Glen Cove High School - Profile Yearbook (Glen Cove, NY)

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Page Four THE RED AND GREEN cTHose, the Medium “Yes, that’s all you have to do, Mose. Just go in the cage. We’ll lock the door. Crack the whip and he’ll do just as you want him to.” Mose was forced to take the whip but he was unable to hold it because he was shaking so hard. Then his knees began to shake, his toes, his whole body. Great beads of perspiration stood upon his forehead. “Why, what’s the matter, Mose? You are not scared of that lion, are you? Why man, that lion was raised on milk.” “Da-da-dat man ma-may be so-ss-so boss.” His expression was desperate. “Ah was raised on milk, too, but I eats meat now.” That was the end of Mose’s circus career. Daybreak of the next day found him astride a small donkey headed for nowhere, but determined to get there. His attire was a beautiful cutaway coat, light grey checked trousers, purple spats, and a trick silk hat. The bag, which the donkey was also carrying, contained a mystic-man’s outfit. The whole outfit excepting himself had been acquired, not in accordance with the Ten Commandments, but in the truly negro fashion, that is, in the same manner as he would raise a chicken for Sunday dinner. In other words, “He jus’ nacturally corned by hit.” One of his side pockets bulged, for it held a roll of exactly one hundred and five dollars in bill form. It had been acquired before clearing the circus, in a little game of “African Golf.” Behold! on the horizon the roofs of a town broke the monotony of the southern landscape. At the towrn limit, “Welcome to Burlington” greeted him. Majestically he entered, viewed with awe and respect, for a person in a dress suit, riding upon a donkey, through a negro settlement, is not to be witnessed every day, even in this time of modernism. Through the streets he made his way with a goodly gathering bringing up the rear. Washwomen left their washings, the white suds artistically set off against branches of living ebony. Why the men even left their work! Very unusual? Not if you know the true black man. Anything does as an excuse to quit work. Mose, noticing the great effect his appearance had created, stopped at the Hotel Astor. The lobby loungers sat up and took notice, when he tipped the boy liberally for carrying his bag. With a magnificent scrawl, he signed his name in the ledger, “Honorable Mose Erastus Skylow”, and, as a finishing touch, he made a very mystifying curly-cue. With a noble strut before the wondering onlookers, he mounted the steps. A plan was forming in his brain.. The climax came when, as the boy was leaving the room, he timidly asked. “Mistah, is you a medjum?” Mose sank into deep meditation. “Yas, bo, dat’s zakly what I is.” From this point his occupation was that of a medium. Suitable quarters were set up in the bridal suite by the colored proprietor of Hotel Astor, and business began. Men seeking an interview with their dead wives came. Fathers came to talk with long since departed great grandfathers. Best of all, though, came that fascinating widow, Mrs. Emeline Jones. This was another marked point in the life of Mose, alias Skylow. He was subject to a giddy feeling which persisted in running up and down his back, and to that lack of appetite, so unusual for a black boy. Above all, he loved the thought of collecting the rents from the houses which the late Jones had left Emeline. But do not let the last longing lower your opinion of Mose. He was seated at his table, dressed in his Hindu costume, when the widow was introduced, her wish being to communicate with her departed partner. Mose concentrated, and then, as though talking for some one else, he asked, “What is it you want, honey?” Emeline gasped. Could it be Spike? “A-ah-jus’ wanta-ta know how you is, Spike? And ef you done got to the right place?” “Oh—ah got heah all right. Boy, but it’s nice.” “Ah, ah is so glad, Spike. Ah was so ’fraid sumting woulda happened on de way, but does you have to do any work?” “Oh sum, but ah wouldn’t mind dat if dey was mo’ up heah to help. You know help is pow-ahful sca’ce heah.” “Spike?”

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THE RED AND GREEN Page Three One beautiful evening in the early part of September, Father, Mother and I were seated on the veranda, tranquilly enjoying the golden splendors of a summer sunset, when Mrs. Doer, a neighbor of ours, came hurriedly across the lawn. M rs. Doer is a short, stout, wheezy little lady, who once in her youthful folly had attempted to dye her hair black; but due to some mishap or other, her hair had dyed a dull mahogany red, which Mrs. Doer is wont to declare is a shade so uncommon that few people indeed can profess to have seen anything like it. This particular evening her hair was concealed under a bright green shawl. To the people of the neighborhood in which Mrs. Doer lives, this shawl is a never failing topic of conversation for it is only on rare state occasions that Mrs. Doer dons her finery and sallies forth to meet the wondering glances of a curious people. Now, as she slowly mounted the veranda steps, we waited with bated breath to see what the matter might be. Much to my surprise, her usual sour countenance was lighted up by a genial smile; she beamed placidly on us, for a moment, with such evident self-satisfactjon that it caused us to wonder anew. Turning to Mother she said, “Won’t you and Mr. Karn come right over and spend the evening at my house?” “No,-” she continued, “I won’t take any excuse.” So without more ado, entirely regardless of both Mother’s and Father’s unwillingness to accompany her, she ushered them off the veranda and down the walk towards her home. “Oh, Miss Marie,” she called back, as an afterthought, “Wouldn’t you like to come along too? Perhaps you will be frightened, if you stay in the house alone.” “Never fear,” 1 gayly called back, “Burglars hold no terrors for me,” for certainly anything was better than an evening’s captivity in Mrs. Doer’s stuffy little parlor, with its hard, uncomfortable, straight-back chairs. Thus, being left to my own diversions and just a little nervous, I thought sleep would be the best solace for my loneliness. It seemed to me, I had been in bed and asleep but a few moments, when a loud clap of thunder rudely awakened me from my dreams. Outside the rain was coming down in torrents; the lightning flashed across the sky; the thunder sounded and resounded; the wind blew furiously among the tree tops; it was as if all the gigantic forces of nature had taken a stand against me. I was terribly and completely alone. Just as the clock struck twelve there was a sharp flash of lightning, followed by a’ particularly loud clap of thunder. Then all was dark and still. There was a stealthy movement in my room— “What was it? What could it be?” I wanted to shriek, but my tongue lay parched and dry in my mouth, so I made no audible sound. Pulling the covers closer around me, I snuggled my head deeper into the pillows. My heart beat wildly and furiously, and my breath came in short, uneven gasps. 1 was hot and cold alternately, and my head seemed to be spinning around like a top. Finally, unable to stand the awful suspense longer, I raised myself upon my arm, and stared into the darkness. My eyes seemed to clash with another pair of intensely bright eyes that gleamed at me in the blackness. Then something sprang at my feet. I waited no longer, but jumped out of my bed, and switched on the light. There at the foot of my bed, blinking stupidly at me, lay my dog, Tulfy, who, frightened by the storm, had sought human companionship. —Florence McCann.

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THE KEI) AND GREEN Page Five “Yes.” “What would you advise me to do ef a powah-ful hansum man should ask me to marry him? “Has you any property?” “Yes, all dat you left me and sum mo’, too.” “Well, I’ll tell you. The first man wat prepositions to you and you likes him, you go and get married; I’d advise you to marry de man wut calls at de house tomorrow night all dressed up in a dress suit.” “Yes. Spike! Spike! Spike!” Mose had awakened from his feigned trance. “No cha’ge ma’m. A woman as beautiful as you, why ah’d do anything foil you! You should walk on clouds. Your life should be one sweet dream. Oh, such eyes.” Emeline blushed, asked Mose to call sometime, and left. Needless to say Mose was there promptly the next night, in his cutaway coat, silk hat and purple spats. Emeline was glorious. They sat on the sofa together, and talked and talked. They talked of nothing, but seemed to be well pleased and so kept on conversing on the same subject. But, oh fate! the devil will always get in. The devil in this case was a thoughtless break on Mose’s part. “Do you know,” said Emeline, “Ah jus’ think it’s wondahful dat a man can he a medjum.” Oh, it ain’t hahd. All the people will bite.” “All the people will what?” His foot was in it. Emeline saw through him. What w'as he to do? Bluff through? Impossible! His mind refused to work. Before he knew it, the story of his whole life had been poured into the ears of Emeline, even his attempt as an impostor. He was down on his knees. He was pleading, begging. What! He was asking Emeline if she would marry him. Did she? Well, I guess. Never would she have another chance to have a man with such brains as his. He was accepted. “An what shall we do?” asked Emeline. “Why, dat’s easy. With the rent from youah house and the coin pulled in by the medjumly crazy people heahabouts, we will have a cumf’table livin’. You know, Emeline, der’s a fish to be hooked every day.” —Nathan C. Martin. The Double Victory' In a cool, spacious, living room sat a middle aged man reading his morning paper. A young chap, opening the door softly, walked in on tip toe, slapped the man on the back, and said, “Hello Dad! How are you and Cedarhurst.” The man jumped to his feet replying: “Dick! I am glad to see you back and proud of my only son, who has finished college. Congratulations, old top! I was sorry I couldn’t go down to see you at the exercises.” The boy, with a grin on his face, grasped his father’s hands. “Dad, I thank you; but Harvard was glad to get rid of me. Gee! but I am tired and hot.” “Well then, Dick,” continued his father, “Run along and clean up. You know where your room is, and we shall have a talk afterwards.” Dick turned and went out, leaving his father to return to his paper. An hour afterwards he returned looking more handsome than ever. “Dad, you wrote me that Brymptonwood w’as sold. Who bought it?” was his first remark. “Why? Didn’t I tell you? A wealthy broker by the name of Hudson has bought it. He has a beautiful daughter. Look out Dick that you don’t fall in love with her.” “Don’t talk nonsense, Dad. I am going on a tour of the grounds. So long!” With this response Dick rushed out of the house. The next day Dick, mounted on Billy Sunday’s back, was galloping in one of Brymptonwood’s bridle paths when he turned a corner and nearly ran over a young lady who was trying to fix her saddle. Dick stopped his horse and asked, “May I help you?” “Why yes,” returned the girl. “My saddle has become unfastened. Will you please fasten it?” Dismounting, Dick fastened the saddle and then helped the girl to remount. She gathered up her reins and smilingly said, “Thank you Mr.— Mr. -------.” “Mr. Norton,” blurted out Dick. “Mr. Norton,” she replied, “I am Muriel Hudson. Call some time. 1 must be going now as mother will be worried. I told her I should be home at