Greenwood School - Tree Yearbook (Ruxton, MD)

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IMPRESSIONS THEARRIVAL A hill-great white pillars at the top- the rest only a dim shape shrouded in gray f rain. A long curving driveway, wet and align j slippery like a snake, and ending in a court- X 4 Q yard, curtained on each side by the rain. ' The school housefand a large bell black Qlff. against green ivy. Black cars-people slush- f ing around with black galoshes and unbrel- X' ,x:33Nv las-black, rather like a funeral. The ring of the doorbell resounded within the house and with a creak and a shudder as if reluctant to let us in, the door opened. A huge hall with a curving staircase at one side. The 63 F 5. f Q 51 l ' 'mf , ' 3- 5' ., sig? 'N'.fN.qDjQ, ,J.X'f.NJ4'f'N-N KX: vi- stairs Bobby had told me about- most Sf J . . N g f beautiful staircase in Maryland. JX, X g! Won't you wait in the coffee-room, N X.lQf S' please? Miss Elcock will be right with Q. you. The butler vanished into the next NJN fb Lfxs room. He limped slightly. We sat down. N N The chairs were the kind that one sinks into A f g r .Xl and then has difficulty in getting out of. A 'N '. 7 wood Hre blazed in a small open hearth and i small china animals filled the bookcase next to it. Mother was pulling off her gloves- the black ones that I had wanted. The warmth of the small panelled room began to penetrate. It reminded me in some way of home and suddenly I felt better. I had begun my four years of boardingschool. Juliette Combs THE DAY MUST DAWN It's dark. Everything's dark. Pale moon-glow drifts through the open door, admitting at the same time waves of icy wind. You cautiously extend the left foot only to withdraw it rapidly to its former position. Ice seems to coat the sheets. The weight of four blankets, doubled, and a comforter make turning over impossible. After several unsuccessful attempts, you decide it isn't really worth the struggle after all, so you simply lie there and grimly endure the searing pain creeping up your right arm. At this point begins the usual wrangling. ' Did the bell ring? a hoarse and smothered voice manages. Umm-mm ftranslated from the Five-room lingo into the King's good English this means- It certainly did. Seven and a half minutes ago. j Mentally you calculate. Eight minutes of complete relaxation left. If julie would stop twisting her pillow, maybe you could concentrate on that tall dark guy who kissed you on a white cow no less than fice minutes ago. Two pillows have formed mountains against your head. Burying deeper into the dark warmth, you are fully aware of the frigid world without. Scrawny and tangled branches make a waving cobweb on the rug, reminding you that you're going to darn near freeze when you go to the gate after breakfast. The inevitable moment has finally arrived. With a reluctant heave you throw back the covers. A chill tingles through your whole body. Of course there is always the possibility that the bathroom might be warmer, but since it never is, you simply resign yourself to the fact that you'll be cold until the second period at least. Margaret VanderBogart

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THE PARKTON LOCAL Washington to Harrisburg except on Sundays those times when you want to go to Harrisburg from Washington. The heat from the end-car radiators is terrific. Gusts of air and Greenwood uniforms get on simultaneously at Monkton, Glencoe and Cockeys- ville. ' Good morning. What's good about it? The usual banter. Books thrown down on the green plush seats, orange peels on the floor, dust and paper bags on everything. Stop-Start-Stop. Ruxton! Wet platform felt through soleless shoes. Raindrops drip down your nose and spatter your legs. The train sighs and leaves with all its horrible passengers. Damp stones, cinders and other extraneous matter get in your shoes too. Books and suitcases are rearranged and the procession starts. Cars splash by silently, all empty. Why don't they stop? Where are the Brannons? Gone, I guess. You step in a puddle.. Wet feet for the rest of the day. Who cares? As books are shifted assignment books drop on the wet road. The ink has run and they are blotted, gravelly and wet. Under the trees it is not so wet. Ouch! A lot of water fell right down your neck. Why did you say that about being under trees? Should have brought nice warm gloves 'cos your hands are pink except for the knuckles and wet and cold and numb. Nearly half way now. More horrible empty cars go by. The Brannons at last tear by and stop ahead. Books, suitcases, girls, all on top of each other. Fords are wonderful things. Not enough room for you! Apologetic faces look at you through streaming glass. Leave your books with someone and walk. Good-by-wait! Lend me your gloves. Well, life isn't always this tough. There'll be many to-morrows. Gillian Crimmins FROM STUDY HALL TO BED Brrrrrrr! the bell. Chairs scrape, voices rise harshly. A flash of blue and green as Virgils and Algebras are flipped on the shelves. Locker doors slam, coats swish through the air. An impatient push against that hesitating door, then the night air stuns with its freshness. Lights flash out through the darkness. Down Hap the blinds. Stairs seemingly endless and steep. Finally, the soft rug rumples beneath your dragging feet. Round apples, cool and smooth, fill your hands as you grope in the creaking wicker basket. A harsh screech, then the radio smooths out into a pleasant hum. There is the thunder of water, filling the tub with a rush. Drifts of steam, warm and moist and choking. Soap smells, sharp and antiseptic, soft and sweet. The rough caress of a wash cloth and the angora touch of a powder puff. The clean wash-day smell of flannel pajamas. The vigor of a tooth brush and the vibrant sting of the paste. Always voicesg talking, laughing, whispering, screaming. Footsteps, light and heavy, coasting, scufhng. Demanding, rasping bells. Icy, tickling sheets. And enveloping pillow. Blankets, thick and heavy. Sleep pressing down. jacquelin Stouffer A BREEZE I am freshly washed in the scent of the lilacg My soul has been wrung in the beauties of spring. The air, the grass, the blossoms around me Whisper a consecration- And a fragrant song sings out from my lips. Nancy Poor