Quincy High School - Goldenrod Yearbook (Quincy, MA)

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THE GOLDEN-ROD 17 A LETTER FROM THE STAFF Dear Students of Q. H. S.: What can the matter be: For there is something wrong. We ask for Golden Rod material and get only a little. We know that most of you like to write and that you would surely enjoy the thrill of seeing your work in print. But when it comes to handing your story, poem or whatever it may be, to one of us or to a teacher, what do you think? Perhaps you say, “They’ll only laugh at this because it isn’t perfect.” Or you might think, “If this gets in the magazine, won’t I feel funny with everybody laughing at me.” Or else, “They’ll throw this out for sure, so what is the use?” But let us tell you this is never so. We never laugh when some one tries to help us. We’ll always try to help you, and if your work is not the best, we’ll try to help you make it better. Undoubtedly, there is nothing that would please us more than to have each one of you write a letter, telling what you think we might do to make the Golden Rod the best of all High School magazines. We will accept your criticisms because this maga- zine is for the students, of the students, and by the students. We want to know what you think. We want to read your stories, your poems, and your jokes. So pass them in, no matter what they are, and always remember, “Nothing ventured, nothing gained.” The Staff, K. N. A. DALLAS LORE SHARP Not long ago it was our pleasure to hear a very remarkable person give a most remarkable speech on English com- position. This person is one you have probably all heard of, for you may have read some of his works. His name is Professor Sharp. His speech was given informally and contained matter which actually set us thinking, as we are sure it did everyone present. Though it was a serious subject, his talk was well sprinkled with humor which added to, rather than detracted from, the force of his speech. He advocated writing com- position not for a mere mark, but for someone (consider that us), a group (consider that your class), a magazine (of course, the Golden Rod) or a news- paper (illustrated by the Quincy Patriot Ledger). In Professor Sharp’s classes at college, he assigned a certain number of compositions, not for himself alone, but also for publication in some newspaper or magazine. For all compositions accepted by a publisher, a grade of one hundred was placed in his books for the lucky person. With an end in view for our work, he thinks we should do better writing and be more willing to write. As to subject matter, he absolutely disagrees with anyone who believes a list of subjects should be named by our teacher for every theme. He advocates writing on your own subject and paying no attention whatever to punctuation or spelling in the first draft. Put all atten-

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16 THE GOLDEN-ROD his eyes before he spoke. There was no complaining or whining in his tone. He spoke as though it was an understood fact. “I’ve tried always, and I’m not quitting now.” I spoke reassuringly, “You’ll get your chance soon, and you’ll get ahead.” But I knew I had lied. He was too slow, too trusting, too dumb (to put it in Casey’s words) to gain fame and recognition in this hard world. It was all so plain. A tinkling crash startled us. The re- mains of a shattered pane of glass lay on the sidewalk, and from a window high above a cloud of smoke billowed forth and slid along the dingy brick front. I thought of the alarm, but he thought of the lives of those trapped in the building. I sprinted for the box, but he entered the burning building to save others. I don’t remember very clearly now what hap- pened. It came so suddenly that I am still rather surprised. It seemed ages before the engines came and ran their hose and ladders up to fight the blaze. By that time, the place was burning like tinder and belching huge clouds of smoke, which billowed and clustered over the blazing building. Fire lines were drawn up, and I was shoved roughly back behind the ropes. Shadowy forms passed in and out of the door, but I did not see the Kid, and an icy hand seemed to grip my heart as I saw the fiames gaining. A sharp order was given, and the ladders came away from the walls; a crack wormed its way across the front of the building. The wall was going to fall. As a gasp ran through the crowd, I raised my eyes from the door to the wall above. At each floor an ornamental iron balcony protruded, and there high above on one of these appeared the figure of an elderly man and at the same time on the balcony above appeared the Kid. One net was spread below. The old man was dizzy. Fie tottered and toppled across the railing insensible. The broken tele- phone wire dangled from the balcony on which the Kid stood and fell to that on which the old man lay. The crack still crept slowly across below them and fiames reached hungry hands to grasp them. The Kid hesitated and saw the man below and the dangling wire; he swiftly reeled it in and looped the end below into a noose. Again I thought of Casey’s words. He was the picture of calmness. He dropped the stiff lariat through the grating and encircled the head and shoulders of the man as they protruded over the railing; and standing amid the coil of surplus wire he strained to raise the body over the railing. The senseless form swung out and then dropped like a plummet as the Kid loosed his hold. The length of wire around the Kid’s feet came too, and there was a sud- den jerk as the body halted its flight to the net below. But only for an instant. The wire snapped, and the upper half remained dangling. I saw what had happened. The wire around the Kid’s feet had snarled, and the weight of the falling body had drawn the Kid’s leg out be- tween the posts of the wrought iron rail- ing; the thickness of his knee prevented its withdrawal. The firemen below retreated with their helpless burden. The Kid struggled wildly for an instant and then, realizing the hopelessness of it all, remained kneel- ing on one knee while the other hung limply outward. Then his eyes caught my attention. He must have been suffering terrible agony, but there was no hint of it in his face. With his elbows crossed and leaning on the railing, he awaited the end. I saw his face as the crumbling wall toppled in- ward and as he fell into that blazing inferno. There was no anger or worry there. His eyes looked upward, wide and starry, into the sky like those of a little child seeking recognition of a deed well done. I know now why Casey had been moved by those eyes, and there came to me the words of that little, red-haired Sergeant. “He tried. God knows, he tried.”

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18 THE GOLDEN-ROD The Golden-Rod Staff tion to the writing of the subject. On the final draft, attention may be paid to punctuation and spelling. Put capitals at the end of your sentences, and periods at the beginning,” he said, “if it will give us any more of an inclination to write.” As regards giving out subjects for themes, he believes it absolutely impossi- ble. Seldom do two people have an in- clination to write on the same subject. He pointed out three of his past pupils who were present, as examples. One, he said, had an “Atlantic Monthly” mind, the second a “Dew Drop” mind, and the third, a “Film Fun” mind. Their minds, he said, were as different as the three magazines he named, and he would never expect them to write on the same subject. It was nonsense to expect them to, there- fore, they should choose their own sub- jects. The same applies to us. In writing, write on a subject we know and write as we feel toward the subject, our own reactions and ideas. In other words, just let’s be ourselves in our writing. M. C. C. THE PONY RENDEZVOUS One day I tried to get to the office at 1.30. I couldn’t! The hall was so crowded, I had to literally fight my way through. I’d have given much to have known what it was all about. The Pony must have some attraction, I thought when I was a Sophomore. Now I’m one of those, supposedly, high and mighty Seniors, and, having a sympathetic nature, I have a desire to try to explain the reason for the congested thorough- fare near the office every noon. You see, it’s this way—it’s an ideal spot for a fellow to meet his girl. It lures as do shady nooks in the summer. The statue of the Pony and Indian or the Appeal to the Great Spirit certainly draws the crowds. Every noon practically the same couples are seen together by the Pony. Perhaps they don’t realize it (probably they are too interested in each other), but, nevertheless, they do obstruct the traffic. The crowd scatters by 2.00 o’clock, and one may easily walk through