Central High School - Aglaia Yearbook (Manchester, NH)

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JANUARY AGLAIA or THE ORACLE 19 RECOLLECTION The visits to my uncle's farm in Chester that I made when I was a child, I shall long remember. Hardly before my father could stop the motor of the car in the farm door- yard, my Aunt Sadie would have appeared in the doorway of the big farmhouse with her shawl over her shoulders to welcome us with her characteristic, hi there . By this time my Uncle Hiram would have emerged from the barn or one of the many doors in the long ell which connected the house with the barn, to escort us into the house with much hearty welcoming. Then we followed my aunt through the cold dining room, which was too large to heat, into the big, warm sitting room. The next twenty minutes or so were for me quite dull. Everybody wasengaged in conversation which filled the room with a jumble of voices. Close together and lean- ing foreward in their chairs near the wood stove were my grandmother and old Emma Towle, my uncle's aunt who lived there. Their conversation was intense. A comment on the recent death of an old, mutual friend had carried them into old age's paradise of reminiscense. How great was my amusement when my ear caught such names as Ezekiel or Uriah as they chuckled about good times with these beaux of sixty years ago. In an- other part of the room my mother and Aunt Sadie sat conversing about cooking, sewing, house cleaning, magazines, ailments, and the like. My father and uncle talked about the farm work and the purchase of a cow, or my father's work in the city, or politics, and every once in a while everybody would hush while my uncle, who had the rare faculty for telling a funny story well, reeled off a yarn which brought forth peals of vari-toned laughter from everybody in the room. During this time I sat silent, gazing at the low ceiling or at any quaint object in the room which happened to attract my atten- tion. Sometimes I got up and Walked over to the writing desk to look abstractedly at some books, the leaves of which had grown brown with age. Perhaps I would strike a few notes on the ancient piano only to re- ceive the anticipated glareof reproval from my mother. When I thought I had, in the words of my mother, visited a little while , I quietly asked permission to go out to the barn. V ' On my way through the cold dining room I can remember how I used to stop to inspect the dld wall telephone whidh work by a crank, or the bric-a-brac on the fire-place mantle, or the big twelve gauge shot-gun in a little nook behind a curtain. It was a gloomy room, as was the Whole house except, perhaps, the sitting room and kitchen, which I passed through next. Its floor, which was of brick, had sunken in places so as to make footing unsure. Behind the stove which radiated an intense heat, there was an old Dutch oven of large dimen- sion which always arrested my attention. Everything in the house was suggestive of antiquity. A musty smell, characteristic of ancient farmhouses, pervaded its rooms. It was a large house, much too large for the three people who lived in it, but they loved it, and nothing could have putsuaded them to part with it. After a lengthy tour of inspection of the ell and barn, I would return to the sitting room where my folks would be preparing to leave. My aunt and uncle usually escort- ed us to the car where the conversation continued for another five or ten minutes before we'd Hnally bid them farewell and depart. RICHARD HITCHCOCK

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18 IANUARY AGLAIA or THE ORACLE but as time went on and nothing happened his wee five year old treble rose to a mighty volume. He must make sure that he would be heard. A short distance away Mr. Katz, pro- prietor of a fruit store, heard this strange chanting as he worked. He investigated. Soon a big watermelon rolled from his fruitstand into the small circle of absorbed youngsters. Such joy, such delight, such dancing as that which occurred the moment the young boys saw the watermelon, Mr. Katz had never seen. From his secluded hide-a-way in the store, he chuckled as he heard young Iohnny saying proudly, I al- ways thought I was as good as Aladdin, and now I know it. VICTORIA GRUSZEWSKA MELANCHOLY DISTURBED At first a patter on the roof- I sat alone with head aloof, Peace, gentle peace had come at last, But so on the rain was pelting fast, Then came a Hash, a crash, a roar- Perplexed, my thoughts no more could soar. My dreams and visions now had Hown, To reality I had been thrown, And, oh, the grief which there prevailed Since this one solace now had failed. FLORENCE FLETCHER VANISHED FRIENDS How well I remember the trio that I associated with in my earlier days. The three who worked and played with me, who, next to my immediate family, received my prime consideration. They were my friends above all other friends. There was Greg, the boy next door, al- ways the most frightened as we crouched in some back alley or back piazza, evading the long arm of the law after playing in forbid- den areas or making a sudden raid upon a neighboring orchard. He was of medium size, well proportioned, and rather pleasant in speech, but carried an eternal plaintive look on his longish, freckled face. It was a sad day for us when his family moved to another city. Art, a small, slight, but energetic boy, was the best baseball player of the group. He made up for his meager size by his agility and daring. In addition, Art was the diplomat of the neihborhoodg there was scarcely a quarrel which did not melt away under his sedative powers. Thanks to him, the number of black eyes and broken teeth in the neighborhood were greatly reduced, but occasionally even he saw the wisdom of letting a dispute terminate in a pugilistic en- counter. It was a long time before the remain- ing two of us, Greg having left sometime be- fore, got over the untimely death of Art a few days after he was struck by a speeding automobile. The other member was called Petrovitch, but this was shortened to Pete for a good and sufficient reason. He was, as the story books would say, the fiery, dominant type. VV hen he called you at your back door, you knew it, and went pronto. Never did he lack an idea and he was always ready to back one up by the time you had absorbed it. Art usually had his hands full when Pete became excited at a baseball or football game. I still see Pete occasionally, and we re- kindle the flame of friendship by reminis- cences of the olden days when we were four. The old order changeth, Yielding place to new. And new friends take the place of old, but the old shall always remain with me in memory. ALEXANDER WISKUP

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