Quincy High School - Goldenrod Yearbook (Quincy, MA)

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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.

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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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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.