Quincy High School - Goldenrod Yearbook (Quincy, MA)

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THE GOLDEN-ROD 9 We often see longer flashes which are caused by the trombone player who pushes and pulls all the while. We re- ceive all the wind that is used up in the playing of the great horns. Each player has a portion of dark sky for his music sheet and writes his own notes with a colorless ink, which shows up quite plainly on the dark sheet. Having played a certain piece of music each player takes a convenient cloud, wipes off these liquid notes, and wrings his cloud; we receive a shower of notes each time the band plays. When the band passes by the last thing we hear is the farewell rumble of the drums in the distance. HOMEWORK Doris Scott, J.’28 I wonder if any of the teachers in Quincy High School, or any school, ever think of the hard work and the long hours we poor unfortunate students have to go through with day after day? Home- work and then more homework! Nearly every night it is the same old story; once in a while I manage it in the afternoon so I can have the night free, but the usual routine is this; Supper, dishes, and then homework; no rest, mind you, be- tween any of them. The tirst question is how and where to start. As usual there is bookeeping, shorthand, English, and history. (It's funny some brilliant person doesn’t think of letting us have the privilege of carry- ing home a typewriter in order to prac- tice a few hours each evening on type- writing.) The first thing to be done is the easiest and quickest; we must always save our thoughts for the hard studies, history and English, for instance. The other subjects follow in rapid succes- sion. When everything is all finished, sleep is not far away (neither is morn- ing), still if a person tries to stifle a yawn in school, the teacher is bound to make a remark about going to bed early and getting some sleep for a change. After sitting about five minutes try- ing to straighten my back, I make a trip to the pantry and end a very delightful evening. Of course, next morning I have a table full of books, scrap papers, ink- bottles, and pencils, and pens, to greet me as a faint reminder of the night before. At «S.15 school starts for another day, and at the beginning of each period my hard work of the night before is collected and more work assigned. It’s the same old story, day after day; just as an animal at a treadmill, we are kept going all the time. Trying to Study Clementine Edwards, J.’28 My heart is not here upon my work; I’ve tried, but I can not study. I see the pages, I read the words, But it all seems very muddy. I’m thinking of everything but my work, I'm away in a far off land, I'm wandering the fields, I’m dreaming dreams, Instead of trying to understand. But wouldn’t you rather dream, I ask, Than study a dry old book? So I think and dream of summer days As I sit in my favorite nook. Raggedy Ann Florence White, J.’28 1 Her eyes are bright and sparkling, The color's a delightful tan; She’s not very good at talking, But she can make you understand. 2 Her hair is short and curly, A shiny golden brown; Her teeth are lustrous and pearly. And perfect all around. 3 Her step is light and dainty; She can beg and please a man; She speaks for things,—not faintly, She’s an Airdale—is Raggedy Ann.

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8 THE GOLDEN-ROD L’lL ROLLO Charles Baker, J.’29 “H’mmp! A story for that school paper, eh?” “Sure, Uncle Zed,” I said, “you al- ways said you could lie faster, oftener, and more plausibly than anyone else in Quincy, didn't you ?” “Wal, I reckon I did, an’ easier an’ about more things, too. I got a great scope, I have. Wot’ll I tell about?” “Oh, anything. Some more about your pal from the West.” “My ol podner, Windy Rivers? Thuh fellah as was a great animal trainer?” I scented a story. “Go on; Windy couldn’t train animals!” “He couldn’t, eh? Wal you jus’ listen here, young felluh, an I’ll tell you how I found it out. Yuh see I hadn’t seen Windy fer a long time, so when I come across him a-rollin’ a hoop all over his dooryard, I thought he’d jus’ natcherlly gone loco.” “‘Hey, Windy!’” I yells, “‘S’mat- ter?’ ” “ ‘Oh,’ ” he calls back, “ ‘I’m just giv- in’ l’il Rollo a airin.’ ” “ ‘Kinda crazy answer,’ ” thinks I. “But when I gets closer I sees it’s a hoopsnakc. The snake rolls up into a hoop, takin’ its tail in its mouth an’ Windy does his stuff.” “ ‘I calls him Rollo ’cause he rolls,’ ” explains Windy. “An’ a right nice little felluh Rollo was, too. Smart, an’ lovin’, an’ all. I doan’ mean p’raps, nuther, ’bout that there ‘smart. W’y, after I set up my shack near Windy’s, he’d carry messages back an’ forth. Windy’d tell him suthin’ tuh tell me an’, b’gosh, he’d come over an twist his-self intuh letters an’ spell it out on thuh cabin floor. Uh course he lost track once in a while on long words an’ then he’d do X’s all over the floor’ tuh show he’d made a mistake, an’ begin again. Thuh only real trouble he ever had, though, was one time when he near bruk his back on ‘Czechoslovakia.’ ” “An’ strong an’ fast! I’ve seen Windy win many a tenner by havin’ Rollo tow a canoe downstream faster’n a man could paddle one!” “What finally became of him?” “Wal,” said Uncle Zed, sadly wiping his eyes, “I tol’ you he were a lovin’ l’il critter, an’ he were right fond of a young blacksnake, as purty an’ cute a l’il thing, she was, as ever I laid eyes on. An’ one day she ran off with a low-life rat- tlesnake, an’ poor l’il Rollo jus’ naturally up an’ died of a broken heart.” A THUNDERSTORM Esther Lindberg, F.’29 Did it ever occur to you that what we commonly call a thunderstorm is really the playing of the brass band of the angels? The band parades across the sky often in summer, but never in winter as it is too cold for the players. The distant rumbles of the bass drums announce the coming of the band. We cannot see these players as we look up toward the sky, but we can see the flash of their instruments as they march along.

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10 THE GOLDEN-ROD To the Golden Rod Doris Bohanan, F.’29 Oh Goldcnrod—you artful pest, You make us work with toilful zest. You make us wrinkle up our brows And twist our features into frowns; Causing us to scratch our head For inspirations almost dead. Then when we’ve written something rare It’s handed back with best of care. On each one—sometimes—a mark nuitc fine As if to sooth and ease our mind, But inwardly, we wonder why Such splendid talent is passed by. Oh, Goldcnrod, you surely aim To be worthy of a Quincy name. CONFESSIONS OF A TRAVELER Elsie Eagle, J.’28 1 am a girl, I must confess, who likes to travel. Are you that kind of a girl ? Do you sit and dream of a majestic steamer plowing her way to another world, with you aboard ? I do! Can you sit on the deck, watching the clouds and the sky, with not a care in the world? I can! Or have you plodded along on a queer little donkey at the Grand Can- yon as T have? Why, I ride in a gon- dola every time I visit Venice. Do you? I can even turn all France, England, and Spain upside down and still find time to roam the Orient. Can you ? Yes, I’ve scaled the Alps in record time, And even sailed right down the Rhine, Ah, I’ve traveled miles just in my mind—have you? ECHOES FROM THE WAVES William Paterson, J.’29 It was a warm summer’s day, the third of June, in the year 1914. My mother and I sailed from Boston on board the “Pretorian” for Glasgow, Scotland. The weather was ideal for sailing, and we en- joyed the trip thoroughly. During the day we had our deck chairs placed in comfortable positions, and the deck stew- ards saw that all were wrapped in their robes. We spent the time in reading and conversing with the other passengers, for all are like one large family on board ship. During the day we also played shuffle board and ringers on the deck. At night we sang and danced and listened to concerts, in the music room. On Sun- day morning religious services were held. We sighted a French fishing fleet at work. The ship slowed up and a small boat from the fleet drew along side. Two buckets were hoisted aboard. One of them contained mail to be brought to Europe, the other some fish for the cap- tain. We continued on the journey, sighting one or two steamers at a dis- tance. We passed two enormous icebergs but kept at a respectable distance, and the captain said he “would be glad to be some distance out of their course before darkness settled down.” We arrived safely at Glasgow nine days later. We were having a delightful holiday with my grandparents, when the war broke out, cutting our visit short. We thought it best to get back to the United States before America should enter the war. At that time no one knew what a day would bring forth. Well, it was one thing saying, “we’ll go back,” but it was altogether another thing to try to get back. We booked on several ships, but the Government stepped in before each sailing and took over the ships for transports. We finally booked on the “Sardivian.” The name certainly fitted the ship, because it was a small, old ‘tub’ about the size of a good sized sailing yacht. The captain tried to make us feel happy by telling us that she had been a first class boat forty years ago, and that Royalty had sailed aboard her at one time. However, that did not help us any when we ran into boisterous weather and a raging sea. The so-called boat was rocking and swaying first on the crest of a wave, then with a sudden rush into the trough. The captain said that she was a good submarine. She went under at Mo- ville, Ireland, and came up at Cape Race,