton made a plucky effort to catch Scrappy, but it was of no use; for, those cold nights of hard train- ing had taught the latter to withstand severe punishment, and now stood him in good stead. Shortly after, Scrap Iron broke the tape not knowing that the mighty Moulton had all but stumbled in a futile effort to overtake him. However, the plucky Penn State man pulled him- self together in time to defeat “Lonesome Al” Rich of California University at the finish. Scrap Iron, the man from “out of the east,” had defeated the mighty Moulton and “Flask” Smith. It is useless to say that Scrappy’s performance was cheered loud and long, but Scrappy’s thoughts were centered on a certain girl of his home town,—Marion Meredith. He had won for her and for his college. When he entered his dormitory par- lor an hour later, he all but walked into the girl he thought he had left in the cast. Evidently she .had journeyed to California and watched his performance. Again it is needless to say that for his hard day’s work Scrap Iron received a shower of -----, well, you can imagine the rest, and anyway, that’s another story. Herbert Card, Feb. ’26.

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18 THE GOLDEN-ROD red night-cap was on one ear. His near- sighted eyes were straining to see better. And his old-fashioned nightgown dis- closed his ankles which were getting blue from the cold. As he moved slowly on, he occasionally stopped to shake one foot and then the other to get the snow off, in much the same manner as a cat does when it is wet. When the hidden Rose The day dawned cold and clear. The snow glistened in the light from the ris- ing sun. The clock in the belfry of the little village church chimed seven as Rose Marie lifted her tousled, curly head from a much rumpled pillow. A yawn was stifled by a pretty hand which was leis- urely withdrawn as she reluctantly opened her big, lustrous brown eyes. “What time is it Fanchette?” she drawled sleepily. “It is seven o’clock, madamoiselle. Your bath is ready,” she added. “Oh! I must get right up this min- ute !” She was wide awake and, as she hopped out of bed, she said, “You know our great winter carnival is coming off this afternoon.” She gazed out of the window toward the hills which sloped up to meet the sky. Rose Marie was the last of a long line of sturdy Frcnch-Canadian stock. Her paternal grandfather had become very wealthy from his vast timber lands, and the last two generations had lived in luxuries that their frugal forefathers had never dreamed possible. Rose Marie, though reared tenderly for a few years by a gentle mother and educated care- fully by the faithful nuns in a picturesque old convent, was nevertheless passion- ately fond of all kinds of outdoor sports. When her father had bought a vast estate among the northern hills, she enjoyed herself to her heart’s content with swim- ming, fishing, and hiking in the summer, and in the winter, skating, coasting, and Mutt and Jeff looked upon this scene, they were convulsed with laughter. As they feared being seen, they ran for their rooms, leaving the absent-minded professor lecturing John Harvard on the bad example he was setting for the students. Walter Riberdy. Marie skiing. In the latter sport she had be- come most proficient and she liked it best; both because of the feeling of free- dom and of the unhampered bird-like motion through the air. She had been practicing jumping for two months for the annual carnival which was to be held that afternoon. This carnival was an- ticipated with great zest by the most ex- pert of the lovers of winter sports. At the last year’s carnival Rose Alarie had won second place in the great ski-jump- ing contest. It was her fondest hope that she might win this year. She turned from the window and ceased her day dreaming. She dressed hurriedly and hastened down to her breakfast so that she might have as much time as possible with her little “charges” before her guests for the afternoon, ar- rived. Her “charges” were the two motherless children of the gate keeper ot the estate. Little Eloise was five years old. She had light golden curly hair and big blue eyes. She was a sweet little thing who won the heart of everyone who saw her. Jean was seven, and a sturdier lad for his age was not to be found for miles around. On her arrival from the convent, Rose Marie, having been motherless herself for many years, had opened her heart and home to the two little semi-orphans. They responded to her loving care with all the affection and adoration of which their little souls were capable. It was their daily custom to accompany her to the skiing platform where they would stand and watch her jump off, and hold their breath until they