Quincy High School - Goldenrod Yearbook (Quincy, MA)

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THE GOLDEN-ROD 21 Neither Bacon Nor Shakespeare (Great though he was, Shakespeare was only human, and so it is to be ex- pected that he made some mistakes. An omission on his part accounts for the following scene, written by a modern Shakespeare. Its purpose is to show the domestic strife of Macbeth’s life and il- lustrate some of the finer causes of his downfall. Read it, and become acquaint- ed with family strife in the days of A Iacbcth.—Merritt Libbey) ACT IV—Scene 4 Room in the Castle at Dunsinane Enter Macbeth Macbeth: My love is greater than my lust. Failing, She would be punished, too, as much as I. And she has been to me a worthy wife; Yea, more than wife, a most wise coun- sellor. It is true her plans, her advices were good;— But the water’s too deep for her, I fear. Enter Lady Macbeth Lady M.: You did call for me, my lord: Macbeth: 0 beloved, I do fear for you; I would That you were not concerned in this at all. I have decided to face the storm alone. Lady M.: Have a care; the lion dies when his strength Is waned, my lord. Macbeth: I have thought of that, but I have learned My lesson well, and will better the instruction. Lady M.: You say you fear for me, my thane, Yet you leave me here to brood myself Unto distraction. O, better far to die fighting, Than to sit at home a prey to con- science. Macbeth : Fie, my lady, you’ve but done your duty. Why, wife, should you suffer for my misdeeds? All else I grant, all Scotland, if you will, But this to thee I must refuse, my sweet. Lady M.: Your courage failed at Inver- ness, my thane; Take care lest it should slack at Dun- sinane. Macbeth: The weird sisters three to me did promise That I need not fear till Birnam Wood To high Dunsinane Hill shall come, and that My death shall be by none of woman born. Lady M.: I fear these witches have thee fast; Follow them not too close lest thou get snared. Macbeth: They served me well before; I will not doubt Them now, for I am all they pro- phesied. Lady M.: You forget I made you King, not they. Did they bolster your waning courage, sir? Who made the plan for Duncan’s fall? Who freed vou from places tight, my lord? Yet you cast me off as a worthless thing! Macbeth: All true, beloved wife, yet I do fear For thy woman’s strength and heart and mind.— Let that end the matter. Fare you well! Exeunt Macbeth Lady M.: Discarded, cast off, scorned! Believing he has no use for me, He leaves me nothing but musings vile. The hardest blow upon him is yet to fall, Yet he casts aside his rudder now. O, thou fool to believe thou’rt safe at last From Malcolm and Macduff who storm you. Thou art more like the Roman fool than thou

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20 THE GOLDEN-ROD History of Quincy (With apologies to Donald Ogden Stewart) As the time for our tercentenary rap- idly approaches we consider it high time to mug up on our town history. Hear! ’Twas in the year 1492 B. P. (Before Prohibition) that the illustrious Captain Wollaston sailed up Black’s Creek and discovered Quincy. Why did he discover Quincy, you ask.? Well, he might have been drunk. Upon landing he immedi- ately opened the formal ceremonies of discovery in the conventional manner of all discoverers, but in the midst of these was chased back to his row boat by a tribe of wild and half-baked savages from Hough’s Xeck. One of these Neckers almost scalped the Captain but he fooled ’em, he was bald-headed. “If this is Wollaston,” said the Cap- tain, “I should certainly hate to see West Quincy.” Part II. The Indians were peeved at being dis- covered but finally allowed the Captain to land. What a party they had that night, (music furnished by No-bellic’s Kings of Syncopation) the young braves and papooses (high school flappers) strutted their stuff to the synthetic strains of the sizzling saxophone, while the squaws sat around smoking their wam- pums. Suddenly in the distance was heard the rumbling of a red-hot Ford matricu- lating over the somewhat uneven sur- face of Hancock Street. Miles Standish and his deputies were rapidly approach- ing! Standish arrived, dressed in his cast- iron tuxedo with his pockets full of an- vils. As he stepped into the hall drag- ging a howitzer on a string, he saw a group of savages who had draped them- selves in innocent attitudes around the melodion singing “Home Sweet Home” in close harmony. Others were poring over “The Youths Companion” and various alumnaes, dictionaries, etc., in a most in- terested manner. The rest had appar- ently gone to sleep, and in fact they slept so well and snored so naturally that Miles Standish found himself yawning. “In the name o’ the law I arrest yez all!” shouted he. “Shoot the lights and don’t give your right names,” yelled Captain Wollaston as he prepared to follow a chair through a nearby window. When the Indians were finally appre- hended it was found that two-thirds of them were John Smiths and the rest Joneses, due to the timely advice of the noble Captain Wollaston. •Poetic license. Part III. Captain Wollaston himself would have escaped had not Miles Standish nudged him with a cannon ball from the howitzer at just the physological moment. This, as you may well imagine, made the cap- tain very indignant and he reported the actions of Miles Standish to the authori- ties. The histories have it that Standish was dismissed. He took up his abode on a rhubarb ranch in a certain part of the country known as Weymouth. It is said that he died there from solitary confine- ment. The noble Captain Wollaston bought himself an underslung pipe and went in for politics. As the Indians were not allowed to vote and as he was the only white man present, he elected himself (by a great majority) to the mayorship of Quincy. He, it is said, was the first to take action on the New Quincy High School recently completed after 300 years of revising, readjusting and red tape. For several years things ran fairly well; the captain having a good time and vetoing everything in sight. Then trouble broke out. You see, the Indians suspect- ed him for a cock-eyed radical. So the poor Captain Wollaston; discoverer, founder and first mayor of Quincy, had to impeach himself. •September, 1924. Francis Dahl.

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22 THE GOLDEN-ROD Believest. Thou are noble, yet super- stitious. At the slightest fulfilment of the pro- phecy, You’ll be like the frightened stag at bay. For thee I have labored, sacrificed, and lost.— Now do what you will. Exeunt Lady Macbeth Arthur Dean, ’25. Seventeen Fines It was late afternoon of a hot day in August when a young traveler reached the outskirts of the largest wheat ranch in Minnesota. Four miles of dusty road lay between the lad and the big ranch house belonging to Franklin Bates, which was his destination. Heat and weariness impeded the progress of the young fellow, a boy of scarcely more than fourteen. Before the boy reached the ranch house, night had fallen. Even in the darkness on the broad porch, the keen eyed boy could distinguish Franklin Bates from his secretary. His splendid physique, his erect carriage proclaimed not only the successful business man but the accomplished athlete as well. Approaching the two men, the boy drew off his cap. “May I speak to you a moment, sir:” he asked respectfully. The man frowned slightly as he glanced at the speaker. “If you wish to wait half an hour, till I get back, I will see you,” he said carelessly as he got into the waiting car. Fully an hour later the car rolled up the drive. The boy, who had been sit- ting on the steps, rose as Mr. Bates got out. The man opened the door to his study, motioning the boy to follow, he went in. So intent was the lad on his errand that he hardly noticed the luxuri- ous but severe appointments of the study of America’s great wheat “king.” Bates looked the boy squarely in the face as he said, “I’ll give you five minutes.” “I’m Frank Mason, sir, from Red Hill, Illinois. My mother is the owner of Seventeen Pines. It is the farm that you hold a mortgage on. Mother said that you were going to sell our home. Please don’t do it, sir. Give us another year to “Red Hill,” the man repeated several times. His voice betrayed deep emotion when he spoke. “I remember now. Did you say the name of the place was Sev- enteen Pines:” At the boy’s ned he went on, I’m afraid I’ll have to foreclose. Your mother has not paid any interest for two years. I’m planning to sell to a railroad company.” “Oh, please wait a year or two. I’m going to work this winter. A big boy like me can earn a lot of money—maybe three dollars a week. That would help a lot. Mother said it would,” the earnest voice brought a smile to the man’s lips. Ten minutes passed in silence; the man gazing into the cheery fire playing on the hearth, and the boy looking past the man out of the window. Then the man’s eyes narrowed, a trick he had when he was in deadly earnest. “Do you know Mrs. Henry Adams:” the question was shot at the lad. “Yes, sir,” the boy’s eyes showed his surprise at the turn the subject had taken, “She is my grandmother.” “Your grandmother!” the man stood up breathing hard. “Did she send you to me?” “No, sir, I did not even tell mother because I thought that she would not let me go. I left a note on the table. Do you know my grandmother?” The boy rose too, without in the least knowing why. “I—rather think I—do.” The man’s voice was dry. “I know also your mother —and her—husband. What do you know about your father, lad?” “Very little, sir,” the man had dropped into a chair, but his eyes were looking Continued on Page 3«