Quincy High School - Goldenrod Yearbook (Quincy, MA)

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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.

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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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