Quincy High School - Goldenrod Yearbook (Quincy, MA)

Page 16 text:

14 THE GOLDEN-ROD “But, ma’am,” remonstrated the maid calmly, “here is their letter, and they say their name’s M—” “I don’t care what their name is, and throw that letter in the fire, and leave me alone!” screeched the irate woman. Bessie quietly left, and a minute later a distant door banged loudly. Left alone with her thoughts, Molly- settled herself in her chair. Anyway, what could two children want with her? When her fit of anger had passed, she was somewhat curious. She knew so little about children. Many tender mem- ories of her own son’s childhood rushed through her brain, but she avoided them. Painfully, drowsily, she rocked herself. . . . How hot it was! . . . How could peo- ple bustle so? Subconsciously, she could hear a wordy battle raging in the kitchen . . . and cries of children . . . and motors passing . . . How hot it was! . . . Ah! . . . She knew no more till— “Oh, p’itty lady, p’case wake up. P’itty lady, are you died like my papa and my mama? My mama say she goin’ to heaven. P’itty lady, don’t go dead. You go heaven, too, p’aps.” The roundest and bluest of baby eyes were gazing be- seechingly into hers. Children! Dimly she thought she was doomed to see children today. “You tell, Sylvia,” urged the boy and, nothing loath, the child began and told their pitiful story in a sweet, babyish voice. “Well, my p’itty mama and my papa went dead with a nasty sickness.” “Fever,” put in the boy. “Yeth, feber,” nodded Sylvia knowing- ly, “an’ my papa hadn’t got any penny any more, an’ our house was all horrid, an’ we had nothin’ for breakfus’, or for dinner, or for tea. An’ my papa say, ‘Sylbia, your papa hasn’t got any penny anv more, but I give some moneys to Bob an’ you go Likkle Heyton, an’ you go Granny’s church an’ Granny see you, an’ give you home, an’ you be happy.’ That’s what my papa say ’fore he went dead. An’ he gived Bob letter for you, to ’splain us. An’ we hab come, an’ we are happy, aren’t we, Bob?” Then it was Bessie who took up the story. They had been to the church, and then there had followed that unfortunate scene. They had come tearfully to the house, and when the unfeeling mistress refused them entrance, the kind-hearted maid heard their tale and took them into her own room, hoping for a chance of reconciliation; she had sent the children into the room while Molly was asleep. She had saved the letter which Molly had ordered her to burn, and now she pro- duced it. For the second time that day, poor Molly had received a shock. From the child’s disconnected story she had gath- ered that they were her son’s children, and in the letter it was unquestionably proved: her own son had recently died of fever in a squalid London tenement house. The children implicitly believed that her home was open to them. When the story was perfectly e’ear, Molly’s wall of reserve had fallen, her heart had melted, and the children had crept into it. On the Heyton Road, set well back, there still stands a red brick house, which is no longer rightfully named “Gloomy Grange,” for now there echo the merry voices and dancing feet of light-hearted children. BY CANDLE LIGHT Editii Donde, June, 1930 We was settin’ round the table watchin’ the candle light, hew it played on Grand- ma’s wrinkled check and made a halo round her silvery hair—makes her look sorta ethereal, like the pictures o’ the angels in the hymn book. We all feel kinda quiet-like and sombre a-settin’ in the candle light. Seems ’most as if ’twas church, we all settin’ sorta reverent a-watchin’ the flickerin’ light. Don’tcha sorta like the candle light when all the

Page 15 text:

THE GOLDEN-ROD 13 red brick house which, when my story begins, was rightfully nicknamed, “Gloomy Grange.” One sweltering Sunday afternoon, in- side that house, a careworn woman was drowsily rocking herself. She started, and half rose as Bessie, the housemaid, tapped and then entered. The interruption brought an annoyed frown to her face. “Well:” she asked curtly. “Visitor, ma’am. Lady from the church, I think, ma’am.” “Tell her I can’t see her, and for pity’s sake, leave me alone.” “Yes, ma’am.” “And Bessie!” “Y’es, ma’am:” “Tell them all that. There’ll be more here before lunch-time.” “Aw right, ma’am.” With the frown still there, the woman began to think over the events of the day. That morning she had driven to the vil- lage church in her old-fashioned carriage, as she had done as regularly as a clock for the past forty years. There was nothing unusual in that. She had walked slowly through the church yard, as was her custom, and there she had found not a blade of grass out of place. No, there was nothing unusual in the church yard. Then she had entered the church as rev- erently as usual, and turned to enter the corner pew that had been marked “Mon- roe” for several decades. But suddenly she had rigidly drawn herself up, and gazed with blazing eyes into the mutely appealing eyes of two urchins ensconced in her seat. Although they cowed under this look, it was evident that they were expecting someone or something. Brist- ling with indignation and oblivious of the amazed congregation, she had swept out of the church, to her maid’s perplexity. Speechless, she had driven home and, since, she had seen and spoken to no one but Bessie. Now, she ruminated thus: “Maybe I should have seen it out to save the gossip. ... But the nerve of anyone daring to sit in my pew, which has been in the Monroe family since before I was born. And when I always pay my pew rent so regularly! What on earth was Gibbons thinking of to let that kind of children in, anyway?” And the woman rocked the chair viciously, with anger, till the dog at her feet howled in sympathy with the chair’s creaks. She stooped and picked up the dog, stroking it caressingly. Molly Monroe was a strange mixture. All human love and gentleness had gone out of her life ten years ago, when the idol of her life, her only son, Robert, had run away with the village belle, a “coarse hussy,” as Molly thought. Since then she had gradually grown more embit- tered to the world, secretly bestowing worlds cf affection on this dog, who was a descendant of Ruff, the only personal possession left by Robert in his hasty departure. In her fifties, Molly Monroe was a prematurely old woman. No one understood her except the housemaid, Bessie, who valued her position too highly to show outward sympathy, although she deeply loved and pitied her mistress. Sam Monroe had deserted his wife only six months after Robert’s birth, and she had grieved sorely. Now she forced her- self to conquer love, and never showed anyone a trace of kindly feeling. Somebody tapped, and Molly guiltily dropped the dog as Bessie entered again. “Well, what’s up now? Did’nt I tell you to leave me alone?” “Beg pardon, ma’am,” pleaded Bessie, “but there is two of the beautifullest chil- dren at the door, and they have a letter for you, ma’am, all prop’ly addressed, and beg pardon, ma’am, but I asked them to step in, and—” “You what?” shrilled Molly, whose face had been purpling during this speech. She thought in exclamation points. “Two children! in the Monroe house!—in it!—and Bessie of all people! What next? Bessie,” she cried when she had recovered speech, “Turn them out, this minute!”

Page 17 text:

THE GOLDEN-ROD 15 plates are cleared away, an’ all your chores arc done? It’s then I seems to see my faults and wish that I had followed the “Golden Rule” and minded my mom ’n’ pop. And do ya know, I even wisht I hadn’t stolen the apples from outer Deacon Crabtree’s orchard on that night so long ago, though he was so downright mean. Ef I had been settin’ in the candle light all the time, I'd never have sassed my mom V pop or left my chores undone. Bet I’d have been the model that they were al- ways talkin’ about. Ef I had been as good as that, mom would think I’d ketched somethin,’ an’ gimme a dose o’ sulphur an’ put me to bed. Jest the same, I like to be a-settin’ in the candle light a-watchin’ the shaders play round the kitchen an’ makin’ a hale aro n’ Grandma’s silv’ry hair. WHY BOYS LEAVE HOME Robert Owens, February, 1931 On the first warm, sunny day of the year the natural tendency of youths with nothing to do and all day to do it in is to go somewhere beyond their usual haunts. Accordingly, three of the repre- sentatives of the rising generation adorn- ing the doorway of the Quincy Y.M.C.A., decided to solicit rides, as the Master of Youthful Destinies at Quincy High calls the well-known practice of “bumming” rides. The first car carried the three to Weymouth, where they were picked up by a constable from Cape Cod, homeward bound after carrying a prisoner from his native heath to the Charlestown Prison, and who was therefore not particular as to whom he rode with. Learning that their host was going all the way to Hyannis, the travelers decided that it wouldn’t be a bad idea to spend the night at the Quincy “Y” camp in Sandwich. They stopped at the village of Sand- wich to buy food out of their combined finances, which amounted to a dollar and sixty-two cents. The camp was found after tramping seven miles over muddy roads through now pitch-dark woods. The wayfarers decided not to go right in, however, since there were three dogs in front, apparently very large and fierce, and all protesting loudly and determin- edly at the approach of strangers. The boys stopped, but the dogs didn’t, so the former went hastily up the nearest tree, supplies and all. After a time, some un- known personage called off the reception committee, and the uninvited guests clambered down the tree and through an unlocked window of the deserted house. There is something about a very dark, large, empty and unknown place that off- sets the usual nonchalance of anyone who enters it with only matches for light. Thus it was very close together that the three prowled around the whole house, explor- ing every nook and corner for things that might come in handy during the coming long night. Among the things found were lamps, firewood, old mattresses and a blanket, dishes, baseball bats, a hunting knife and an axe: the last three objects were to be used in case the place was stormed in the middle of the night by bandits, bootleg- gers, cutthroats, or demons. After the whole place had been looked over, our heroes prepared and ate their supper, which consisted of beans, bread, pineapple, and oranges. The night, one of the longest nights on record, was spent in lying, but not sleep- ing, on mattresses spread out in front of the fireplace, with one small blanket, a burlap curtain, and one another for cover- ings. In the middle of the night the fire went out so the three, all being wide-awake and cold, got up, built a new fire, and played football. While the fire was still burning brightly, they sought the covers again and remained under them until morning. The wanderers rose at the crack of dawn and ate the remaining food, after which they cleaned up the place where they had slept and eaten. About seven-