Rogers Hall School - Splinters Yearbook (Lowell, MA)

Page 6 text:

Black and White Tongue of adder, Heart of Lamb, All these things and more I am Whenever I draw a breath. I love life, desire deathg Young, yet withered, Old, untorn, Wise enough of life to scorn, Warm optimist, Preserveg Merry-free with words and terse. I'm Whitey I'm black. A portion day, a portion night. CONNPB TUCKER '63

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,5 ylW.f R.7,.J'1C I 1 Q N . . ?JlTl':, -'K-XT.-fgq. I 1 - ! it a 1 L tw as--, ' D 35: JIS: XY X! 'Vx 'EW az il 2 'fF1'3'.4': I .1 4 ,J 1 V, MQ A I 15952 212.1 A ,- , A .3 v, 1' 1 1 A' -s 1 lil 44-5291 e f- 35K,+?z1g,'w, ' 'lvl ' l r rv' ' wg: ff 'rj iv, Q nv' 5. v L: :E .rl fa : I' I QC .1 nr- - 2 15- A. , .. ' ff fo. .' -dlstf 1 1 - I 19 35' Lf' za. lqlf. Z B lltlti 'lm Vx f fi 'e fff' 55: 5 4 -,, L' gz Pg 3, 'dj2 'zfr. j, f'- ..f.. , ' 4 v...q,, qu:- Vol 71 Spring, 1963 No. 1 Editorial In Thornton Wilder's, Our Town, one of the main characters, Emily Webb, dies in childbirth and is then allowed to relive one day of her life. She chooses her birthday, and, in the course of this day, she discovers, too late, something that hardly any of us ever realize: that we never appreciate other people during life, that we never appreciate life itself, for that matter, and that we take both too much for granted. lt almost seems as though one has to die before one's fellow-man realizes the wonderful human gift he has lost. It seems, too, as though one has to be very close to dying oneself before realizing what a wonderful gift life itself really is, a gift that is, in many cases, never removed from the box in which it rests, but instead is simply lost in the blur of brightly-coloured wrapping paper, blindly torn from an incubator which turns into a coffin in the pull of a bow. People are like signs erected along the road of life, Hashing SOS to one another, screaming silently, saying: Look at me, mister- I'm a person, too! -but the mister never looks, or when he does, the silent screamer's lights have faded out and are no more. lf only we would answer one another's calls for help, perhaps we could all survive in this mysterious, but beautiful, sea of life- beautiful only if we help one another, and only if we appreciate other human beings and what they have to offer to life. After all, what is life if not a crowd of people trying to find the punch line to a marvelous joke? We could find that punch line, too, and we could make it the best and funniest punch line ever to the biggest joke in the-world, if only we would all hold hands and look hard into each other's faces, searching for, and Ending, the beauty and wonder that is the life-blood of the human being. Or, maybe, even if some- one would stand up and shout, Everyone who believes in the life of the human race, please clap hands!

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Life Does Repeat Itself Tell me, is it the same? Are the thorny roses still tangled about the river bank Like men locked in a bloody death-struggle? And are the forget-me-nots still wandering aimlessly through the fields, Crushed pitilessly by the small flying feet Which once stepped lovingly over them? And on a rainy day, does the air still smother one with grass, earth and flower- As it did, once, long ago? And, tell me, are youthful dreams still caught woven in the river-glass Against an unfurrowed azure sky, black in the distance? And in that black distance, are those idylls still crushed ruthlessly by the life Which once so carefully nurtured them, And smothered by the choking, dust-filled blanket of fate- As were mine, once, long ago? BETH MCGOVERN '63 Conservation of Matter Life deteriorates into dust. Dust is trampled upon By Civilization. But these clouds of dust rise And then are swept away Into Eternity. NANCY SQANNBLL '63