Quincy High School - Goldenrod Yearbook (Quincy, MA)

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Literary ......... Poetry ........ 7 Sad Tale of the Ancient Prospector—Stuart Buck 8 Beauty—Iris Gladwin ...... 12 Caesar—Sally Bradford ...... 12 The First, Second Best, Man—Wallace Fairfield . 12 On to School—Linwood Young .... 13 The Kid—George Nelson ..... 14 Editorials ......... 17 Dallas Lore Sharp ...... 17 Sayings About Our Seniors ..... 19 Who’s Who in the Class of February, 1929 . 19 What Would Happen If .... 19 Class Census ....... 21 Memories........................................... 23 Class Song......................................... 28 Alumni............................................. 30 News 33 Exchanges.......................................... 43 Athletics.......................................... 45 Jokes ................. 50

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Golden Rod JAN. 1929 Volume XLI No. 2. QUINCY Massachusetts PRICE—THIRTY CENTS Published Quarterly by Pupils of the Quincy High School February, 1929 Marjorie Cameron George Hutchison Violet Johnson Thomas Cook Hazel Ramsay Franees Raymond Gordon Holland Art Editor Literary Staff Editor-in-Chief Literary Editor News Editor Athletic Editor Alumni Editor Exchange Editor Joke Editor Art Editor June, 1929 Kenneth Ayres Florence McNamara Evangeline Zinck John Carey Edward Bohlken Gunhild Anderson George Bently Mary Reardon Business Staff Business Manager................. Kenneth Melville Advertising Manager.........................Harold Nannis Circulation Manager .........................John Hipson Faculty Advisors Joy L. Nevens Ruth M. Giles Catherine I. Walsh Ethel C. Crockett Leslie C. Millard Entered as second-class matter June 26, 1928, at the post office at Boston, Mass., under the Act of March 3, 1879

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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.