Brattleboro Union High School - Colonel Yearbook (Brattleboro, VT)

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Chimney Spell N through the congealing gray of dusk, stretched the rutted line of a country road. Whiteness velveted either side and stretched its shadowed folds to the black line of pine that gripped the horizon far beyond the fields. The distant white of the hill top fused with the indefinite skyline just where the road dipped over the crest, and gave one the vague impression that the road hung, frozen in mid-air like an icicle. A vast sense of loneliness blew coldly down the rough path and whistled through the early twilight. A pencil-marked shadow appeared to the left of the road. Humped almost invisibly under the snow blanket lay a low stone wall. Like so many potatoes under a sack, the ice-coated rocks of the wall scattered in untidy heaps and seemed to argue the course with the road, for often they lay caught in its icy clutches as though the road had been a brook, ice- bound in the act of flowing over them. Automatically now, for I had tramped three miles over this winter-chained country, my numb feet lifted their heavy boots to crunch over the irregularly molded ice- trail. My breath was thickly white in the rising wind, I quickened my uneven step. How bleakly empty the sur- rounding scene seemed. No tree or fence marked an ex- pression on the white-masked meadows. Slight shadows only accented the white claim of winter to the land. Piercing cold swept through me but I could not hurry over the unyielding ground. The distance to the hill top looked short, yet I never seemed any nearer to the crest which the graying sky had begun silently to trace. How much farther over this rocky waste had I to go? Wind-drawn tears stung my eyes and froze on my face. Powdered snow whipped my cheeks like Hung sand, but I struggled on, for to return would be as hard. Slowly, I trudged upward, as the frosted blast tore at my coat and flapped my hood about my head. Finally, the top of the hill shouldered the heavy tread of my feet. I had reached the summit. I STOPPED, shivering, to peer through the semi-dark- ness at the shrivelling road's continuing line. As it had ascended, it went down the other side, frozen earth, snow-crusted and crooked cut through the shadowed farm- land. It was so still that I imagined that I could hear the intense quietude. The darkened heavens drew closer to earth and, like a huge octopus, reached out long arms to cover it. Earth, a road-the invisible skyline-, my eyes swept over these. A gasp-the ghost of an exclamation material- ized in the cold air! for there, to the right, black against the fast disappearing horizon, a chimney breathed warmly into the night! It was as though it breathed life into my stilled body, life from its great, warm, red-brick heart, for an inner warmth crept over me at the sight of it. A f Cul by Marian White '40 CHIMNEY SPELL chimney-warmth, rest, food-companions, too! How life-giving that homely symbol was! Feet, no matter how numb, could not have resisted the beckoning of that chimney's smoky finger. The vast emptiness of field and sky was filled with its friendly presence, the wind was not as sharp nor was the road as stubborn. That ugly old chimney was a call in the winter wilderness, and my lost heart answered with a loud halloo ! l

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Room IN TH THE good doctor was deserted by now. Don't you suppose that this confession will help the government to find Thunderbolt if he is in this coun- try ? asked someone. You know they think- They certainly ought to be able to catch him! broke in another, Why, there is one very important clue given here. Lightfoot says that Thunderbolt had something wrong with his right foot and had to wear a cork heel! Further remarks were cut short unexpectedly. Oh! john's fainted! screamed Mrs, Wilson. Some- one help me! There was a rush toward the doctor. Get some cold water! Will someone help me lift him to the couch? There, that's better! He'll be all right- It must have been this hot room! exclaimed Tob Weath- erbee, as he naturally took command of things. The crowd hovered about the young Mrs. Wilson who was kneeling at her husbands side. Then she slowly rose, turned about, and faced her friends. I am very sorry to have such a pleasant evening broken up so early, but I think it best that you all go home. It has been a very strenuous day for us both, and probably, as Rob says, this heat is responsible. I am sure that he will recover immediately. I think you're right, Mam. All he needs is a good rest, so we had better go along, agreed Tob as he and the others prepared to leave. After pleasantly bidding them all good night, Mrs. Wilson carefully closed the door and slid the bolt, She extinguished the larger lights, and then glided back to the sofa with a small lamp in her hand. She made room for the flickering little lamp among the china and glassa ware that cluttered a small table, and then she again knelt by her husband's side. After loosening his collar, she unlaced his boots-the left one dropped heavily to the oaken floor. The right stuck-it wouldn't budge. She tugged at it stubbornly-then it gave suddenly, and fell to the Hoor with a thud. She rose erect, as if electrified by the sound, then tot- tered to a nearby chair. She stared toward her husband with a look of incredulity .... E SLEIGHU Cui by Com Terrefi '39 THE snow had gone, and spring was here. The roads lay like ribbons of mud across the town. The Con- necticut, a brown dragon saturated with mud and silt, swerved around the mountain bases on its way to the sea. Two women, laden with bags, walked along the muddy road. Have you see Doctor Wilson lately, jenny ? asked one of the women. Not any more than anyone else has. He's hardly left the house since she left. I think it's a shame the way that girl acts. Why, she doesn't know when she's well off-at nice home, plenty of moneyf-a fine husband, and she wants a divorce! said the other lady. You're right there-she doesn't have any reason to leave. What a thankless person she is! But how is she going to get her divorce ? asked the other woman. I don't know. The other day she said that she couldn't live with or love a robber. Then she shut up tight and wouldn't say a word more. Look at that little white bun- galow up on the knoll. It's all right, but it's nothing like the Wilson mansion that she might be living in. She's probably in her room now eyeing everyone who goes by, said the other, as she gestured toward the small white house where the deacon lived. IK SF lk if :if Yes, behind those curtains the young woman sat, she was looking out of the window also, but not at the people. She never even saw them-her eyes were turned to the distant hills and to the fading red sun that cast its supernatural light over the land. She was sitting at a small writing desk, half turned toward the window. There was a hook open on the desk-its pages reddened by the sunlight that filtered through the rufiied curtain. Her hand moved back and forth, underlining again and again the same words. They were the words of Lightfoot as written in his confession: Thunderbolt had a cork heel! She raised her head from the page and looked again at the setting sun, now nearly lost behind the horizon. Then she murmured softly, as tears lined her uplifted face, I can never love him-a murderer and a robber! I can--and will-keep his secret, l4l

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MILLICENIT PAGE 38 dons her pure white offspring on the doorstep of the earth. Slumbering humans were all unaware of the silent transformation being wrought during the frozen night. Then comes dawn and realization of what has hap pened. Still, gray, mysterious dawn, enhanced by the aura of light that is not light, steals out and instills in me a desire to dream, to wonder, and to wait impatiently for the fulfillment of the earth's promise to struggle to life with the coming of the sun. As I peer out a window, engraved with delicate, white traceries, I almost gasp NXKNQWX H Y n Winter Velvet Q W s - V., OFTLY and furtively during the night Nature aban- I E , ,x ff X e ' pf 1 'X 2 at the wonder of the world. Not a track nor a footstep mars the perfection of the velvety snow which shrouds everything. All the mounds and little hollows are no longer sharp corners and rough irregllarities, but are graceful, flowing, indefinite curves, moulded by the hands of a mighty sculptor. The trees and bushes form black and white etchings against the snowy background. Every branch and twig is the proud possessor of a gleaming white top coat, tall elms with interlocked boughs form a lacy arc over the streets, low hedges have become huge, furry balls, lightly poised on lawn edges as if ready for sudden flight. ' The rising sun casts shadows both grotesque and pic- turesque. Busy, thoughtless feet have trampled down the snow, making odd, irregular patterns. From a downy bed of cotton the snow has changed to a cloak of diamonds, shimmering in the brilliant glare of the sun. A quick wind stirs up little puffs of powdery snow, which whirl madly along, on top of the cmsty snow. It's now the beginning of dusk, that quiet, meditative interval which separates day and night when the hills bulk purple-black against a cool silver sky. Long fingers of rosy light still faintly and tenderly caress the sky. I wonder at the thought that the same silver light and rosy glow reflects in winding threads of rivers and boundless seas far away, magically cloaking them in a cape of mys- tery. All is still, waiting breathlessly for the day's end. THE last retreating messenger of Day disappears over a misty white bank of snow. The uneven foothills cast their broken shadows on the land below like a pro- tective arm around a helpless child. The bare, gaunt trees cast long, wavering shadows upon the heaped up snow. Blue-black clouds stalk across the sky with much grandeur. Piercing shafts of cold light are raised like slender fingers lifted in parting adieu, seeming to render blessing upon us all. A cold, silver crescent rises silently and frigidly from a calm sea of shadowed snow, and with pale majesty, casts its wan light through the pearl-hung trees upon an earth, scintillant and brilliant with wondrously chill, blue-white snow. Clusters of stars hang like jewels sus- pended by invisible threads against the velvety darkness and limitless space. E As an answer to the saucy winking of the stars, pine trees moan softly to the whipping edge of the wind and send out twisted shadows that sway eerily over a regal mantle. Snow drifts, piled lightly in the queenly glamour of swansdown, are mirrored in ribbons of ice. Tranquil and soothing, the trees sigh, the snow snuggles closer to the earth, the stars blink drowsily, all noises are hushed, and the whole earth, warmly protected by a blanket of delicate white velvet, yields to the winter night. Snow Cvanities BEVERLEY BIGELOW '38 MYSTIC . Enshrouded figures Dance on the brim of the mountain. Haughty Enhancing beauties Pirouette on the stage of the world. Swooping and swerving Flitting and flirting, Garbed in rufHes of white, They waltz to the wind. rs I Winter ELAINE STAFFORD '41 WINTER comes padding in As still and soft As a little white, unwanted kitten, Rubbing against the cloud drapes On either side of the large, Spaceful doorway of the sky, She curls her white Soft body in her Favorite place on earth's floor And rests her weary, tired self. I