Plainfield High School - Milestone Yearbook (Plainfield, NJ)

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8 THE ORACLE His Just Reward (As told by Sydney Angleman—Honorable Mention, Babcock Prize.) A creak, a glow of the setting sun of autumn, the sound of a falling latch, and someone entered. In the dim half-light of the store, the figure was barely discernible to the men seated around the fire in the back. And yet they could sense an intangible something which had come through the momentarily opened door, a feeling as of two unseen conflicting forces. An air of constraint seized the men in the gathering as the arrival came slowly into the arc of the fire- light. They saw a young man of about twenty-three, clean-shaven, clad in a rather flashy autumn suit of the latest city cut and style, with a rather care-free expression, which spoke, although silently, the word money, as clearly as though a giant had roared it forth from the top of the mountain. The overalled, thick-whiskered man next to the stove stirred uneasily; His companion on the left whispered softly to him, “He’s the feller up to the big new house on Double Top Mountain, Jim. He’s one of them there city vacation bums.” Jim Ranford was the postmaster and the keeper of the general store at Mendon, a small village in the high western part of the Catskills. No one who knew Jim ever forgot him, whether they had known him as of old times, when he was “alwus a smilin’ and cheerful,” as old Mrs. Knight put it, or during the last three or four years, when he never smiled, but stared, always stared at you with hunted look. Suddenly, the stranger dropped his careless attitude, stood straight and firm, his gaze fixedly set on a service flag on the wall by the stove. His hand came up and saluted with the precision which is a characteristic of the trained army man alone. Jim’s voice broke the stillness. “Why'd you do that?” he asked. “Why did I do that?” replied the young man, “I’ve made a vow to salute every gold star since—.” Here he stopped and looked again at the flag. ‘But the star’s only half gold,” he added, glancing questioningly at Jim. “Only half gold,” Jim repeated dully, “only half gold, and he was only half soldier. It’s fer Jim, Jim Ranford, Jr. He waited for the draft, and then he hated to go at that. He got across, but we never knew what become of him. ‘hey—they say,” he pointed to the men around him, “they say he deserted and was shot.” A change came in Jim’s face. ‘“You’re all damn liars,” he cried with the anger of despair. Then softly, “Poor Jim, War, too.” and me in the Spanish “Jim—Jim Ranford, the stranger whispered. Then, triumphantly, ‘Yes,

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THE ORACLE | Valedictory Address KATHARINE HOLT. Classmates: ° In one of the most successful and most charming of recent plays,— “Dear Brutus”—is told the story of ‘a magic wood. If anyone wanders in this forest, he is given an opportunity to live his life as he might have wished to live it if he had been offered a second chance. We, who are leay- ing our four years here, are going out with every opportunity of making our lives what we choose, but to none of us will come the privilege of entering the magic wood. We must first, then, convince ourselves that our gleams are indeed the ones which we want to follow, and then we must work tirelessly and fearlessly for the fulfillment of our ambition. “Launch your vessel, And crowd your canvas, And, ere it vanishes Over the margin, Atter it, follow it, Follow the gleam.”

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THE ORACLE 9 it was! Men, I have a story to tell.”” And strangely enough, those rough and ready men of the soil listened like little children to the cultured voice of the son of the city’s despised rich. “It was back in September, 1918,” he began, “in the Argonne Forest. We had had a hard day’s fight, and toward night I found myself in a shell- hole with another fellow about my own age. ‘The Germans began a heavy barrage about that time, so we gave each other our names and addresses, think- ing that maybe one of us would get out all right. It was about eight o’clock when we both got ours at the same time. |My comrade was hit badly enough, but I got mine for sure. My wound drove me out of my head, and the last thing I remember before I woke up in the hospital was being carried out of the shell-hole by my companion. Later on an American soldier, who was captured at that time, told me of that trip, or rather of what he saw of it as, wounded, he lay helpless on the ground. According to him I was being dragged along by another soldier, who was walking backward, strange to say. Once this soldier stopped, turned around, and began going forward, but at that I, out of my head, began to fight him and scream that I would never turn my back on the enemy. My rescuer stopped, seemed to ask himself a question, and then resumed his painful backward march. “The stretcher-bearers found us lying together. He was dead, and I almost so. [hey took me to the rear, but his body was never seen again. He could have let me go, easily enough, and saved himself. It would have been better if he had, for the finer man of the two of us, the finest man I know, should have lived that night. I could not find the paper he gave me, nor even remember his name, until tonight when hearing it has brought it back to me. “That man was Jim Ranford. And you, sir,” turning to old Jim, “I salute you as I would my highest officer.” There was a long pause. ‘No, don’t touch the star,” the city man went on, “let it be gold for the sacrifice he made, for the man he was, and blue for the courage and loyalty he displayed.” “All was still. They made a picture, those men. ‘There in the center stood the stranger, alight again with patriotism and the heat of fight, ranged around him the farmers on the boxes, barrels, and old chairs, their pipes forgotten in their excitement and astonishment, Jim with a new light dawning in his tired face, and little Tom, his only son now, who had just come in, standing open- mouthed behind the counter. ‘The last light of the afterglow, so bright in these mountains, came through the open window, touched the star, and turned the blue into a royal glow, the gold into a glory. Jim turned, looked at the flag, then at Tom behind the counter. “Tom,” he said, and there was pride, joy, and re-birth in the homely words,, ‘“T'om, the fire needs a leetle more wood.” |