Quincy High School - Goldenrod Yearbook (Quincy, MA)

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2)°m 2), 'ear Doggy chews a slipper, doggy knows he’s bad, Doggy pulls his cars back and looks real sad. Bones in the living room, clutter up the floor, Doggy’s in the kitchen, dragging in some more. Water’s ready, towels handy, bath time arrives, In the nearest closet, our knowing doggy dives. Company for dinner, doggy’s right handy, Doggy begs prettily, and gobbles down the candy. Doggy scratches at the door, vows he will be quiet. Doggy meets a pal outside, and then they raise a riot. Doggy loves all sailors—his lovely fur so white Clings to navy uniforms and makes them look a sight! Doggy’s bad, and doggy's naughty, doggy’s pretty queer. Would we change him? Not for worlds! He’s our doggy dear. Shirley Sherad Yjoctumai y4scent “3 o’clock in the morning . . ,” creak, creak, thumpity thump, scratch, squeak . . , “and all through the house not a creature was stirring . . ,” except you! There, got the door closed, now to attack the stairs. “If you step on the nail heads, stairs won’t creak. you had read somewhere. Easy does it, how many more stairs, this must be the last one—now just across the hall and into your room. CRASH. BANG !!! Lights, mother, father! That wasn’t the last stair !!! Mai gave t Johnson page nineteen

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 This is the second most important day of my life” (the first one being in her estimation, the day she was born), thought Clara, as she hopped out of a restful slumber. I wonder what the weather will be today. I hope it is nice. It’s just got to be nice, she said to herself as she walked toward the window. Sure enough, the sun was shining bright and it was a beautiful day. “Oh. that's a relief.” she sighed. 'I hope it stays this way. Satisfied with the world in general, she hurried through her toilet habits (still careful to make sure she was spic and span, for Clara was very particular about her appearance) and ran happily down- stairs to the kitchen. There, as usual, was Mrs. Flowers concocting delicious dishes for the household breakfast. Mrs. Flowers was not her mother, for Clara had been made an orphan at the early age of nine months when her parents had been killed in an automobile accident. However, the Flowers’ were very good friends of Clara’s parents and so they adopted her and endeavored to bring her up right. Mrs. Flowers in some ways represented those gifts of nature to which her name was similar. On certain days she was happy and spry and just blossoming forth with good humor and sunshine, but on others, she was tired and droopy and seemingly too worn to lift her head. On this particular day she was in very good form and greeted Clara with a cheerful Good morning, dear,” and then con- tinued her chores. Clara said nothing but went right to her breakfast, for she was totally famished. Mrs. Flowers smiled knowingly and said. “I won’t bother you much today as I know you must be very excited. She had, Clara decided, hit the proverbial nail on the head, and she scarcely paused a moment, leaving as soon as breakfast was finished. She felt good when she got outside in the brisk March weather; here and there she noticed the first signs of Spring. She enjoyed immensely these morning walks, which she had started taking two weeks ago. and she could hardly wait, when they were over, for the next day to come. This particular morning her walk took her to the rural part of the town which was the part Clara liked best. She didn't like the busy business section with its roaring noises, eternal tide of rushing people, and those fresh male characters, found in every city, whose object in life is to bother young and pretty females like herself. Not that Clara was afraid of them, for she could handle herself all right. How- ever, Clara liked the country best and as this was a very special day, she thought that nothing but the best would do. She enjoyed herself immensely for the next hour and a half, and when she had enough of nature’s beauty she returned home. No one was home, but Clara let herself in through the door which was always left open for her. Being tired from her morning excursion, she decided to take a short nap. She hoped she wouldn’t sleep too long as she wanted to be awake when the event took place. About five o’clock Mrs. Flowers came home from her Red Cross meeting, Mr. Flowers followed shortly from work. “Well, Jim, have a good day at the office?” asked Mrs. Flowers. Fair,” said her husband, and then after a moment’s pause. Where’s Clara? She usually comes running to meet me? 'I don’t know.” said Mrs. Flowers, she went out for a walk this morning and must have come home while I was out.” She must be taking a nap. then,” sighed Jim, thinking that that's what he would do. She isn't in her room,” frowned Mrs. Flowers, a little worried. Don’t worry about her, she can take care of herself, concluded Mr. Flowers. Just the same. Mrs. Flowers was not relieved, and as soon as supper was finished, she decided to look around for her. Mr. Flowers was resting comfortably on the sofa couch, smoking his corn cob pipe, and just day dreaming when he heard his wife cry out from the cellar. Immediately, he jumped up and, without stopping even to put on his shoes, ran down the cellar stairs After her first cry Mrs. Flowers had been silent, and now nothing could be heard but the muffled thumping of Mr. Flowers’ stocking feet on the wooden stairs. VVh • • What’s the matter?” he asked breathlessly as he saw Mrs. Flowers over in one corner. Look, Jim, Look. she said, pointing to a box in the corner. “Claia has given birth to a half dozen kittens This did not surprise Mr. Plovers very much because after all, Clara, was a cat. Kenneth Skantz

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Well, the old grey boat is gone at last. During the night a northeaster blew in the rising tide, and the storming waves lilted her Irom the high ground on which she has rested these many winters. Now she lies over in the marsh, her side torn asunder, her ribs sticking out like the carcass of last Sunday’s turkey. My father built her himself up at Quincy High School during the winter of 1910. He made the pattern from the boat of an old Swede, I think his name was Swenson, a natural-born fisherman and lover of the sea, who gave my father many valuable hints. Cypress for the sides, oak for the prow, yellow pine for the bottom, and nothing but brass screws, copper nails, and galvanized fittings would do. Then, finally, painted a shiny, battleship grey, she was placed on exhibition at the end of the school term, along with other articles turned out by students. Somehow, grey seemed to be her color and we never varied it. She always seemed happiest just to lie out there in the water without drawing too much attention, and. thereafter, she came to be known as “the grey boat.” Yes, she was quite a boat and she had mam admirers. First, of course, was my father, her creator, and then, in time, my brother. Even in the cold grey hours of winter dawn, when the snow was thick and ice stiffened the anchor rope so that it had to be laid lengthwise along the gunwales, these two would steal out to some fog-covered island and pile great masses of seaweed on the rocks for a blind. Then, with their guns in one hand and a brace of ducks in the other, the conquering heroes returned, cold and ravenous, to a glowing fire and a steam- ing pot of savory victuals. From early spring when the flounders first came out of the mud. until late fail when the smelts swarmed in schools along the edge of the eel grass, someone was out in her. I guess it was love from the first time I sat in her and liked the feel of the swells. As I grew up. I learned to row and. funny thing. I just knew that nothing serious could happen in that good old sturdy, flat-bottomed, grey boat. Maybe it was a mysterious vovage to an undiscovered shore in search of buried treasure, or a merry picnic on a distant island at which we children would bask in luxurious thoughts and dance with joy for days in advance. The old grey boat almost came to life and enjoyed the pastime as much as we. I remember well those lazy afternoons snoozing under an old straw hat to the deep rolling lullaby of the long, drowsy swells and the steady quiver of the undisturbed fish line, or even a frolicking water battle when no one could possibly emerge without a sound ducking or hearts splash. Never once did she mind our rocking or abuse; she seemed to love every moment. But now. she’s gone and 1 shall miss her. I never knew what was considered a decent end for a boat. Somehow. I always thought of a boat lying out there on the beach, filled with shifting sands and slowly disintegrating as lime and rot and beating waves carried it into oblivion. Guess I'll just leave the old grey boat where she lies. Some child seeking driftwood will come along and take parts of her home, and the stove or open fireplace will glow blue and green and red from the copper and brass and salt in her. She won’t mind or think she has come to an inglorious end, because she has given us memories and to us she will always be the symbol of freedom, youth, and adventure. Marilyn Soithwicr page twenty :