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

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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

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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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Page Six THE RED AND GREEN eleven and it is eleven-thirty now. Thank you.” She turned her horse and galloped off, leaving Dick standing in a trance. When Dick got home all he thought of was the girl he had accidentally met in his morning ride. At Brymptonwood Muriel sat curled up in a window seat, pretending to read but dreaming of Dick. During the next week Dick entered his favorite horse in the Belmont park races. He also visited Brymptonwood several times without finding Muriel at home. July tenth was a clear breezy day and society, full-fledged, turned out to do homage to the races. Muriel, in the gay crowd, was watching every move that Dick Norton made. When he won the cup given by Mr. Morgan, Muriel excused herself to her friends and relatives and hastened over to the stables where she found Dick watching his groom, who was rubbing down Billy Sunday. “How do you do, Mr. Norton,” she began, “I wish to congratulate you on your victory. Will you ride my horse Beauty in next week’s races, providing it doesn’t conflict with your affairs?” “Gladly, Miss Hudson. In what race is your horse entered?” “Get me see! Oh yes! Race number five. The prize is a large cup given by the club. Could you call tomorrow at ten to see Beauty?” “Yes, I shall be glad to. Well, there is Dad waiting for me. Good-bye Mur------Miss Hudson,” replied Dick, offering his hand. “Dick,” said his father, “Who was that lady who was talking to you?” “Miss Norton, Dad. She asked me to ride her horse in next week’s races.” “Ha!” What did I tell you Dick? Come, get in. We must get home as 1 have an engagement.” On the ride home Dick and his father passed few remarks. Dick pictured himself winning the race with Beauty. Next morning at ten he entered the Brymptom-wood home, finding Muriel waiting for him, “Well, you are on time,” was Muriel’s first remark. “Yes, I always try to keep my engagements,” was Dick’s rejoinder. “Come, Mr. Norton, we will go to see Beauty.” Dick was silent throughout his visit except to admire Beauty, who was a beautiful brown horse about sixteen hands high. He rode her around the excercising yard, and as he was dismounting, Muriel said, “Do you think he will have a chance in the races?” “I assure you. Miss Hudson, that there will be no better horse on the track.” “I thank you so much, Mr. Norton, that I don’t know how I ever can thank you if you win the cup. Mother and I are going to the city to do some shopping, so 1 must say good-bye,” and Muriel offered her hand. Dick grasped it so hard that the diamonds cut his flesh, but when he realized what he was doing, he muttered a plain “Excuse me.” At that Muriel left him, and he mounted his horse after giving instructions to the groom concerning Beauty’s exercises and feeding. As he was riding home, he was wishing that Tuesday were there. Tuesday at last arrived clear, bright and breezy, with a crowd still larger than the former week’s races had drawn. Dick, looking stunning, rode Beauty before the grandstand where Muriel with fast beating heart and rosy cheeks, smiled down at him. He knew that he could win with that smile and face watching him. They lined up for the races and at the given signal a dozen horses or more leaped forward. On the first quarter, seeing Beauty was behind, Muriel turned pale. As it came near the end of the third quarter Beauty had gained. Dick urged her on for he knew if he should win, it would be by only a few feet. Now she was even with the leading horse. Dick could see that he was ahead about an inch and the finish was near. The next thing he saw that he had crossed the finishing line about two feet ahead of the others. The applause sounded from the throngs while the band began to play “Here The Conquering Hero Comes. Walking to the judges, Dick took the cup, proud of what he had done for Muriel. Muriel blindly rushed from the grandstand to the stables where she found Dick dismounting from Beauty’s back. When she came up to them, she slipped her arm around Beauty’s neck saying, “Thank you Mr. Norton,” and then to the horse, “Oh, Oh, Beauty, how I love you!” Dick drawing nearer whispered, “I love you. too, Muriel!” Slowly she raised her eyes to his and gently laid her hand in his open one. Their engagement was announced the follow-