Quincy High School - Goldenrod Yearbook (Quincy, MA)

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AT THE END OF THE WORLD By Barbara Curry. Jack Sharp. Steve O’Brien ----A ............ --------- ON the afternoon of August 25, the smartest, ablest, trimmest old square rigger that my weathered eyes have seen sailed out of New York to Dunedin to pick up a cargo of dogs, food supplies, sleds, airplanes and scientific equipment for the “End of the World,’’ 10,000 miles away. It was the “City of New York,” an auxiliary bark that every eye watched as she slipped down among the tugs, yachts and ocean grey-hounds. Whistles screamed or boomed out in all pitches; sailors cheered their fare- well; tugs hurried about puffing, screeching for right of way like a lot of old ladies doing their shopping. Officers aboard the ocean grey- hounds cheered, but their fine lines seemed to snub this little ship on water. She may be old fashioned, but from all over the world where ships find their harbor, the “City of New York” was chosen to transport the most modern and scientific expedi- tion that man has ever planned. Aboard this trusted craft were Byrd and thirty other co-adventurers. We all know of her trip to Dun- edin. On December 2, 1928, she sailed from New Zealand, and the world waited to hear of her successful ar- rival. On Christmas, the news flashed from the Bay of Whales, 10,000 miles away, to let the outside world know of their safety! Tonight we sit in the assembly hall. The house is packed. People watch the clock. They are tense,

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THE GOLDEN-ROD HO accepted—quite justly enough. Now, one day when I did not have my written assignment prepared, I snatched up those rejected poems— all this was at Purdue—and I sub- mitted them to the instructor. I don’t think he quite understood them. I pause here to say in parenthesis that 1 use a rather singular method in writing poetry. I write poems that I cannot quite understand myself and others likewise find them mysti- fying, and rather than admit their inability to understand, they say the poems are good—simple? Anyway, this professor, rather than admit from his professional height that he could not understand the poems, caused them to be pub- lished in the school literary publica- tion. Others read them and went through the same process of appre- ciation and those poems are the ones you spoke about, and sure enough, the ones I would send you today if T had them here in Worcester. Joseph Reardon, F’28. (Continued from Page S2) There was no great scene when the woman died. It was at evening, just as the July fervors were com- ing on. She had wept much in the morn- ing. As the day grew warm, she be- came very weak and faint, and about noon was moved by a few neighbors from her chair to her bed, and so died as the sun went down. The funeral was on Wednesday. All the people of the neighborhood were there. Ten years rolled by. Three per- sons came up the lonely road that had been deserted for these ten years. They were surprised to see no one about, and after searching more thoroughly, left for the nearest neighbor’s house. The nearest neigh- bor explained to the three strangers that Alexander and his mother had been dead for nearly eleven years. And then, suddenly, a young, healthy girl came from the house and stood staring at one of the strangers, for she was the first to recognize her old school-mate, Herman. The others seemed to hear this greeting as in a dream. They talked with Herman and the men in a man- ner that seemed strangely cold and indifferent. A quarter of an hour passed away. The neighbors told the strangers of Alexander’s terrible death and how his mother had not lived long afterward. Herman sat down on the doorstep and explained that he had been in the east and had come back to tell of his great success. But now he would not return to the city, but would live in the little house back along the road where he would strive to keep it up as his aunt had always done. Years passed, and now Cousin Herman, by the operation of some spiritual law that I do not fully com- prehend, is one of those who win a strange affection from others. It is said of him that he is more truly loved, and by more people, than any other man or woman in all settle- ments around. Children love him with a passionate attachment, and the woman whom he made his wife is said to take his aunt’s place in the little house on the lonely road. REPORT OF OUR CHINESE WAR CORRESPONDENT Sigrid Pullman Onec in ihe dear, dead days beyond recall. When Buddha mused on a stone in Gaul The day was cold, the sun was hot When Lancelot and Charlemagne fought And Galahad said to Guinevere “Your love is cold and dead. I fear.” And Priscilla who was quite far gone Said. “Why don't you speak for yourself, dear John? John Smith smiled—his face was grim The moon was making the sun quite dim On that terrible Lisbon earthquake day When Pompeii was covered with sand and clay. And Caesar, triumphant home had marched In pink silk pajamas, newly starched. That day, dear readers The Chinese leaders Defeated Japan In a lone sampan.

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32 THE GOLDEN-ROD anxious, for haven’t the hands reached the hour? Mr. Muir is on the stage. He talks of Rear Admiral Byrd; he speaks well, interestingly. Where is Byrd? Some say that per- haps he is late. No! We hear our superintendent say “It is a great privilege to introduce Rear Admiral Richard E. Byrd.” And from behind the curtain steps the man who lias gone up Broadway more times than any other man, when New York has paid its tribute to men who have suc- ceeded in great deeds. lie stands there, neat and erect, with navy training written all over him. He wears the evening suit of a naval officer. Across the left breast of his coat are many medals. On his sleeves are about five inches of gold braid, showing his twenty years of service. He stands about five feet, nine inches, with fine straight shoulders. On these is set an intelli- gent looking head, with short hair and handsome, clear cut features. Byrd gives a few notes on what is to proceed; then it’s dark and on the screen he shows movies of rough seas, icebergs, ice fields, seals, pen- guins, huskies and Little America. From here went dog teams, air- planes, mapping and exploring, dis- covering new mountains, new lands, exploring more in one day than other expeditions before them did in years. On February 18, 1929, Byrd discov- ered and claimed 40,000 square miles of land for the United States, which is known as Marie Byrd Land. People are held spellbound with the work done there, or laugh heartily at comedy that was forever turning up in trying times. It is over! We hurry back stage with the nerve of a reporter. We get his autograph. Now, as it was Scout Week and it had been the general topic of English, we asked about Paul Siple, the Eagle Scout, who went with him to Little America. We wanted to know about his work, and if he thought scouting prepared him for his work on the expedition. Byrd smilingily said, “Why, yes, indeed. lie worked among men as a m n. A fine worker!” Then he went on: “The Scout movement is a great movement.” He saw the scout pins we wore and said, “But I think almost every scout could do it, also.” THAR SHE BLOWS A Tale of the Salty Sea Told to Steve O’Brien by a Tamo us Sea Captain of Quincy GOME along, matey, for you won’t be a-hearin’ a yarn o’ the sea a-standin’ there a- lookin’ out over that salt- water marsh. Come along, for we’ve got a yarn to hear of the Charles W. Morgan and the Alice Knowles. Come along, for Captain James E. Earle’s a-waitin’ to spin a yarn for you. You don’t know Captain Earle? Well, he was born in Edgartown, Martha’s Vineyard, on the fourteenth of February in ’fifty-four. He lived among seafarin’ folk ’till he was twelve, and then he went to sea to learn the trade of whaler. He be- came captain of several whaling ships, among them the Alice Knowles, of 287 tons, built in Quincy, and the most famous vessel of the whaling fleet, the Charles W. Mor- gan, of 290 tons. The latter was a lucky ship—he was out three years and three months, and came back with 1700 barrels of sperm oil, 350 of whale oil, and 5000 pounds of bone. All this was valued at $69,591. She brought $2,000,000 to her owners in her time. Capt. Earle received his master’s papers when he was twenty-six. and in a British port; and I’m tellin’ you that you have to know boats and the sea to get British master’s papers! It was in Auckland, New Zealand, that he met a schoolmarm who became his wife and went to sea with him. The captain is seventy-eight now, stands about five feet, ten inches,and is a little rounded over. His hair is