Plainfield High School - Milestone Yearbook (Plainfield, NJ)

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THE ORACLE 3 A splint’ring crash, a rush of foam in the wake of the grinding screw, A shattered wreck that drifts astern as the liner fades from view. Cries and curses and prayers ring out from the schooner’s drowning crew. “Heave to, heave to, in the name of God! You've cut ‘us clean in two!” But the steamer never slowed nor turned; the engine-throbbing passed. Our mail and business cannot wait,—the ship must travel fast. Behind her, tossing in her wake, lay half the sinking wreck ; The skipper staggered to his feet upon the reeling deck: “God’s curse on you for a murderer,—you've left us here to drown! You wouldn’t stop to send a boat after you ran us down. Damn you! and damn your owners that make you speed each run, And damn the cabin passengers that stand and see it done! But judgment’s waiting for you all. You're able to forget. But if there’s a God in Heaven you'll answer for it yet!” A plunge, a rush of bubbles, and the circling whirlpools close, Then out of the eddying waters a single swimmer rose. Some feeble strokes,—then o’er his head the curling wave-tops hissed, And the naked sea lay empty beneath the shrouding mist. The tale is old,—as old as death, As old as the curse of Cain; Old as sorrow and parting and woe, Old as grief and pain. Old indeed, but ever new To those who watch in vain, To the Glou’ster women who wait for those Who'll ne’er return again. = — —

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2 DHE: ORAGLE. A Glou’ster Tale Awarded First Prize in the George H. Babcock Competition in English Composition. JOHN DELANCEY FERGUSON. The tale is old,—as old as death, As old as the curse of Cain; Old as sorrow and parting and woe, Old as grief and pain. Old indeed, but ever new To those who watch in vain, To the Glou’ster women who wait for those Who'll ne’er return again. Upon the Banks of Newfoundland, where the shrouding fog lies thick, The fishermen hear the siren’s shriek and the screw’s pulse beating quick, And they ring their bells and blow their horns as the liner rushes past, Heedless of the fishers’ lives, and deaf to their fog-horn’s blast. Because the cabin passengers are driv’n by money-greed, Because our letters may not wait, she never slackens speed. The liner gains an hour,—who cares if the fishers drown? Who cares for the tears of the women in far-off Glou’ster town? When the Polar Star from Glou’ster stood out to open sea, The skipper saw his wife and child stand watching on the quay ; And that was the last sight that he saw as Glou’ster dropt astern, A memory to cheer his heart until his home-return. Three months went by. Her salt all wet, the Polar Star turned south. In one week more her men would see the lights of the harbor mouth. That afternoon a wall of fog closed on them, fold by fold, A creeping, crawling bank of white, clammy and damp and cold. And through the fog they heard a throb, like the throb of a tired heart, And then a piercing siren-wail; to the bell the fishers dart, And the bell clangs out and the fog-horn brays, as the throbbing mounts and grows,— The steady, relentless steamer-pulse that every banker knows. Then out of the fog there leapt a shape,—a tall, black, knife-sharp stem; For a single second, that seemed an age, it towered over them.

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4 THE ORACLE. A Mother’s Cares Awarded Second Prize in the George H. Babcock Competition in English Composition. (Taken from real life) GRACE SRAGER. Mrs. McCarthy lived in a small block overflowing with children, large, small, and middle-sized, to which her own contribution was by no means small. She had been left a widow with the poor man’s usual legacy, many small children, and no means to support them, so that the little woman toiled from sunrise till sunset to keep her children from the public home, and to make decent men and women out of them. At five o’clock in the morning, there was a great stir in the McCarthy apartments of three rooms. Dishes rattled, and dust flew, while the fragrance of newly made coffee was sturdily elbowed out by the more energetic savor of fried onions. Then, when dinner had been prepared, the children dressed for school, and the house put in a sanitary condition, Mrs. McCarthy trudged off to her washing, sewing, or nursing. At stx o’clock, if no one required her services for the night, she would drag herself wearily homeward. Between showers of kisses Mamie was sure to gulp out: “Ma, Willie hit me and took my ball away from me.” “T did not, you fibber. It was my ball what Brick Top gi’ me.” “Ma, what’s for supper? The cat ate up the milk.” “Ma,” chimes in baby Helen, “Ma, Jack bwoke Mrs. Wosse’s window, he did. He was fiwin’ stones at Pwince, he was.” Mrs. McCarthy heard similar complaints lodged very often, but with patience born of experience she settled these matters by a kiss, a whipping, or an air-clearing scolding, sighing with relief when she had her wild flock safe in bed. However, it was not only the mischievous side that these waifs showed to their mother, for the rosiest apple, the plumpest cherries were carefully picked out, stored on the top shelf of the closet, and lovingly cherished for mother. As Old Father Time paced slowly along for the widow of Preston Avenue, his track left little physical change on the strength and size of the McCarthy children. The youngsters inherited their father’s physique and were mere dwarfs; but although Mrs. McCarthy knew that they would be debarred from work because of their youthful appearance, yet she thought that a better or finer group of children could not be found anywhere. Were ¢