Winthrop High School - Winthrop Winner Yearbook (Winthrop, ME)

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WINTHROP HIGH SCHOOL 19 There are dreams heaped high as billowy foam Upon an ocean's sparkling deep, Hopes, as many if not more, Fill the castle to the very door. At times, when I'd nothing else to do, I would let my thoughts run free, And arrange and rearrange in my castle, Life as I would have it be. Oh! if life were but something Likened to that castle tall, Where we could bring happiness and virtue To our beckon and our call. But I must be content with my castle, For all dreams and things not real, For life itself is a stern reality, With sorrow and gladness for all to feel. A. S., '33, SOLITUDE One day when the time was rather heavy on my hands, I decided to spend several hours out in the great open spaces. My rambling feet led me across a smooth green field, past a rippling, sing- ing brook and into the depths of the forest. There I had that feeling of ab- solute solitude which can only be real- ized by deep thought. Above my head, crowded so close to- gether that only tiny streaks of deep blue sky were visible, were the pines and hemlock. The wind was gently play- ing between their boughs, and their whisper and moan softly broke the still- ness of the forest. The soft pine needles at my feet sent out a delightful spicy fragrance and silenced my footsteps. Indeed, everything was so still that I believed myself to be almost alone with God, until I heard the long sweet call of a bird. It was answered and re-an- swered by many others until the forest rang with their sweet notes. I went a little way farther and came out into the golden sunlight in an orchard. The trees seemed to be fairly alive with bird life. As soon as they saw me, a great many took wing and flew away, leaving me standing there listening to the saucy notes that they flung back at me. As I walked home in the soft fragrant twilight, the thought constantly came to me that without those sweet notes of the birds to mingle with the sigh of the forest, the laughter of the brook, and the rustling of the leaves, nature could not be half so wonderful. A. S., '33, THE STORY OF MY LIFE I am a big black fountain pen. I have a gold band around my cap and a gold tip on it, too. The first thing that I can remember was when Parker Duofold was being stamped on me. That was in a big fac- tory. Then I was put in a box and sent somewhere on a thing that made a big noise and shook me around a lot. The next time that I saw light some one had taken the cover off my box, he took me out and put me on another big tray with a lot of other pens. Then men and women came in and looked at me. I saw some other pens being taken away, but no one seemed to want me. One day a pretty young lady came into the store. I heard her say, I want a big pen for George. Then the man picked me up and showed me to her. She looked around at some others and then the man put me in a box and gave me to her. She put me in something that she called a handbag and away we went. I stayed in my box for two days and then a man, it was George, took me out. He was very glad to see me and put me in his pocket.

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18 WINTHROP WINNER The flames are a life, the logs are the years, The coals are the deeds that have been done in good cheer, Most beautiful of all are the coals of life's deeds, For these form a model for those whom you lead. L. I., 'aa THE TRAIL OF THE DESERT The desert hills in all their painted splendor rose from the hot sands below to radiate the pale, softening colors of nature out upon those stretches of un- tenanted wastes - wastes of dread for the tired, despondent desert rats of long ago, but now, only scenes of wonder and glory to those civilized people speeding across unpicturesque highways shaped by hands of humans-rather than those hands of destiny-of nature. As we traversed those highways, we came suddenly upon a small shack with its quaint sign, Trading Post, blister- ing and peeling in the sun. The porch rail outside was lined with pottery of every design, while against it lazily slouched a tawny Indian, in American clothes, 'tis true, but with every aspect of that staunch race of sturdy, unmoved warriors. This man, with set, grim face, gave us a bit of advice that we will always thank him for. As we told him of how we wanted to go to the Petrified Forest, he, pointing his hand to the west, told us of a place which only he and his friends knew-a. place fairly littered with this petrified wood-wood that could be taken out of the desert,-diff'er- ing from the National Forest where it all was kept for future sight-seers. So off' we went, the sand stretching out on every side till it met those tinted painted hills, in the distance changing to a deep purple. We bumped across a cattle guard stretching ac1'oss the narrow, sandy road. The road finally dwindled down to a mere rut and, topping a little rise, we came upon a sight such as we never before had seen. The desert was there and then the tinted hills beyond, but over them the sunset was spreading its beautiful colors of pale shell pink, robin's egg blue, deepening into orange hills. En- as it lowered behind the tranced and seemingly lifted from earth by this glorious scene, it was several the logs, moments before we noticed lying in stumps, even roots all about- logs which proved to be the rock we had been seeking. In the quiet, silently de- scending night, it seemed almost sacred ground. We were spellbound, as we un- consciously thought of all the ages, all the changes, all the people, all the prob- able tragedies and joys that had hap- pened on this spot. Sitting upon those logs--the most unfolded powerful example of nature itself to us, and in that supreme power of nature's handiwork we realized the futility of our meagre eiorts-striving to check-to equal-to contend the ever- lasting unequaled force of that all powerful nature formed by the hands of Him who can never be equaled, who can never even be rivaled by mere mortal man. V. M., '32, MY DREAM CASTLE Down in a quiet little valley, Surrounded by trees most fair, Stands an invisible building, Built with the utmost care. Little by little I have filled Each spacious room and hall, With childish hopes and youthful dreams So dear and sacred to us all.

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20 WINTHROP WINNER After that I went to his office every day. He called me a corking pen. I helped him a lot, I can tell you. One day his automobile broke down and we started home on the electric cars. Some man came in, sat down beside George, and the next thing I knew he had taken me out of George's pocket and put me in his own. Wasn't that the limit? And he didn't even ask George. We rode along for some time, and then we went into a hotel where he got a room. When we were all alone in the room, he took me out of his pocket and said, Darn good pen. Didn't cost me a cent and it will make millions for me. I did not understand what he meant just then, but I know now. He was what men call a forger. He signed checks with names that didn't belong to him. The next day two big men in blue coats came up and grabbed him by the collar. One of them said, We've got you now, Slippery Dick! They took us to jail. You can't imagine how humiliated I was. The very idea of my being in jail! It was a long time before we left that awful place. The man didn't use me for a few days and when he did start to use me he found out that I needed a drink. He was so angry, because he didn't have any ink, that he threw me out of the window. I landed in a gutter rather stunned, I can tell you. The next thing I knew I heard George speaking, Well, where did you come from ? he asked. I tried to tell him, but he didn't under- stand. He took me home and once more we worked together. He was very good to me. One day, however, he dropped me on the floor. At the time he didn't notice me, and I had a dreadful feeling that something was going to happen. Something did happen. When he turned around he stepped on me, slipped and fell. That sad event broke my back and almost broke his, too, I guess-any- way, they took him to the hospital and threw me in the dump. I had been there for six days when I heard footsteps. I thought to myself, Something is going to happen. A boy came along and picked me up. Oh! he said, here is an old, broken foun- tain pen. Let's burn it, Ned. I tried to tell them not to burn me, but I couldn't make a sound. They lighted a match, I could feel something hot, and-that's-all. A. L., '32. HOMEWARD BOUND It is a snowy winter's evening, And the temperature is low, The window-panes are frosty, The ground is covered with snow. Hark! a rap upon the door, How frightened we all are! A stranger wanted to know The way home and how far. We asked him to come in Out of the snow and coldg He stood close to the fire- He wasn't very old. The story will end soon, After you all are told The stranger was a dog Who recently was sold. L. J., '32, SHALL I THROW IT AWAY? There it lies in the palm of my hand, while I am under the dim, flickering street light which slyly winks at me as if to say it, alone, knows my secret. For fifteen minutes I have been stand- ing by this corner, staring at the object in my hand and considering its value. Long ago I had decided to cast it aside, for it had become a worthless, trouble-