St Timothys School - Steward Yearbook (Stevenson, MD)

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'II' H E S 'I' E VVA R D SHADES OF SALEM I saw him only once I think, And yet how many times it seems We passed along the beach at dusk, And each was busy with his dreams. I I Q.. The moon hangs heavy and yellow ln a purple midnight sky. His mind is in a turmoil. VVill his memory bear the strain Of a shadow swinging slowly, Slowly over a moonlit wall? The moon sends pale lingers Across the darkened sill. He strode with sure, determined steps, His long black cape unfurled behind. His hair was long and strangely dressedg His eyes were hardg his face, unkind. At Hrst I thought We'd met before, But he took little note of me. He paced the sand and gazed beyond Conferring with his deity. He was not tall, my restless friend, Yet there was power in his walk. As darkness fell. he seemed more strange- His ruflles and his face like chalk. As I stood frozen, hc approached. He gazed at me, and guessed my fears. His eyes were sharp: they pierced the night And then I crossed the bridge of years. VVhy did his restless spirit stalk? VV hy did he stand beside the sea? XV hy did I meet him in my walk? XVhy did he turn his gaze on me? DIANA L. XVAr.Kr:R SHADOW A shadow falls, and slowly it swings, Slowly over a moonlit wall. Ile thought they would always be friends, Until the fateful eve. They fought a bitter battleg Then suddenly it was done, And he saw the shadow swinging, A rope about his throat. Ile never returned to see it, But his mind has often strayed To the silken ray of moonlight And the phantom that it drew' A shadow forever swinging Over a moonlit wall. 'I'l1irty-nine LA1N12 DICKl'ZRLIAN, '62

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THE STEWARD Floodlights surrounded the lake, and seemed to bring with them the crowds and voices one might find at a social rendezvous. But when the game started, Hayward's experienced eye immediately told him another defeat was in order for the Com- muters' League. He kept this thought to himself and listened to the audience cheer and groan alternately as the younger men picked up the puck, and the older ones consecutively lost it. Because he couldn't impress anyone with his pessimism, Hay looked for the finer points and soon lost him- self in the beauty, precision, teamwork and spirit of the skaters. It was almost a religious experience to see these old men transformed into ruddy, excited, sweating and swearing warriors. It was slightly primitive, slightly barbarous-but, never- theless, glorious. VVhether Hay emotionally ac- cepted his father's love for the sport wasn't certain, but he admitted secretly that he admired it. Hay blinked from the fixed stare just in time to see the puck shoot across the blueline, and his father, in a pack of struggling wolves, crash into the wall and crumple in a heap. Or perhaps the shrill screams of the women were what he heard first. The game was stopped. Both teams sur- rounded the fallen man. His mother and about fifty f'closest friends raced onto the ice. All the while, Hay stood dazed, as though unable to move. Hay! Hay! Hay!! a thousand voices seemed to be yelling, pleading, begging him to come. Hay walked onto the ice. It seemed as if all heads were turned towards his, all eyes seeking his. Cod, he wished he had run on with everyone else, unnoticed. Hay looked at his watch and was sur- prised by the thought that time was ticking away. Now he was here-at his father's side. What would he do? What was he expected to do? He still hadn't looked down at his father. He knew he must. He knew his face was growing red with uneasiness. It had always been like this. He knew so darn much, but he couldn't put that knowledge The work- to use in a situation which required nothing but basic human emotion and primitive intuition. 'fHay, Son, how 'bout getting this bladed shoe off my foot? Hay sunk to his knees, half in obedience and half in weakness. He felt limp. He felt relieved. Strangely, the crowd was reacting in the same manner. The skate was gingerly withdrawn from the smashed foot. Hayward diverted his gaze- but not for long. He looked at it and wondered how his Father would get along without being able to skate. How could this childish man take such news? It looks as if the Hayward father-and-son team will have to become spectators. Maybe now I will finally learn some elementary strategy from this cold, intellectual son of mine. That was his father's voice. The same voice that had laughed and yelled to his teammates. It sounded the same-full of strength and full of humor. The Boston local chuggecl southward, still skip- ping beats and jouncing Sigmund Freud. The print became blurred, and Hayward was delighted when the book fell from his hand. Reaching down and grasping the hockey skate, Hay made his hand pass over the blade, the toe, the straps. He wanted so badly to feel something besides an edge of steel, or a hulk of leather. Again he moved his hand over the skate, and again he felt nothing. Still holding the skate, Hayward reviewed the memory of Friday night-the losing team, the trustful spectators, his father's accident. Was he dreaming? Or did his hand feel something alive, something like freed energy? And could it be that his hand tightened involuntarily over the skate? Or was it merely an act of the will? Hay- ward almost reached for Freud to find the answer, but closed his eyes instead and contentedly leaned back. At least it didn't matter any more. DELIA P. BLAKE, '59 What a wonderful thing the work is. When I work I learn almost, VVhen I learn I feel smart almost. I ain't got no brains hardly, I ain't got no time hardly either. VVhen I work I work with what I ain't got almost hardly. P.R.W., '60 Thirty-eight

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THE STEVVARD THE FIRST ACT Before a red prairie dawn, someone said, Another day, And the careful-wise magicians Checked their formulas and nodded, And the battling world-bargainers agreed- To soothe the people, So their ears, half-sleeping. Half-appeased, slept on. A country cock Awake-soniewhere- Was crowing. There was nothing before noon but the noise Of switched-on lives, And the cat's-claw clicking purr Of the stock market's power, Then the bells and the lunch pails And the diplomatic chatter. So their words, half-roaring, Half-assured, roared on. The mid-sky sun Silent-above- Was shining. The skill of one-piece factories turned on Home-time and the night, And the standard-tuned antennas Filtered moonbeams through their net, VVhile free but gambling lonely men Watched dancers pale the evening. So their eyes, half-playing, Half-puzzled, played on. A space-Hung star Unbouncl-far-off- Was sparkling. We are half-given people and given For taking's sake, And for easy-smiling skits Of the word-help love we promise. And the pretty white-Wrapped half-true gift Is heartless, black and hollow. So our lives, half-living, Half-lying, live on. The strawborn Child Alone-somewhere- ls Crying. LIBBIE F. GERRY, '59 Forty