Quincy High School - Goldenrod Yearbook (Quincy, MA)

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THE GOLDEX-ROD ON TO SCHOOL Lin wood Young, J.’30 13 man who had acted so carefree. Harold walked up to the man, and said: “Why did you teel like laughing at a serious matcn like that:” “Well, it’s a big joke,” said the other, “and since you are inclined to lend me an ear, I will pour forth my grievances, but tell me your name. Mine is John Abbott.” Alter preliminaries had been done away with, Abbott began. “In High School, 1 went out for track, and became a very good runner in the mile. I outdistanced everyone until a new fellow moved in town and then, no matter how hard I tried, I always came in a few minutes behind him. “In baseball, I was a shark at second base, but there was another fellow just a little better. In footbad, I was a Hying streak, but was only second best. So I went through life until the war broke out, and then to my great surprise, I was ap- pointed second orderly to a Brigadier- General. “All went well during the war, and I came home determined to marry Jean Harris, whom I had known quite a while. After two or three weeks, she to’d me that I was to be Best Man at her wedding. Of course, I was very much surprised at this statement, but I bore it like a man, as it was the first time I was first at anything, even best man. “'All went well at the wedding, includ- ing the fact that I met a fine young girl there and eventually married her. But one night she came to me and told me that I was her second husband. I im- mediately blew up, and told her the whole story of my life.” “Never mind, Johnnie,” she said; “don’t you see, that even though you are always second, you are really first in everything, for these other men only get first once in a while, whereas you are alwpvs second.” “Well, that made things look a lot different to me, and now, whenever I do beat a fellow, I look unon the whole thin» as a huge joke. Do you blame Lp and off to school. Yes—I was eany; no, not homework to be done betore the first bell. On the contrary’, I had plenty oi time and didn't intend to hurry. As I slowly walked up the street past new homes, it occurred to me that the houses had ail come since my time. Where my feet waked on hard concrete, perhaps Thomas Morton of textbook fame once trod. Yes, I was coming upon the site of the old farm buildings once belonging to the historical Adams family. As I passed under a row of shady trees, I realized that I was passing under lindens from England that had been carefully planted when the land was still in the possession of the estate. Now I approached the cemetery on my right. Here were the remains of those of wealth, of poverty, of those famed, and of those forgotten. Far out on my left was the opposite. For there lay miles of marshes to be filled in and used by the generations of tomorrow. Strange, but here nearby was represented the hand of the past. So I philosophied as I trudged slowly on. Beyond the marsh lay a silvery’ gleam of water, by it a lumber yard. Farther to the south showed the results of modern industry, the Fere River and Edison plants. Then my eye dropped and saw in the corner of the marsh a city dump, the material remains of the inanimate. Now I passed the marsh and cemetery. My thoughts were taken ud in the swiftly changing Artery traffic. Once across. I studied the school building ahead and noticed again my left and mv right. The left was more marsh, but this time only a large lot of undeveloped land, but my right in contrast was undergoing steadv filling for a city park. A few minutes later and I was at the school. What had I seen with the aid of mv imagination. Why. I trod on histori- cal ground: I had seen the past por-

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12 THE GOLDEN-ROD foot, and continuing up a man as rigid as a corpse—in fact, the man was a corpse— it was Red. Slowly the awful truth dawned upon me. In the impenetrable darkness of the night we had actually crossed that trestle and had performed our little act up there above my head, about ten feet above the sand bar on which I was then lying. Red had died of fright, or shock, or something. Any- ways, he was dead. Well, for myself, was I surprised, not to say astounded, at all this f Well, boys, I’ll just leave that to you.” BEAUTY Iris Gladwin, F.’31 At last! . . . the River . . . Standing at its limpid brink . . . the cool water lapped her ankles . . . stinging her scorching flesh . . . cooling the madness and fury in her tortured brain . . . glid- ing . . . swaying . . . deeper . . . now, it caressed her limbs . . . flowed on up- ward . . . swirling over her smooth shoulders . . . lingering at the beautiful curves of her slender neck ... it fluted about her carmine mouth . . . touching her delicate ears . . . then . . . nothing . . . only two wide rings like two large green plates . . . the beautiful body was swept . . . sucked down . . . down into the jade depths shot with rays of liquid . . . turquoise . . . topaz . . . amethyst . . . and . . . firey opal . . . down . . . down . . . into the silken silence . . . flowing . . . flowing . . . CAESAR Sally Bradford, F.’31 Caesar, the genius of Rome, ... its burning mete . . . veiled in the soft light of incense, perhaps jasmine ... a Grecian urn . . . exquisitely figured, both vase and Caesar . . . those eyes, eyes of jewels, jet with power ... a grey tunic, like a dull cloudy sky . . . Caesar fondles a iade pen . . . and writes . . . fire . . . life-blood . . . dripping . . . flowing from his pen ... A command from his tongue . . . mellow as the tones of an organ . . . deep, resonant . . . that conquers countries . . . souls . . . the world out- side ... a seething tumult ... the sky, smoke, blood . . . like greasy new bacon . . . Caesar’s soul ... a carved ivory altar fashioned by the gods . . . and Rome’s soldiers . . . insatiable with thirst of blood . . . made Rome an empire. A schoolroom, . . . youth . . . bub- bling . . . piercing electric lights . . . . . . gleaming like illuminated bafls of flame . . . Eager faces . . . stupid faces . . . whimpering over tattered books . . . books that are weary, yet faithful mes- sages of Caesar . . . His masterful words . . . now only cold, black print ... no longer wine . . . sparkling . . . deep red, but leaden water . . . all . . . charred coals of a once live flame ... a piping hot flame . . . ccld . . . frigid as iron now .... the soul of Caesar . . . gone . . . buried ... in mvhr and frankincence ... in rich purple robes . . . dead . . . leaving only its carcass . . . cold, black print. THE FIRST, SECOND BEST, MAN Wallace Fairfield, June, 1930 Harold Jackson was sitting in the stands, smoking a stogy, very calmly. No wonder, for the maten had been unin- teresting so far. buddemy, he jumped, clamped the stogy with Ins teeth, and pufl'cd furiously. This outburst of his was all because of an error the stranger, who had been playing marvelous tennis all the afternoon, had made. From that time on the match was lost, because he could not control the ball. He wasn’t an- noyed; he walked to the net, shook hands, and began to laugh as though the whole thing were a fine joke, instead of a very important tennis match. Harold, who considered himself a very good judge of men’s characters, thought there was something wrong with this

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14 THE GOLDEN-ROD trayed by people long since deceased; I saw future lands of the industries of the morrow; I saw the live industries of the day, and yes, I even saw the graveyard of industries—the city dump. THE KID George Nelson, F.’29 I first met him at Camp --------. He was a tall, broad-shouldered youth with regular leatures, light hair and a friendly, boyish grin. But the most remarkable thing about him was his eyes. They were as big as saucers, and they gave him the appearance of a child in a strange land wondering at all that lay- about him. It was not his eyes, however, which first struck me. For the third morning in succession, Sergeant Casey was bawling him out, and the thundering growl of Casey’s voice penetrated to the furthermost corner of the parade ground. That was nothing unusual in itself, but I thought that I detected a grin on Casey’s face as the youngster turned away. That was unusual. Usually Casey stayed purple with rage after raising his voice to that tone. That might have ended my interest right there but for a little incident that occurred that afternoon. We “non-coms” were in a little group near headquarters when someone spotted the kid. I think it was Sherman, a new- comer from the South. “There,” he drawled, impressively, “is the smartest soldier in the A. E. F.” He continued to relate some of the youngster’s achieve- ments in the same sarcastic tone until Casey, standing idly near him, said slowly and softly through his teeth, “Can’t you talk about something else for a changer Leave the kid alone. He’s all right.” Someone else broke in with a muttered word of approval of Casey’s remark, and Sherman stopped in an em- barrassed sort of way. After that I took notice of the kid. He seemed to be trying hard enough, but he was always making some foolish mistake. He was a thinker, and his brain moved even too slowly for him to snap through the evolutions with the rest of his company with any degree of accuracy. He was conscious ot this, and the result- ing nervousness caused him even more to make slips. At length we went across, and finally after our first baptism of fire and a few weeks of war, real war, our thinned ranks were sent back to billets behind the lines for a couple of weeks. There I met Casey once more and mustered enough nerve to ask him about the kid. I had a certain trepidation as to how Casey would accept my mention of the youngster, probably because I remembered how Sherman had been reproved. However, he opened right up to me and told me the story of his dealings with the youngster. “You fellows call him ‘the kid,’ ” Casey said rather bitterly. “He’s as old as you or I, but it’s those eyes of his that make you think he’s a youngster. He’s beautiful, but dumb. I can call him everything under the sun, but he hasn’t the spunk to even flash an angry look back. He just turns and looks me in the eye and sort of hangs his head. He takes everything so seriously, just like a scolded child. He’s getting on my nerves. He hasn’t shown any fight at all. He takes his war like a rifle practice, picking his shots as coolly as though he were at a lawn party and were showing the other fellows his ability. He gives me a pain.” I nodded to him and then spoke thoughtfully. “He seems to be a pretty spineless case.” Casey shook his head. “No,” he said quickly; “he’s made a mess of everything he’s touched: he’s the black eve of my company, but I’ll give him credit. He just hasn’t got the spirit yet.” “He’s had time.” I pointed out. “Yes, he’s had time enough for an ordinary man.” “Time enough for any man.” I goaded him. “Six months is a long t;me. He hacn’t proved himce1f a man ye .” “He’s tried! God knows, he’s tried! He’-s done his best!” shouted Casev, ris; g to his feet and loanin' across the table between us with his weight resting on one