Quincy High School - Goldenrod Yearbook (Quincy, MA)

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T te Cjolden After eating an early dinner, my friend and I informed our host of our plans. I had a feeling that this might happen”, he said. That is why I hesitated to tell you the story. But now that you are determined, perhaps I had better go with you to guide you as far as the chateau.” We assured him that we could manage it safely, but he said that he felt somewhat responsible for us and so he must go. At 6:30 P.M. we left our rooming house, climbed into the car, and headed for the house of mystery. Both M. LeSage and I carried a revolver and I had a flashlight. It was agreed that after we reached the house, our host would drive the car back to the village and should call for us at sunrise the next morn- ing at some appointed place. Our ride through the valley was uneventful as there was nothing but wheat fields on either side of the road, but as we neared the northern end, the coun- try became wooded and wild. At last we started up the road that led to the chateau. About a quarter of a mile from our destination we were advised by our guide to stop the car and proceed on foot, as the road ahead was impossible for a vehicle. We accepted his advice and he, after walking with us to where we could see the building in the distance, left us to face the mysteries of the night by ourselves. As we walked forward through the fading light, we could see forming be- fore us a mansion of enormous size. It was entirely of French style with many gables and huge windows. A flight of broad marble steps led up to the front entrance, which consisted of two high doors of exquisite French design. Even in the dilapidated and neglected condition, the building was a beautiful piece of architecture. M. Lesage and I walked around the house once to take in the surroundings. We found that it was bordered on all sides, except one, by woods, the fourth side being near the edge of the bluff. At last we decided to enter the house. Gaining the top of the marble steps, we slipped through the boards, pried loose five years before by the discoverers of Albert Dumont’s ghost. Inside it was as dark as a dungeon. I turned my flashlight and played it about the walls. We were in a long wide hallway with a wide staircase directly in front of us. To the left and right were doors leading to various rooms. We entered one of these and found that we were in a spacious dining room. A large mahogany table stood in the center of the room doing its best to stand on three legs. The other had fallen away. Broken pieces of chairs and bits of statuary lay scattered over the floor, and torn, cob- webbed curtains hung crazily over the windows. From this room we went from one to another, finding everything ruined and dilapidated. Finally after exploring everything except the cellar and attic, we chose the living room in which to await our ghost. Making ourselves as comfortable as possible in one corner of the room, we settled down for the night. (continued on page 28)

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T te Cjclclen As the time rolled on Jacques Dumont grew old and feeble and gradually began to repent the hasty action he had taken against his son and sole heir. At times he was tempted to inquire about him from some of his erstwhile friends, but his stubbornness always prevailed. Suddenly one spring morning in 1858 a dark skinned, middle aged man called at the chateau and asked for old Dumont. On being granted an inter- view, the bronzed stranger, who proved to be a Spaniard, told the aged gen- tleman that he had been sent to him by his son. The father now forgot all he had held against Albert and plied the messenger with questions. He learned that his boy, on leaving home, had gone to sea, but after a short time had returned to land, joining a newly formed band of fighting men in Northern Africa, organized for the purpose of helping France in the conquest of Algeria. These men were known as the French Foreign Legion. For a year he fought under the tricolor of France, but during one of the Legion’s campaigns against the barbaric tribes of the Atlas, he was shot. While dying he requested this Spaniard, one of his closest comrades, to return to France, seek out his father and beg his forgiveness for him. This report was a severe blow to the old gentleman and he died two months later. Now comes the part that you may feel skeptical in believing. After the death of its owner the chateau was boarded up and deserted, and up until five years ago never held much fear for the peasantry of our neighborhood. One day five years ago two fine young lads of our village decided to go in and explore inside of the house of mystery, much against the will of their parents. Half the village followed to watch them. After much effort three or four boards were pried loose from the front door of the building and the young- lads entered. For a minute or so all went well, but suddenly a terrifying screech broke out from the house and two young bucks, white as ghosts, came tumbling head over heels through the small opening made in the door. With- out waiting to be told, the entire group set out for the village at a terrific pace. The ghost of Albert Dumont had made its first appearance. For a few seconds silence prevailed. Do you believe this story?” I asked at last. I really do not know what to believe, monsieur. My common sense tells me that it is ridiculous, but still the two boys, now men, swear it is true.” That night my sleep was limited. Here indeed, I thought, was a story for my paper. In the morning M. LeSage and I discussed the chateau continually and finding that his curiosity was no less aroused than mine, I suggested that we delay our trip to Paris long enough to explore that mysterious building and its surroundings. Of course neither one of us believed we would meet with a ghost or anything of the sort, but as in defiance of the spirit of Albert Dumont we decided to attack his fortress at dusk and remain in the house till well after dark, when the supernatural world is supposed to come out of hiding.

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THE CHANGING YEAR THE END OF SUMMER There is a somber sadness in the going Of summer blossoms in the wind, In the music of the maple leaves blowing, In ranks of scarlet all too suddenly thinned. It is a time to pause, considering How swiftly beauty comes, how swiftly dies, With summer leaving but a memory of her: A late rose lonely in its dream Beside a lane where only grasses stir. And lingering at the edges of the day. A sunflower's dial that ticked the summer away. Curtis Higgins OCTOBER October is an artist gay, She may portray In any way, with clever brush. The golds and bright-reds of the sun - • The dew when morning has begun. She can most prettily adorn A lawn, of dignified estate Or poorly cottage lashed by Fate. In afternoons, her pictures rare May beautify scenery everywhere. The leaves that dance about at will Fly, and fly some more until The light winds turn colder And October’s days grow older. Then leaves of all abodes will stay Untouched in such a frozen way — November will be advancing. A. H. A RAINY DAY The countryside was wet and green, The rain was pouring down And making streams and riverlettes All through the quiet town. The children’s faces all were pressed Against the window panes And gazed with hopeful longing looks Along the rain-filled lanes. And when at last the rain made way, The long awaited sun With sparkling golden rays of light Seemed looking now for fun. Marjorie lladlock NOVEMBER November is the ending of the year. Its leaden clouds that shelter rain ana snow Grow thicker in the sky and hang so low They hide the sun and make the whole world drear. The barren trees, beside the waters clear, Whose leaves around their twisted trunks now blow. Proclaim a fact which we already know: That summer has departed with its cheer. But there are other days both crisp and cold On which the sun is bright and sends its rays To warm the earth and ev’ry human heart. We look ahead to winter winds so bold And to those sparkling, shortened winter days. November's not the ending, it’s the start. Charlotte Coates