Plainfield High School - Milestone Yearbook (Plainfield, NJ)

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6 DHE SOKA Day. I couldn't write a composition. I just simply could not get an idea out of my head on paper; besides, Timmy’s leg was always on my mind. Why, when I had to put a motion in our Junior Society, I said, “All in favor, hold up the right leg.” (It was Timmy’s right leg that was off). Mother was out of patience and said I was to put my mind on my own business. She promised me a pink hair ribbon and patent leather slippers if I’d behave myself. I hadn’t touched that old composition yet, and just two days be- fore it was due I had an idea. I went to the attic and got out Dad’s stories, took the ones I love best, made a little story of them and named it “My .Hero.” Memorial Day came, my hair ribbon was pretty, my slippers didn’t hurt much, and my dress hardly showed where it was let down. I was third on the program. I didn’t hear a word of the first two, but everybody clapped, so I guess they were good. Then it was my turn! I was so frightened, my voice seemed miles away. The au- dience was like a big blur. Only Dad’s face was clear. When I was through reading, I saw him wiping his eyes. There was not a sound; no one clapped. I knew I had made an idiot of myself. I went off the platform, down the aisle, out of the building and fairly flew home. { threw myself into the hammock and cried with rage and mortf- cation, When the worst was over and I was drying my eyes, Billy came tearing down the street, shouting, ‘‘Come back to the schoolhouse, Mary Ellen. Teacher sent me to fetch yer. Come on back. Yer got the prize. Flonest injun yer have; come on.” Now what do you think of that? Me get the prize. I followed Billy back, almost dazed. Teacher called to me, ““Mary Ellen, come forward and receive ties hives I went upon the platform covered with confusion and freckles. Dad was smiling at me. When J turned to go down again, I saw my pink ribbon lying half way down the aisle. What cared I! My nose might turn up, my hair hang straight, I might be a bean-pole, but tight in my hand I held—Timmy Sullivan’s leg.

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THE VORACEE 5 “Yes, I can,” I said. “I don’t know just how, but [ll get you one some way. I hate you, because you yelled things at me, but I like you now, because you’re hurt, and I'll get you a leg.” “Will yer shake on it and cross yer heart?” asked Timmy. I did and then said I must go. As I was leaving, he called after me, “Will it wiggle its toes, Mary Ellen?” I had made a solemn promise and I had to keep it. I never had any money. There were lots of ways I could earn it if I had been a pretty little girl with curls. I could get up soap orders, and— and, why, I could do lots of things. But Pm lanky, covered with freckles, my nose turns up, and my hair is straight as a string, al- though I’ve tried everything to make it curl. I even tried New Thought. I thought as hard as I could three nights in succession, and it seemed straighter than ever. Billy—he’s my brother—says that, if I stubbed my toe on the schoolhouse steps and fell I’d be half way home. He’s a “sawed-off” with red hair; he says it’s “orbun,”” but it curls. When I told mother that I’d promised ‘Timmy a leg, she scolded me for jumping into other people's affairs, but Dad said I had a big heart. Dear Dad! He's much older than Mother. He was in the Civil War and he’s nearly always tired. War is hard work, and fighting four years would make anyone tired forever, and he was only a boy. He loves to tell war-time stories, and I love to hear them, but Mother doesn’t. She said, once, that she wished to goodness he would put his stories in a book, then when she wanted to, she could read them. ‘That made me think of writing them down so Mother could read them when she had time. Mother keeps boarders, and she says Dad’s pension “squares the corners.” Oh! I started to tell about Timmy. I couldn’t think of anything but my promise—morning, noon and night—and I had other troubles. I had a composition to write. The D. A. R.’s offered a prize of ten dollars to the boy or girl who would write the best composition on “Our Heroes.” Our teach- er made us try for it, and we had to read the stories on Memorial

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THE ORACLE Class Porm ’Twas a day so clear and bright, When this field we first did sight, Shining in the morning light. Merry were we then, and glad, Noisy, mischievous, and bad, Laughing always, never sad. Rich the soil and bright the day Beckoned us to leave our play, Whispering of the harvest day. Then with eager, hopeful heart Entered we to do our part, To plow and sow with all our heart. Soon we planted all the seeds, Carefully we pulled the weeds, Looking on to nobler deeds. Then the little plants appeared; Tenderly they all were reared, As the harvest day we neared. Now the reaping time has come, And our work is almost done; Just reward we all have won. Hot the sun has often burned, For the shade we all have yearned, And our rest we now have earned. But the friendships we’ve made here Will last through many a year, Till our journey’s end draws near. In life’s larger field may we Always true and faithful be, ’Til the glorious goal we see. 1845, dele 1%: