Scarborough High School - Four Corners Yearbook (Scarborough, ME)

Page 14 text:

12 FOUR CORNERS Rejected, Mrs. Courtlandt made The path of love such thorny treading That pansy-eyed Gertrudis laid Her hand in his in secret wedding. Now jealousy had done her work On Mrs. Courtlandt’s husband, Stephen, Who made a scene denouncing Kirk— A foolish way of getting even; For when he learned his bad mistake He shot himself in deep contrition— A course which only served to make Poor Kirk a mark for worse suspicion. Accused of murder, slandered, grieved,— Our hero ' s case was most distressing When Father Anthony arrived To clear his boy and give his blessing. Though none may doubt that Mr. Beach Can put a plot through all its paces, I wish our novelist would teach A kinder view of Southern Races. For if the Nation’s spirit feeds On everything that ' s said or written, In fine contempt for “lesser breeds” We’ll soon out-Britishize the Briton. P. E. H., ’12.

Page 13 text:

FOUR CORNERS 11 Let ’em have their city pleasures, Automobiles, dress and sicb, All them things are had for money; They can have ’em if they’re rich. I don’t want to be no lawyer, Never had no gift o gab, And uo other sech profession In the world that’s to be had. But I want to tell ye one thing, And it’s straight as Gospel Truth,— Down at our house we’re contented Underneath our humble roof. H. F. T. m Itc’er-Do Well Old Anthony, the Railroad King, Possessed a wayward son—for Kirk was Averse to doing anything; He simply didn’t know what work was. But one wild night it came to pass That while he lifted highballs mouthward Depraved companions doped his glass And shipped him sweetly sleeping southward. He found himself in Panama Without a cent, and debts accruing. He sent a cablegram to Pa, Who curtly answered “Nothing doing ' ” Then Mrs. Courtlandt took him up; That lovely lady politician Invited him to dine and sup And found him quite a good position. This married lady loved him well; But Kirk, our breezy young Albanian, Adored Gertrudis Garavel, A charming little Panamanian.

Page 15 text:

FOUR CORNERS 13 Cbe Snowstorm One family lived in Blaine, and one in Glencoe—the families of two brothers. Each had an only child—a son and a daughter—both of the same age. Thus had these cousins grown up before their parents’ eyes, Flora King, a name hallowed of yore, the fairest, and Harry Cameron, the boldest of all the flowers in Blaine and Glencoe. It was now their seventeenth birthday, and Flora was to pass the day in Blaine. Harry was to meet her in the mountains, that he might bring her down the precipitous passes to his father’s hut; and soon they met at the trysting place, a bank of birch trees beneath a cliff that takes its name from the eagles. On their meeting, seemed not to them the whole of Nature suddenly inspired with joy and beauty? From tree roots, where the snow was thin, little flowers, or herbs flower-like, now for the first time were seen looking out as if alive; the trees seemed budding, as if it were already spring; and rare as in that rocky region are the birds of song, a faint trill for a moment touched their cars, and the flutter of a wing. Deep down beneath the snow they listened to the tinkle of rills un¬ reached by the frost, and merry, thought they, was the music of these contented prisoners. The boy starts to his feet, and his keen eye looks along the ready rifle; for his sires had been famous deer-stalkers, and the passion of the chase was in his blood. So! A deer from Dalness, hound-driven, or sullenly astray, slowly bearing his antlers up the glen, then stopping for a moment to snuff the air, then away—awayl The rifle-shot rings dully from the scarce-echoing snow cliffs, and the animal leaps aloft, struck by a certain death-wound. Laboring and lumbering heavily along, the huge animal at last disappears around some rocks at the head of the glen. “Follow me, Floral” the boy hunter cries; and flinging down their plaids they turn their bright faces to the mountain, and away up the glen after the stricken deer. Redder and redder grew the snow, and more heavily trampled, as they wound around the rocks. Yonder is the deer staggering up the mountain, not half a mile off —now standing at bay, as if before his swimming eyes came Fingal, the terror of the forest, whose howl was known to all the echoes and quailed the herd while their antlers were yet afar off. “Rest, Flora, restl While I fly to him with my rifle and shoot him.”