Quincy High School - Goldenrod Yearbook (Quincy, MA)

Page 10 text:

8 THE GOLDEN-ROD SAD TALE OF THE ANCIENT PROSPECTOR Stuart Buck, F.’29 There were nine of us seated about the fire on that bleak November eve, back in the year 18—. The flames in the hearth were crackling merrily, as flames will; and the smoke from our various pipes was so thick that—to coin the expression —one could actually cut it with a knife. No one spoke. In fact, we were all silent —each man deeply engrossed in his own particular thoughts of days long gone by. Outside, the wind shrieked and whistled; and, ever and anon, the shutters of our lonely cabin crashed and banged with an ominous thud against the thick wooden sides. This dull, but insistent pounding, seemingly at our very door, suggested to my imaginative mind the weak and futile knockings of some pitiful creature, ex- hausted of all his resources — weakly imploring our attention with his faltering fist. At the threshold of our shelter I could vividly picture a white, drawn face with hopeless, staring eyes; and for a moment could barely restrain myself from leaping across the room with a bound to fling wide the door and reveal what horror might be crouching outside. Suddenly someone stirred uneasily— thereby breaking the tension somewhat— and, after what seemed to be a moment of hesitation, asked in the harsh, cracked voice of someone who has not spoken for some time, “If somebody couldn’t tell us a story or something to pass the time away ?” Through the blue-gray haze of tobacco smoke I seemed to sec every figure in the little room stiffen toward him at once, as though he had committed some great sacrilege in breaking in upon our reveries so abruptly; and no one obliged at first; but finally, after what seemed to be many minutes of deadly silence, the angular figure of the eldest of our band unwound itself slowly, and, with an introductory “Ahem,” he began to speak in a reminis- cent sort of a tone, stroking his thick, stubby growth of a beard all the while and puffing dreamily at his corn-cob pipe. “Boys,” he said, “do you know, this night with the wind, and storm, and everything, makes me think, somehow or other, of another night like it that I spent (under somewhat different circumstances, however), many, many miles from here. As some of you know, I was, at one time in my career, a prospector for that elusive mineral, gold; and, in the quest of it, have hiked and tramped many a long, weary mile over deserts and val- leys, and sometimes along the rails like an ordinary tramp. At one time, I was connected in a professional sort of a way with another would-be goldcr, an- swering, as a rule, to the name of ‘Red Pete,’ not a bad sort, you know, al- though addicted, in his weak-willed sort of a way, to frequent intercourses with a gurgling flask which he carried about in his hip-pocket. “Well, on the night I was speaking of, Red and I were hiking along the rails in a great flurry or hurry or something, for some reason or other that I don’t seem to remember, to reach the next turn before morning. It was an exceptionally dark, black night, too; not a star in sight and the moon was well, among the missing. And to cap the climax, Red had to pick this occasion to become incapacitated to such an extent that it was by dint of main strength that I maintained by good influ- ence in keeping him in the straight and narrow path, and it was all of that. In fact, to tell the pure and unadulterated truth, we couldn’t see a blamed thing for two feet ahead of us—couldn’t, at least; Red wasn’t caring very much just then whether he saw anything or not. “Well, anyways, we were stumbling along like this, when all of a sudden we came to one of those big railroad bridges or trestles that they have out West over the canyons—some of ’em hundreds of feet deep, too.

Page 9 text:

THE GOLDEN-ROD 7 POETRY FOOTSTEPS Kenneth Ayres, J.’30 Footsteps walking up above. And I try to study on! Footsteps thumping up above. And mv work is yet not done! Footsteps stalking up above, And my nerves arc nearly gone! Footsteps bumping up above. And kind thoughts I have not one! Stumping, tumping, stamping, tamping,— Clamping on the floor above. Footsteps knocking out the time. And my cars with rhythm ring! Footsteps mocking at the time, And my brains can’t think a thing! Footsteps rocking out the time, And my thoughts arc shorn of wings. Footsteps clocking out the time, On my head they cling and sing! Clumping, jumping, racking, tacking,— Hacking at the time above. Footsteps clacking o’er my head, And my muscles tighten sore. Footsteps ramping o’er my head, And they rise into a roar. Footsteps slacking o’er my head, And that beat is slowing more. Footsteps tramping o’er my head, Tapping, rapping slapping bore. Lagging, dragging, slopping, stopping,— Peaceful now the feet above. DAWN Jean Turnbull, F.’30 The shadows of the night soon fade away. The stars yield to proclaim the birth of day. And from the eastern sky a rosy hue Rises and spreads to mingle with the blue. Then grows the light, the world has opc’d her eyes— To lie and bask in radiance from the skies. The world is full of sunshine; the mists arc gone; Supreme in all her splendor gleams forth the Dawn. NATURES VOICE Evangeline Zinck, June, 1929 When night arises from the hills And wraps her cloak of mystery about the world, And flings a scattering spray of star-dust Into the eyes of a faintly yawning sky, And presses a cool hand on the feverish brow of earth— When I behold an arc of rainbow In the sky, Like a lady’s many colored Chiffon scarf Hung out to dry— Or hear the patter of raindrops On the parched roof of a gabled house— I hear Nature’s voice singing— Singing of hope, of joy, of youth— I hear the voice of God, Great Dicty. Marjorie Hill, June, 1930 I like the twilight— Nothing to do; nothing to say; The gentle shading between night and day. I like the twilight— Blue mulling around With a murmuring sound. I like the twilight— I lie motionless In the hushed quietness. . . I’m lazy, I guess. FATE Muriel Castleman, June, 1930 A calm-eyed cockroach crouches low, Upon my slooping window sill; He heeds not whether friend or foe, Doth seek for purpose him to kill. Now suddenly he turns around, Espying me, the window grips, He starts to move without a sound, Nor docs he falter, halt, or slip. Alas! Alas for my dear friend, Who tried the gods of chance to cheat, He could not dodge the bitter end. I crushed him dead beneath my feet.

Page 11 text:

THE GOLDEN-ROD 9 “Course I didn’t know anything about it at first until—well, just listen! “All of a sudden, I felt a mighty tug on iny left foot, and if I hadn’t (with great presence of mind) of pitched for- ward and grasped hold of one of the sleepers, I might have tumbled off for a few hundred feet to my death, or worse. I was startled, to say the least, and as soon as I had made secure my grip, I began to look solicitously about for Red. “I found him at last, his pale face peer- ing up out of the darkness below, where he was hanging by one hand to my foot. Imagine that! He had stumbled off the trestle, of course, and by a truly mar- velous piece of luck, had managed to cling to my pedal-extremity in falling. It saved him, too; but, well, it nearly fin- ished me, and so it was with very little ceremony and some degree of impatience that I hoisted him up and rolled him in a heap between the rails. He was some shaken, believe me, and it was quite a while before I could get him to stir an inch. I do believe that the shock had sobered him up a bit. Well, anyways, with some persuasion, he finally arrived at the conclusion that almost any place was more desirable than our present one, and so pretty scon he began to show signs of moving on. “Now, of course, we didn’t know for sure just how far we’d been going on this deuced trestle before the slip occurred; and so, naturally, the delicate question as to which direction we should take arose, and we argued it out as sich—as the poem goes. Now, Red was all for turning back (his retiring nature, I suppose), but I, being as you all know, more of a pro- gressive sort of a fellow, argued that in- asmuch as we didn’t know just where we were in the trestle—might be nearest the other side, for all we knew—we might just as well go ahead, as we’d probably encounter much the same dangers either way we should go. Sounds logic; now, wasn’t it? “Well, Red, he was obstinant, at first; but finally he gave way under the sheer force of my arguments, and we went on under; well, on; Red mumbling things eloquently under his breath in his own quaint fashion. “It was more risky than I had thought, too; and we soon found that about the only really safe way to progress at all, and that wasn’t entirely so, was by the now time-worn hand and knees method. We tried it, and, believe me, it was pain- fully slow. We went on like this for what seemed like hours, or years maybe, stopping now and then to rub our sore knees and extract a few splinters and then go on again. It was a hectic night, be- lieve me; and black as pitch, too. “Time went on, as usually, I suppose; although it did seem as though it was slowed up a bit. We hadn’t been saying much to each other—except maybe a cuss word or two—when, all of a sudden, Red had a bright, gleaming idea— his first, too, I think. He stopped short for a moment, overcome by the novelty of it, then blurted forth all at once in a gasp: “ ‘My Gawsh!’ he said. ‘Sav! W-what if a train should come along now we’re stuck out here!’ And he repeated weakly, ‘My Gawsh!’ “Well, you know, it did suggest possi- bilities of embarrassment, at that; and for a moment, even was slightly intimidated —but for a moment, you understand— my natural optimism, or whatever you may call it, asserted itself at once, and I immediately commenced to prove by con- structive argumentation that such a thing was but the merest possibility, might never happen, and probably never—but, er well, you know how it is when even the fates and elements are against you, for sure and certain the night breeze wafed to my well-shaped cars the faint, shrill shriek of a siren, and we saw the faint pin-point of a light far, far down the tracks. An engine was coming! We were shocked, to say the very least! “Red, he really acted scared—even looked as though he might get panicky and scramble off the trestle or something in his haste, but for my firm hand. You