Quincy High School - Goldenrod Yearbook (Quincy, MA)

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THE GOLDEN-ROD 17 stand here talking all day. I will see you again when I have more news to impart.” Then Miss Gossip sighed and left Mr. Like, with a feeling that she had done her duty. “Oh, that woman! She is just like her spinster sister, Miss Trouble. Forever gabbing away. Well, I guess we all have to stand it. But I must hurry now or they will give Mr. As my seat at the dinner table. They forget that I exist once in a while.” Hazel Daiilberg, F. ’28. JOHN DORE’S DECISION Vacation lime had come at last, “So,” said John Dorc, 'i'll away To the sweet quiet country, mid green fields and farms To rest me and also to play.” So packing his bag he gaily set forth 'Till he came to a farmer called Booth. “Say, Silas,’’ he called, “Pray what may I do, To partake of a long needed rest ’ncath your roof?” “Wai my boy.” quoth the farmer, “Your work will be light. You rise when I call you At dawn's first faint sight! You go to the cow barns And milk sixteen bossies, Then haste to the stables With oats for the hossiesT “And then, by crackic, when breakfast is done, Down to the meadows to help mow the hay. You then feed the chickens, you gather the eggs, And again after dinner—I say “ When you finish the mowing, There’s the garden to weed, And cut the asparagus A’forc it can seed! ' ”’ Your day's work then is over, The whole evening is yours. You must get to bed early. As each day brings its chores! “You’ll always sleep soundly On our best corn-cob bed And if the skects bother, Just cover your head.” “Well, thinking it over I feel.’’ said John Dorc “Instead of the country I’ll go to the shore.” M. MacBurnie, F. ’27. FOURTH PERIOD My mind is in a state of worry, As into 213 1 hurry; For there I’m greeted with a look That makes me hide behind a book. That teacher’s voice gives me a scare, And makes me long to grab the air. I never know what she’ll say next, So hurriedly I scan my text. But if I gave a theorem right— T’would make Miss Wilson’s hair turn white. And what a dreadful thing t’would be To have that mishap blamed on me. I never fail to come to grief, But in the bell I find relief. The worst is yet to come I say And it surely does the very next day. E. E. A, June, ’28. AFTERNOON SESSION My mind fn till a daze, As I wonder in a haze, What ever shall I do, Before the clock strikes two, To answer that bothersome question, How to skip afternoon session? It is so dreadfully unfair, To think of keeping me there. I wonder if she’d let me zcl If I but told her so As I can make up no false confession, Here goes for afternoon session. Catherine Smyth, F. ’29 THOMAS’ LOVE POEM I hate to think of the dark, old world This earth was every day Before I found your glowing love To chase the gloom away. Though thousands sought you too, dear, Your soul aflame and bright, God left you there for me, dear, The first electric light. Elvira L. Harlow, J ’27.

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16 THE GOLDEN-ROD The Dancer The curtain rose, slowly, majestically, and in a blaze of light the audience saw Narice, the dancer. She stood in the center of the stage, swaying to the gentle rhythm of the music. Her slender body was robed in shimmering gold; trailing wisps of golden gossamer hung from her beautiful arms; her little feet were en- cased in golden slippers, and on her hair was a coronet of pearls. She was like a sunbean—almost too dazzling for the eye to follow; like a fairy—so slim, so dainty, so gracefully lovely. Her face was so exquisite as to be almost ethereal. A pale, oval face it was, with dark luminous eyes, and red lips parted in a bewitching smile. The audience broke into tumultu- ous applause. Suddenly she bent forward, poised on her toes, and flitted across the stage, whirling in a mad ecstasy of dance. The spectators watched her with bated breath. She was like the flashing of morning sun- light upon the water. Now she darted swiftly; she twirled round and round on her toes; and the spotlight, playing upon her, made her gown seem now lavender, now pale green, now blue, like a summer sea. When she had swirled and swirled, finally falling gracefully to the floor, the audience' clapped enthusiastically in trib- ute to Xarice, the dancer. Betty Wells, F. ’28. Inmates of a Dictionary “Hello, Mr. The. How are you faring in your old age?” “Well, now, Miss Gossip, for an old man who is used to the world, I’m not so bad, because, you see, those who use me, use me well. Here comes Mr. Like.” “Poor Mr. Like! So many people abuse him,” sympathized Miss Gossip. “Have you met Miss Camouflage, Mr. Like?” “Why, yes, I have heard something about her, Miss Gossip. She is one of our new tenants, isn’t she?” “Yes, she is, she began to live here dur- ing the war,” answered Miss Gossip knowingly. “I wonder how Miss Their and Mr. There are today? They are for- ever quarreling with one another. But come, we must congratulate Mrs. and Mr. Should-Would on the birth of their twins, Shall and Will. They are so much alike that many people get them confused. They put Shall in Will’s place, and Will in Shall’s place. Oh, and have you heard that Mr. Wary and Miss Shy have an- nounced their engagement? They are really a good match, because they are so much alike. They have so many things in common. They don’t seem a bit like Miss Irritate and Mr. Annoy, do they? Oh, yes! I almost forgot to tell you that Mr. Roisterer has been sentenced to the House of Correction again. I wonder if he will ever learn to behave. His brother, Mr. Polite, is so different from him, too. It does seem such a shame. But, of course, there must be one black sheep in the family. As I have begun to tell you some news, Mr. Like, I may as well tell you all I have heard. Do you remember Miss Better, who used to live with us? Well, that hussy is now an actress. She calls herself Miss Best now. She thinks that she has reached the highest summit in film fame that any person has ever attained. She always was conceited, any- way. I abhor talking about anyone, but don’t you think that Mr. Quite is getting rather weak? His relatives, Mr. Wholly and Mrs. Entirely, treat him so badly. He gets so confused that he doesn’t know where he belongs at times. But we mustn’t

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18 THE GOLDEN-ROD BRINGING UP FATHER THE PRISONER’S SONG Father put the kettle on. Father light the fire. Father go and chop some wood. And fix on that new tire. For we are going shopping, And while we arc away, “Just keep the home-fire burning,” You've a lot to do today. The roof is needing some repairs, The rain is coming through. The chair that’s in the kitchen Is needing fixing too. And don’t forget to feed the dog, Canary, and the cat, And remember overfeeding them Will make them rather fat. Now father, we will need some cash, You know you’re getting mean. This dress and hat I’m wearing now Are not fit to be seen Polly needs some stockings, Some shoes, and winter coat. Father gave a groan and You surely get my goat.’ Now father all you’ve got Is pay up and look happy Cj And please don’t keep us waiting. Step on it. make it snappy. ‘They’re off at last thank heaven!” And father gives a groan, As he proceeds to feed the cat. And give the dog a bone. He looks dolefully out of the window. And the thoughts that he dreamily weaves. Are thoughts of the day when the term expires, And the day when he freely leaves. The bell on the wall rings loudly. And he rises from his seat. He labors long and vigorously. Till at noon he stops to eat. A scanty luncheon it is he eats. For he has to wait in line. And he’s just beginning when the time is up And while working he cannot dine. At dusk the prisoners leave their work. And stagger home in pairs. And they’re guarded though they stumble thus, By officers on the stairs. Such is the life of a prisoner -- The bell on the wall riffgs his knell. The prisoner's only a high school boy. The school is his prison cell. W. McCoxarty. F. '28 A SUMMER’S NIGHT Bobixa Purdox. F. ’28 THE FLIGHT OF THE ROBINS One morning in the early fall, I heard a robin briskly call His fellow robins, to convene, Their plans to lay, to leave the scene Of their past summer’s busy life, Of work or play, perhaps of strife. In droves they came to the tall tree. At his command peremptory. They chattered noisily a while, Then seemed to form in rank and file, Then all at once appeared to rise. Like a black cloud to mount the skies And soar away to pleasant lands. Ere winter comes with icy hands. 'Tis hard to describe the sunset. With its wonderful golden light: Or tell of the fleeting minutes. In the soft sweet summer nigl J As the sun in its blaze of splendo Sinks slowly beyond the hill. Reflecting its glorious beauty. In the pond behind the mill. C ? We all have seen such pictures. And its beauty none can deny. But give me the quiet beauty Of the summer's midnight sky. The twinkling stars in the heaven. The soft cool breeze, newly bom. Which rustles the leaves in the hilltop. And dies away with the dawn. We love the golden sunshine. And glory in its light: But real beauty comes in the silver Of the moon on a summer's night. . Blaxche Savage, Feb. ’29. M. MacBurxie. F. '27.