Quincy High School - Goldenrod Yearbook (Quincy, MA)

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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.

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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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10 THE GOLDEN-ROD The Reformation of Walter Lord Walter Lord glanced savagely at his wrist-watch. Almost four o’clock! “How much longer before we reach Palm Beach?” he shot at the dusky, in- offensive porter, who was shuffling by his chair on the Pullman. “Pahm Beach?” “Yes, Palm Beach.” “We all gets to Pahm Beach in ’bout three hours naow.” Walter grunted and so the porter left him, gazing at the water-covered window! pane. It had been raining since before he had vacated his narrow berth early in the morning, and the blurred view did not show the Florida swamps to advantage. The rain evidently had dampened his disposition as well as the “Magic State.” He bought a popular magazine and en- deavored to read. Just as he was becom- ing interested in a story, “To be contin- ued,” greeted his eyes. He began a story which was rather “dry,” so he placed the periodical aside. He gazed absent mind- edly at the different occupants of the car, and then at the odd pattern of the sombre rug. He had left New York on the previous daw opposing his father’s wishes. His father, Arthur T. Lord, a figure of eminence on the “Exchange,” was opu- lent to such an extent that he owned a stately mansion on Riverside Drive, and a beautiful summer home on Long Island, with grounds many acres in extent. Walter’s mother had died eighteen years before when he was but an infant. His “old man,” as he called his father, had given him everything he desired, and the inevitable occurred. He had a yacht and two cars. His chief interests in life were to loaf, play golf and go yachting. He had left New York to see Florida, and his impressions thus far were not to his liking. But even the longest three hours must pass, and these three were no exception, as was proved when an cbony-hued “Sony of the Jungle” announced, “Pahm Beach” with the usual southern drawl. When Walter alighted, everything was dripping from the recent rain which had ceased by this time. Taking one of his two grips in either hand and his golf sticks under his arm, he stepped into the “Ponce de Leon” bus. As the bus drew away from the curb he noticed the wide, smooth, palm-bordered avenues, and the low, Spanish type residences with pic- turesque, vari-colored tile roofs. The houses were now illuminated as it was after half past seven. How different from New York! How much more peaceful! When he finally arrived at the hotel it was all aglow with luxuriant splendor. The polite clerk at the huge marble desk assigned Walter to a large room on the third floor for thirty dollars a day. After paying in advance for a week, a “bellhop” took the luggage and led him to room 337. As Walter leisurely crossed the spa- cious lobby on his way to the dining room later that night, he brushed by a well- dressed man who deftly obtained the leather wallet from Walter’s pocket. At the conclusion of an expensive sup- per, the waiter handed him the bill. Wal- ter calmly placed his hand in his back pocket, but no wallet. A frantic search through all his pockets, then another and slower search, and finally the unwelcome realization that he had been “fleeced.” “I’ve been robbed!” he exclaimed wildly. The next day he pawned his watch, with the proceeds of which he paid for supper the previous evening, and sent many urgent telegrams to his father ask- ing for money. Mr. Lord, Sr., was busy in his office at three o’clock that afternoon looking at some reports when his well-paid office boy entered with an envelope in his hand. “Telegram from Western Union.” “Bring it here.” Arthur Lord opened it and read: “Arthur T. Lord 43 Wall Street N. Y., N. Y. Have been robbed. Need two thou- sand dollars at once. Send to me care