Plainfield High School - Milestone Yearbook (Plainfield, NJ)

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THE ORACLE 5 they not the very image of their father? Were they not as pretty as pictures and as good-hearted as saints? To the great joy of the mother, Jack, at sixteen, was given light employment in a factory. Mrs. Mc- Carthy then looked out upon the world with a smiling face. In her heart blossomed that rosy little creature, Hope. She thought that by “taking in sewing” now and then and with the five dollars which Jack would earn, she would be able to make a living. The first and second weeks all her rose-colored visions came true. She had time to look after her children, to sew, cook and mend for her own benefit, and to -cultivate the acquaintance of her neighbors. A new life was dawning for her. . “Mrs. Rosse,’ she said to the woman at the grocery corner, “my life has become so pleasant, and Jack is getting such a responsible man. I used to be afraid that he would stick to nothing but mischief, and now he is all that I could wish.” Poor woman! She little knew that happiness is like a morning-glory, short lived. On the third pay day after Jack had begun to work, he did not come home as usual. A vague, unaccountable fear oppressed the mother’s heart. Where was her boy? She dispatched all the children to search for him, then went out herself. In a pool room half a block away, she found her son and many other mothers’ sons wasting the money for which they had toiled an entire week. They were all flushed and excited and during every pause in the game re- freshed themselves with bottles of soda, apparently, but having a strong odor of beer. Into this throng Mrs. McCarthy pushed. Her face blazing with pain and anger, she begged Jack to leave the vile den and come home. “Yah! Yah!’’ mocked the negro proprietor, “Jack mah son, go home to ma and go to bed. Little boys mustn’t be out at night. Bogey Man cotch him. Yah! Yah!—Eh fellers?” “Ha! Ha! Ha! O Jack, g’long an’ mind the baby.” “Shut-up, you—you—dog. Let me take my boy and go home. You have no right letting minors play, anyhow.” “Git out ob heah dis minute. I won't have anybody ’sturbin’ mah busi- ness. Git out ob heah, I tells yo’. I doesn’t know how old dese fellers is, I weren't at dere christening. Now, Jack, be yo’ a baby or be yo’ a man, big nuff to take care ob yourself, without a female trottin’ after yo’?”

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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 ¢

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6 CoE Gre Ces As Jack hesitated and drew back a little, Mrs. McCarthy’s Irish blood boiled. For a few minutes dire confusion reigned in the pool room. The balls flew out of the broken windows; the soda bottles sputtered in the street gutter, and Mrs. McCarthy emerged escorting Jack by the coat collar—from the midst of a hooting crowd. fe BR ER dk dk de de It was the day before election when the case of assault upon a peaceful citizen of Stapleton was called. The court room was bordered by a band of black, the sole break in the monotony being effected by a munificent show of white ivory. A few women nodded their heads encouragingly towards Mrs. McCarthy, while that woman, her hands tightly clasped and resting in her lap, and her finger nails almost digging into the meager flesh, sat quietly, and listened to an account of her behavior. She had assaulted a peaceful citizen of Stapleton; she had been de- stroying private property, and had disgraced her sex. “Five dollars fine, and damages.” The Lunch Hour Between the morning and evening When the sun is beginning to glower, Comes a pause in the day’s occupation Which is known as the feeding hour. A sudden rush for the hallway, A sudden range for the stair ; And I know by their eager faces They are hustling to get there. But woe to the lagging pupil Who haps to be last in line, For he finds to his infinite sorrow There is naught w herewith to dine. CLARA HALLARD.