Quincy High School - Goldenrod Yearbook (Quincy, MA)

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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.

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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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THE GOLDEN-ROD 19 Mental Attics This title opened for me a new line of meditation, a fresh vista lined with ideas to the extent that the back of our minds, where old relics of thought, half-forgotten ideals and queer fancies lie hidden, is very like to the attic of our home. If we were to investigate that little store-room of our mind, as we did the garret, I am sure we would find as many interesting things. In fact, I think we often do un- lock the door of that dim little place, searching out remembrances of our child- hood, and clothing ourselves, even as we used to “dress up” in mother’s old gowns, with reflections of almost forgotten good times, or the dreams we used to dream. And once we do enter our “mental attic,” it is hard to tear ourselves away. What amazingly strange thoughts we find concealed there! They need not be only remembrances; as surely as there is something besides antiques in mother’s attic, such as clothes stored for the sum- mer, there are ideas in the back of our mind which we have placed there until we need them again. In summer, our winter thoughts, like our woolen dresses, are stored away until we return from our vacation and must bring forth our knowl- edge of Latin and Math. Into the very dark, musty corners we have shoved stray notions, or secret am- bitions which are for no one’s eyes but our own, and there, quite often, we stumble on the memory of an old ac- quaintance, which, during the years has been pushed farther and farther into the recesses of our minds. Only the other day there emerged from somewhere among the rafters of my mind a face which I could not place. Finally, after rooting deep into that cubby hole, I found the name which belonged to it. So you see how valuable such a little attic is. After this I shall consider care- fully before throwing my thoughts away, for if I just tuck them into that store- room I may often find use for them. Of course as we grow older our mental attics will grow larger and more cluttered, even more fascinating treasure houses than now, so, to enjoy old age, we will have to work hard and pack the place to the very ceiling with good times and worthy thoughts. Miriam Carr, J. ’27. imiiiiHmiiiiiiMiiiiiiiiiiiiHMiiiiiMimmuimiiHiiiimiimiiiiiiiimiiiimimniMiiii SPRING Dirce A. Tamborini, J. ’28 Across the sky the soft winds blow That quickly melt the cold and snow. The rain that beats against the pane Tells you that spring will come again. All work is done with a right good will In the mill, in the valley, the forge on the hill. While the birds, in the meadow, and the forests are singing. The blacksmith keeps time with his big hammer swinging. The last fleeting snowstorm wc greet with a cheer. For wc know that the good brown earth will appear. Skates, toboggans, and sleds arc packed out of sight; Wc lay them aside, with a smile Good Night.” A CRY FROM THE HEART Priscilla Morse, J. ’27 Wish I could write a poem, Wish I could sing a song. Wish I knew how to draw. Wish I never did things wrong. Wish I had Helen’s looks. Wish I could dance a bit. Wish I could plunk a uke. Wish my themes would make a hit. Like Holmes, you see. my wants arc few l m easily contented. Oh. grant me just these gifts I ask;— No more will be presented. Priscilla Morse, J. ’27.