Technical High School - Tech Tiger Yearbook (Springfield, MA)

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22 Ube 011016 : 1907 V0f- iv looking for you. They said no more but slowly drove the oxen home where the mother was anxiously waiting for them. Fred unloaded the wagon and turned the cattle out to pasture. That night when the boy had finished his studying and gone to bed, his father broke a long period of silence by saying to his wife, The boy be sot on leavin' and it would be cruel to make him stay. I had hoped he would be here to run the farm when I got old and was fit to work no more. There be many hundreds of acres of timber land as 'ill want cuttin' in his day and aint ripe yet for me to cut. But if we ask him to stay he'll not be happy for his one ambition is to be an engineer. We must let him go, motherg he'll come home to us often. A log in the fire broke and rolled out on the hearth. The old man rose mechanically and pushed it back with the toe of his boot. Then resuming his seat he again became absorbed in the slowly passing pictures. Eighteen -years had passed since the boy left home and no word had been received from him at the old white farm house for more than ten years. The father had climbed the mountain late every afternoon to watch for the whistle on the little stretch of track. But this day he could not go up for his wife lay very ill and could not live. The doctor told him that her life lingered like the flame of a candle-and would go out in a very few hours. She talked of her absent boy. He isn't dead or he wouldlhave spoken to me in my dreams. I have seen him, though, oh so often in the past few days. He is in some distant place and can't get back to us. Last night I dreamed there was a tall straight flag- pole on the mountain top and that one evening, as you were taking down the Hag, an engine whistled on the track. It was Fred coming home. She stopped and turned her eyes on her husband. He was such a grand old man with white hair and a long Howing white beard. He seemed the reflection of the man by the fire. His eyes were filled with tears as he took the hand of the fading flower on the bed before him. She looked pleadingly at him and asked: When I have left you for a little while, I want you to do some- thing for me. Hunt through your forest and find the tallest

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T-HS Ubi? wriole : 1907 21 an orange, a wooden sword whittled from a pine shingle, a pair of heavy shoes, and, last of all, what was it? Dad, what is it? was the question that broke the silence. Well, they say at the town, as that be a tin model of a real engin, was the father's proud answer. Fred had often heard about engines but he had never pictured them to look so won- derful as the tin model. He forgot to eat his candy cane, forgot to play with the wooden sword. He only ran the engine back and forth in front of the fire. His father watched him and gave him valuable instructions as to which lines on the rag carpet should be the tracks, which the cross roads, and which the rivers or brooks. What a happy day that Christmas was with the sturdy boy absorbed in his steam engine, the strong father enjoying the pleasure of his boy, and the pretty mother rejoicing because the others were so gay. The clock told the hour with a sound like ten blows of a hammer upon an anvil, the picture faded from the fire and gave place to another. It was an autumn afternoon about ten years later. The father was driving home a yoke of oxen hitched to awagon loaded with yellow corn stalks. He stopped to rest on the crest of a knoll where he could obtain a good view of the town road along which he was expecting to see a lad coming with a bundle of books and a lunch box under his arm. Toward the west the road wound its crooked course to the big white farm house built against the foot of a high mountain. The lad came into sight around a bend in the road, and when he saw his father on the knoll broke into a run. Dad, he cried, running up to him, the railroad is coming through the town and best of all it will run over the very place that can be seen from our old mountain top. The father looked thoughtfully into his eager face. Be you as sot on bein' an engineer as ever? he asked. Yes, Dad, was the quick reply, Hand just think you can walk up the moun- tain in the afternoon and watch for my train to go by. Then when I rush over the place where I can see the old mountain, I'll blow the whistle and you'll see the steam, and know that I'm

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TH--51 'Ctbe NUOI6 : 1907 23 straight tree and make it into a white Hag-pole, then put it on top of the mountain where he can see your flag and know you are watching for him. Will you do this just to please me? He sank on his knees beside her and murmured, Yes, he could utter no other word. Then she smiled and closed her eyes in a gentle sleep. Gutside the night was very still. A star lost its hold among a wealth of stars and shot across the heavens. The wintry wind ,moaned and slammed a shutter. The clock in the corner struck twelve and the old year melted into the new. Slowly the old man rose from his chair and softly began to speak. The new year be lonely without you, mother, and the boy haint come back yet. Yes, I have hunted the woods for nigh a year and have found the tree at last. Next summer I shall ask the town to a Hag raising and the pole will be sot in stone and cement. Again the shutter slammed and the wind moaned. The old man walked to a window, threw it open, and secured the disturbing shutter. Then he left the big room and went to bed. A great change had taken place in the town since the rail- road had been constructed. City people had built summer cot- tages on the hillsides that they might glory in the freedom of wild nature. They drove over unknown roads and felt like ex- plorers of old. Our favorite drive was to a mountain about five miles from the town where, in a blue distant mist, we could see the Catskills and looking towards the town we could see a stretch of railroad track, on which ran toy trains in a midget world. But the view and the beautiful drive were not the only attrac- tions. Standing close to the foot of the mountain was a large white farm house where there lived an old man, strong, slightly bent with age, with white hair and a long white beard. He would leave his plough and oxen standing in the field to greet friend or stranger and show him the view from the mountain. The village people called the mountain Snow's Hill, after the hospitable farmer who always made them so welcome on his land. Gne September it was announced from the pulpit of the little village church that there was to be a flag raising on Snow's Hill to which everyone was invited. So when the appointed day arrived there was a long procession of carriages headed toward