Quincy High School - Goldenrod Yearbook (Quincy, MA)

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THE GOLDEN-ROD 17 “Yes,” nodded the other. “It was traced to a bracelet which she bought in some pawn-shop. It seems that the pawn-shop's keeper’s daughter contracted the sickness from the same source. Her husband, a sailor, bought the thing from a leper in the Philippines, only he did not know it, of course. He got it, too.” “Oh,” shuddered the first one, “it is horrible. But we arc well rid of a waning star!” Fright Frightened, I was fairly petrified! At six in the evening it began. My supper included a goed-sized dose of castor oil. Sleep! No sleep for me after that, and besides, groans of all descriptions reached my ears from adjoining rooms. Daylight proved a godsend and, as it grew quieter I dozed to be awakened by the arrival of my breakfast, a cup of black coffee. Then I was clothed in white, even to leggins, my head was completely encom- passed by a white cap, and my face greased with vaseline. Truly, I must have presented a charming sight. Then, there entered a vehicle, a sort of an iron- ing board in wheels and on which they placed me. I thought my days were over, my voice refused to function from sheer fright as down the corridor they rolled me. I entered a room entirely void of furni- ture except for a white screen from behind which I heard metallic sounds. Suddenly my fears mysteriously left me; I sailed along as if on a cloud to enter a delightful oblivion from which I awakened to find I had lost my appendix. Florence H. Brown. iiimiiiiimiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiniii THE SECRET OF THE WILLOW TREE Florence Cushing, F. ’30 See that stately willow yonder Bend her graceful form so low? She is whispering to the fir tree A secret we may never know. Is it of an event that's coining? Or a dream that has come true? O is it of some handsome lover? Oh how I wish we knew. It may be of some unknown sorrow; But no. I'm sure rtis glee For other trees nod happily. They know the secret of the willow tree; Jhcy tried their best to keep it, But it was so full of cheer That it spread throughout the wide world. The joyful tiding, “Spring is here . The Literary Editor wishes to say that the poem “A Friend,” published in the last issue as the work of Alice Harabedian, was written by Frank Dempster Sherman. THE SEA Have you ever been down to the sea. When the tide was running high And swooping above, the gull With his screaming. And the waves dash on the rocks. Throwing the spume and the spray. And the wind is shrieking and whining O’er the mountainous waves of gray? Now there stands the sailor. With his clothes of a dirty gray, But his face is beaming, and his eyes Like the Hashing lighthouse nearby. The sun is down and the clouds arc up, Fading each star in the sky. The sailor is gone in his boat to get A log which has drifted by. A ship stands off to the weather. Plunging her bow in the deep, Her decks are streaming and running, The ropes arc taut to the sheet. The water is green and flecked with foam. The man at the wheel is thinking of home. But rain, sleet or storm nothing can harm Our boy on the water this night. Jack Devlin, |. ’27.

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16 THE GOLDEN-ROD small pasteboard box, wrapped in white paper. “Don't open it until you are ready to go to bed. It may bring you happy dreams. It's the best I’m in a position to do for you. Good night.” The uninvited visitor of Dr. Johnson put the box in his pocket and left the building, presumably in the same manner in which he had entered it. Henry Squire, besides being a pretty good actor, was a thief with imagination. As he hurried through the darkened streets, exciting ideas rushed through his mind. Perhaps in a certain pasteboard box carefully tucked away in his pocket was money—lots of money. The man had probably given him a good sized roll. Hadn’t he said “The best Tin in a position to do for you”: “Guess that poor simp really thought I was dead broke. Same old hard luck story—it always works.” He did not open the box until safe within the seclusion of his third floor flat. Then and there, upon unwrapping his treasure, he learned the full extent of Dr. Johnson’s benevolence. On the box was the following label: Dr. Johnson’s Sneeze Tablets Take two Each Hour The Singer’s Bracelet Josephine Brown Signora Costella, famous opera singer, lolled among the soft cushions of her car, well satisfied with herself. She had just got rid of a formidable rival, and that business of last week, when she had run over and killed a boy, had been satis- factorily cleared up. The car was driven deftly through the east side streets of Xew York. Her des- tination was the pawn shop of Master Diggs. She wondered, lazily, if he had got over his grudge against her yet. for that last time when she bought a valuable string of pearls for one-tenth his price, when his assistant was keeping the shop. As her over-dressed body entered the dark, little shop, a tiny figure looked up blinkingly. Ah—what a smile spread over its face! So, the grudge was for- gotten. “Signora Costella.” said Master Diggs, T have the very thing for you.” All the while he was talking, he was nervously- drawing on a pair of gloves. When from a box he drew out a bracelet. Xo wonder the Signora let out a sigh of rapture. It was an exquisitely chiseled article, with diamonds glowing in a price- less beauty, and rubies, and sapphires complementing them. A faster Diggs named a price. “Oh! it is robbery,” screamed the singer. And so they fought, until finally Signora Costella beat him down to a third of the original price by an unusually easy victory. “It was given to my daughter,” related the man, “by her husband before they were married. He got it in the Philip- pines. They went away today, bound for there and my daughter gave me the brace- let to sell.” More than ever pleased with herself was the Signora Costella as she was driven away in her luxurious car. It was a year later and two theater- goers were talking over the latest star. “My,” from the first one, “she certainly is better than Signora Costella. By the by, what happened to the Signora: She dropped from stardom so suddenly.” “Why, haven’t you heard:” asked the second one. “She was shipped to the leper colony in the Philippines.” “What!” gasped the first. “How? It is such a rare disease.”

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18 THE GOLDEN-ROD A Spring Morning in the Hills Have any of you, having been in the country, risen long before breakfast and gone forth for an early stroll on a spring morning? Perhaps showers have passed during the night and the sun, scarcely risen, looks down upon a world fragrantly clear and still enveloped in the pale blue mist of early dawn. The sky-line, as yet indefinite, merges into the grey-green of the pine forest. Against the faint tint of the sky, the budding trees stand out, every twig a quiver in the morning breeze. Far off on one of the neighboring hill- tops can still be seen a slight trace of snow, but all nature is awake and knows that winter has gone. Even the little temporary rivers form for themselves baby gorges in rushing down to join the already foaming and swollen river. How peaceful it is in the morning! But although the forest lies deep and silent below, the whole world has felt the call of spring. Above the low undeitone of trickling water and gentle breeze, comes the songs of birds, an occasional call of blue jay and crow, while chanticleer, the king of the farmyard, announces in a voice none too soft that the sun is in truth risen again. Up from the valley the damp wind brings odors of moist leaves, pine groves, evergreen, and even a suspicion of arbutus. It will not be long before these promises of beautiful things to come will be a reality and summer will indeed be here. Margaret Hysi.op. In Memoriam I write to you, my friend, in glorious, ecstatic rhapsodies,—my soul in song out- pouring to your memory. You were beautiful, as never mortal man was beautiful. Your eyes burned into my very soul and the sweet cadences of your voice remains in my ears. I remember and keep treasured in my heart every tiny detail of your existence while I knew you. I even remember how you ate, and, alas! I needs must remember your favorite food,—that piece of sweet falsehood that brought you to your destruction. I say now what, never in your lifetime, I dared to say. I worshipped you from afar, with the worship that is fear. I dared not remain in the same room with you, so awful was your presence, and I stood upon a pedestal to let you pass that there might be room and space sufficient for your fairy form to disport itself. W hen you deigned to enter my chamber, I could not sleep; when you were present at my dining-table, I could not eat; and when you sat beside me on the sofa, I humbly removed myself. Such was the awe that your presence inspired within me. If your soul has soared above your grave, freshly-made, at my feet, and can hear and understand this dissertation upon your virtues, then remember me in your immortal life, O—Mouse—that— My—Trap—Has—Caught! Margaret F. Thompson, J. ’28.