Quincy High School - Goldenrod Yearbook (Quincy, MA)

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8 THE GOLDEN-ROD upon a gaily cavorting insect climbing up a part in the hair of a fellow sufferer and actually wish to become one myself. How easily the gentle fly doth leap both in and out the windows on examination day. Yes. the suspense is heartrending but, after all, we must go to college and, if we are determined on this point, we may as well be determined to take the examinations and pass them successfully, if possible. College examinations are hard but helpful. Paul Reardon, June, ‘27. BUMMING RIDES The dangerous practice of bumming rides, which is being indulged in by some of the pupils of Senior High, is indeed serious and entirely unnecessary. We have good car service to every part of our city. Why bother the busy motorist? A recent statement by the American Auto- mobile Association, which is urging a nation-wide campaign to end this ride bumming, says that hundreds of accidents are caused by this selfsame practice, and urges our parents to discourage this habit. Is this action necessary? Yes. We at Quincy High School can end the practice ourselves. A recent accident at Riverhead, L. I. has just made the most substantial contribution to this campaign. Two children were given a lift by a chauffeur and shortly afterward the car was demolished, the driver killed and the children seriously injured. If we all will remember that standing in the street or on the curb is dangerous and that in beg- ging rides one takes a big chance, there will be little cause of complaint in the future. F. I. SEEK YE PEACE? AUTUMN IS HERE Come where the sea wind howls, Where the raging breakers roar. Where the sea-gulls scream And the sunset gleam Is gilding the rocky shore. In the old brick chimney. Voices wierd and shrill Whisper to each other When all else is still. There where chaos is reigning. Where wind and sea are at strife. Your heart will find peace And glad release From the bitter struggle of life. By “Izzy,” ’27. It is raining, drip, drop. Splashing little plops upon the pavement. Drip, drop, like the tick, tock of my clock Always dripping, never changing Like the chirp, chirp of a cricket. The deadly monotone of rain Dripping, dropping (j Makes my heart Knock, knock, Like the heavy clop, clop Of horses’ hoofs on cobblestones Drizzly dripping, dreary rain. Won’t you stop your plip, plop Before my brain goes flip, flop? By ‘ Izzy,” ’27. Little leaves arc tapping ’Gainst the window pane. Something seems to tell us, Autumn’s here again. All the little tinted leaves, Dressed in every hue, Some in brown and yellow, Some in scarlet, too— When their task is over Go to rest their heads, On the little pillows, In their tiny beds. Soon the hand of Winter, Comes to tuck them in. And before we know it. Autumn’s gone again. Myrtle Richards.

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THE GOLDEN-ROD 7 OUR ADVERTISERS The Golden Rod has a substantial list of advertisers and yearly the question comes to us, ‘‘Does it pay to advertise in your quarterly?” The answer is always in the affirmative, for the majority of the pupils patronize those merchants who ad- vertise in the Golden Rod. In some cases High School classes have sent out of town for purchases because of the better sam- ples and more reasonable terms submit- ted by other firms. Quincy merchants help support our school magazine and we, in turn, should give them our business to show confidence in their work. Give them a fair chance, even a slight preference, and they will stand behind us in school enterprises. Trade in Quincy! F. I. RIDING THE WAVES “There is a tide in the affairs of men which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune,” said Will Shakespeare. So say we all, but, as Shakespeare was the first one to say it, he receives the credit. But do we all heed Shakespeare’s wise words? No, a glance at the annual college exam- ination returns will assure anyone of that. Year after year, thousands of high school students watch the “tide” go by unheed- ed, and then when thoughts of college stir them to action they find that the “tide” has gone by so far that it’s no use. Now is the time for Sophomores and Juniors to grasp the educational advantages and opportunities that are flowing their way. “Grasp them,” we say, for the opportu- nities which now arc flowing to you will just as surely recede when you reject them, and a great deal of their value will be lost. Study hard, do diligently the homework assigned, retain all that the teachers give you, and you will ride on the crest of the waves on or near the honor roll. Seniors, whether you have grasped by-gone opportunities or not, now is the time to work with a will and partially, at least, offset those that have escaped you. If you have studied dili- gently in grammar school and the past high school years, the Senior year, the last “tack” on the course, will not be very hard for you—of course, you don’t know that, but “the saddest part of it is that you’ve been on the toboggan a long time before you realize it.” The courses may seen long and hard, but before long you will find that you are in the “home stretch,” riding in on the “flood tide” which has been accumu- lating all these years. Then in the clos- ing chapters of your high school career— the final months of the Senior year—isn’t it a great feeling to know that you have taken the tide at its proper time and in the proper way; to know that college examinations hold no fear and that there is no need of last minute studying! That is the reward for utilizing high school years to advantage, and it’s well worth it. Let’s go Sophomores, Juniors, and Seniors—boost the Honor Roll and Col- lege Examinations. Gordon Peterson. June, ’27. COLLEGE EXAMINATIONS Mental quagmires! Banes of life! Towering doom! Inevitable destiny! College Examinations! The boy in the second scat will please tell me why these expressions arc synonymous. It has been my fate to go through oper- ations, crises, climaxes, and college exam- inations, and I would rather sniff the ether once more than inhale the examina- tions again. Imagine, if you dare, the birds flying hither and thither, the frog calling lightly to its mate in the fields below, the leaves of the trees already half-green in their endeavor to enter summer with success, the flies buzzing merrily around a room where one proctor and fifteen students, or I might say, aspiring collegiates are ar- ranged in checkerboard fashion in seats not the most comfortable in the world. Picture, if you can, the interior work- ings of the cerebra contained in the heads of these poor subjects, gladiators with algebra, huntsmen of English. I have squirmed in the torture chains of learning and know how it is to gaze

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The Morning Marathon Human nature’s a funny thing. I come to this conclusion about 8.00 A. M. every morning. I’ve seen Nurmi and DeMar, the Quincy High cross-country team, and many other track men, but give me my morning marathon to which no other can be compared. I refer to the daily race at 7.55. From my hall window I can sur- vey both up and down Hancock street, and also across this broad and noble thoroughfare to the stretch of concrete walk lying between Dimmock and Savillc streets. Upon this walk I rest my eye at 7.53 sharp each morning and wait, but then I do not have to wait very long. Oh no, inside of two minutes my race begins. I hear the long blast from the whistle of the 7.55 at Quincy Adams, and then I look towards Dimmock street. What is this I see comir.g down Adams street? Oh yes, yes, I know who it is. May I introduce you to Mr. Snow, drum major of my marathon. As you see, Mr. Snow is young, wiry, and lithe, and does not give me much pleasure as he is a grace- ful runner. But who follows him? No one but Annie White, the fat girl. Puff- ing and wheezing up the course, she shows that she holds her own against the ever-gaining weight. She labors in some drug store in the big city. As she waddles stationwards one cannot help but think that Annie must work on a counter, as she’d surely overcrowd a change booth. Aha, here they come. Old Mr. MacFar- lane has the lead this morning. He’s running better than usual. Fie must have had grapefruit for breakfast. And prim Miss Green warms a path down Dimmock street. I wonder who’ll reach the side- walk first. Go it, Miss Green, you’ve got my best wishes. Oh, who might that be crossing the street with the child as bal- last? Some housekeeper heading for the sale on Ivory soap at Flovey’s, most likely, Well, I’ll let her go if she keeps out of my race. I perceive that Mr. Jenkins is doing the hop, skip, and jump over his fence on Adams street. He’s very late. He’s due for third place, I’m afraid. Say, do you notice Miss Green’s stride ? nd Mr. MacFarlanc is right behind her. Now if that shopper will only keep out of the path! Oh, I knew it! If Junior had blown his nose before he started he wouldn’t have had to have his mother do it now. As she stops, Miss Green is cata- pulted over both of them to the amaze- ment of all three, and Mr. MacFarlanc takes the lead across the auto park. He wins today. Look at them come now! There arc about twenty of them coming out of all the side streets. There is going to be a smash! There is! I see Mr. Perry attempting to rescue himself from the passionate embraces of Mother Earth. That slim girl in the slicker weaving her way in and out of the competitors is Maizie White, and she is certainly show- ing a muddy pair of rubbers to the rest of them. The train is at the station. They’re going like mad! They round the corner! They’ve made it! The train is starting and who’s this lover of good living com- ing into view? None other than Bill Jones. Late again this morning, but Bill vies with Lancelot in not being like the rest of men. You sec, Bill carries 285 pounds with him wherever he goes, and that dis- qualifies Bill. But his method is sensible. He waits for the 7.59 while the others get heart trouble trailing the 7.55. Say, but isn’t human nature a funny thing? Paul Reardon.