Bristol High School - Green and White Yearbook (Bristol, RI)

Page 10 text:

THE GREEN AND WHITE 8 rustling of twigs, and leaves as cotton tails and Jack rabbits scuttle in the underbrush, the whinnying of a horse, even the rushing of water which proclaims the river had at last risen, falls upon deaf ears for with a body healthily tired out and a mind at peace “Tommy, the Little Buckaroo,” sleeps. CARRIE A. THOMAS, ’C6. THE FAMILY PRIDE “Giddap,” called Bobby to about a dozen sheep that were being driven down through the chute to the shearing house. It was in the middle of June and Bobby felt that the sheep must be uncomfortably warm, and, for that reason he was hastening them to have their coats taken off. Bobby was only five years old, and naturally he grew tired in a very short time, so after hurrying for awhile he began to walk at a slower pace. “That’s a good boy, do not go too fast, Bobby,” said his father who was almost up to him now, and as he drew nearer, he stroked the little boy’s forehead, and lifted his soft yellow curls from his warm neck. Bobby was Mr. and Mrs. Parker’s only child, and they loved him dearly; even their neighbors admitted that he possessed the most luxurious curls they had ever seen. Don’t hurry so, I know these curls make you very warm, but your daddy could never imagine his little boy without them. By and by. I suppose I will have to, but not yet awhile anyway, I hope.” On saying this, he clasped Bobby’s hand in his and they walked very slowly. Bobby, of course, did not heed his fond father, in fact, he seldom did unless his special attention was called. Presently they reached their destination and herded the sheep into the corral, when Mr. Parker discovered that his hired men were absent. Turning to Bobby he said: “Now son, you stay here until I return, watch the sheep and I will find the men, then we shall go to lunch.” Bobby obeyed and stood watching his father hurry up the trail which, they, a few moments before had traveled. When his father was out of sight, Bobby turned to his favorite sheep and exclaimed, as he stroked his soft curly wool: “Going to have it all taken off, arn’t you?” As he gazed around the room he spied a pair of shears and picking them up he be-ban to clip the curly ends of the sheep’s wool. The animal objected, and in rebellion turned quickly to Bobby and threatened to chase him. Bobby screamed in terror. Dropping the shears he backed away, tears already filling his blue eyes. The animal, on finding that he was victorious, went on about his business, which was to secure everything eatable in sight. In another moment all was forgotten and Bobby stopped to pick up the shears once again. While doing so his own yellow curls surrounded his pink-tinted face. This reminded him of something and standing up he drew his hair close to the sheen’s wool. “My! They are almost like yours, only yours are white. Daddy cuts yours, I wonder why he don’t cut mine. Perhaps he forgot, so I guess I had better do it for him,” he muttered. Thus saying he picked up the shears and one by one he clipped them and when his father came back Bobby’s much admired and beloved curls, lay in a heap on the floor. MAY TUCY, ’21. WHAT I SAW THRU A KNOT-HOLE One day I wandered into the woods, and being very tired I lay down under a tree. Suddently I started, for there in front of me was a high wooden fence, which I had not seen before. Jumping up I ran around it looking for a place thru which to see what was inside. Soon I found a knothole, and looking thru I saw what seemed to be a city of pigmy folk. It appeared to be a holiday for the houses and streets were decorated with what I took to be the national flag. It was in the shape of an octagon, with purple back ground, red stars in every corner, and a lavende moon in the center. The streets were crowded with small people, who walked up and down, eating purple ice cream with red and lavender lumps in it. There were also candy booths selling the patriotic colored candy, and children, clothed in the patriotic colors, were eating it. Soon I heard what I supposed to be an opening crash from the band, and over in one corner of the city a procession began to move toward the center, where there was a platform raised. The noisy band with its fantastic music marched to the platform, where a fat individual parted himself from the crowd, and clambered onto the stage. He then proceeded to deliver an address in a squeeky voice which shrilled loudly on some words. He swayed and gesticulated so hard, that he nearly lost his balance. He looked so funny, that I forgot, and laughed out loud. At this there was a great commotion, and the more excited they grew, the more I laughed, for these tiny people looked very funny, screaming and dashing about, hurrying to gather their children together and scampering into their houses. Then with one impulse they all flew up into the trees about, screaming and calling

Page 9 text:

THE GREEN AND WHITE 7 mules). Atitone (the bull) comes next. Impatiently pawing the ground with one foot, he lowers his massive head and greets me with deep guttural sounds which a few months before had sent cold shivers racing up and down my spine. This morning the difficult but interesting task awaits me of teaching Mayzie and Baby Boone (two-day-old calves) to drink milk from a bucket. Straddling the neck of Mayzie I firmly hold her head down in the bucket. Moistening my fingers with milk, I put them in her mouth and she sucks the milk greedily from them. After a few minutes I cautiously remove my fingers, but my little pupil, intent only on getting the milk, does not miss their removal and keeps on drinking from the bucket as though she had always been accustomed to partaking of her breakfast in that manner. But teaching Baby Boone is different. Three times he knocks me over, deluging me with milk. Finally I give up in despair, deciding that by the next feeding he will be more hungry and so in a more teachable frame of mind. Meanwhile Pat, the ranch hand is trying to catch some pigs that have gotten out of the pen. I hurry to his assistance and in the exciting chase which follows I get an ugly scratch from the barbed wire on my left cheek (I still carry the scar) and a pip in playful (?) mood bites my elbow. ‘Shure,” says Pat, “he knows a swate thing when the sees it.” The cows milked, the separating done, the stock fed, we are called to breakfast after which I report to “the Boss” for “orders for the day.” “This will be your last day for a while to herd the cattle away from the ranch.” (I had been herding every day for Over two weeks.) The green feed on the ranch is better now besides the spring ploughing must be done right away so tomorrow I will initiate you into the mysteries of driving the tractor. Take your lunch with you today as usual but be sure and have the cows corralled by four sharp. Business will keep me away from the ranch all day but I trust you to see that everything goes O. K. in my absence.” It is true that “more haste, less speed.” Hurrying to the corrals, ’Zona’s right hind leg becomes tangled in a piece of heavy wire throwing her violently to the ground and tossing me over her head where I land on the ground but like a good C. A. T. should, i. e., on my feet. I am unhurt but ’Zona has a bad cut on her leg which puts her out of commission for a few days and necessitates my using Patricia. Rendering first aid to ’Zona, catching Patricia and changing the saddles, takes a good half hour but at last I have the cattle con-tently grazing. Suddenly Determination jumps the fence into a near-by prune orchard. This is the signal for a lively chase. By the time I succeed in getting her out of the orchard the rest of the cattle have wandered off. I round them up and take an inventory. Yes, there is Dynamite, Old Lady 31, Twoll, Red Wing, Black Beauty, Lady Boone, Juanita, Kiss Me, Mrs. Ox. High Life, Porpoise, Ginger Snap, Kitty-Cow, Mully, Mrs. Jack, Roman Nose, and so on down the entire list. All are here—but no—not all, for White Face is missing. And where is White Face? I scour the entire country but there is no trace of her. All day long, between the herding of the other cattle, I continue my search. At noon sitting dejectedly in the saddle, I am too discouraged to eat more than a few mouthfuls. “The Boss” had trusted me to look out for things in his absence and I had violated that trust by losing one of his most valued cows. Three o’clock comes and I turn the cattle homeward, I corral the cows and return to the search. This time I decide to veritably fine tooth comb the River Bottom. It being a California River no water runs there except after a heavy rain or when the snows in the mountains melt. I know if White Face is in the River Bottom I must find her before night for already the snow on the mountains is melting and the river is liable to rise any minute. I shudder to think what might happen if she is caught unawares before the onrush of the water. Back and forth, back and forth I ride. Discovering an island we scramble up on it. Dodging and ducking to avoid being scratched by the heavy growth of trees and bushes I guide my faithful horse into the very center and—Tight before us in a little clearing, stands—White Face. Lying at her feet, weak with the struggle attendant upon its advent into a new and strange world, is an exact replica of White Face. Never shall I forget the relief T experienced at beholding the object of my search. Almost falling off my horse in my excitement, I throw my arms around White Face. “Mother Cow, you don’t know how glad I am to see you.” Turning to the calf I help it to rise on its wobbly, untried legs and sometimes half carrying, sometimes pushing it, with its mother in the lead and Patricia bringing up an interesting rear, we wind our way to the ranch a mile away. “The Boss” returns and the routine of the late afternoon begins—milking, (this time I surprise him and myself as well by milking five cows—three had been my limit heretofore) separating of the milk, feeding and watering of the stock, our own supper, and then--- One by one the stars come out, the moon rises and sheds its soft light over the ranch. The distant howling of coyotes, a bird chirping a belated love call to its mate, the contented mooing of cattle, the

Page 11 text:

THE GREEN AND WHITE 9 hoarsely all the time, and all their horrid patriotic colors began to form into a cloud and envelop me. I could see nothing, and when I tried to fight my way thru it, my arms encountered hard things which would not move. I screamed, I awoke and found myself thrashing my arms wildly on the ground, with the sun in my eyes, and a flock of crows cawing and fluttering in the trees above me. SELFISH BILLY Billy Smith lived with his parents and two sisters. As he didn’t have any brothers, he was inclined to be very selfish. Never would he share anything with pirls, they alvvays took too much, according to his opinion. To tell the truth his sisters spoiled him. How they petted him because he was the only boy! Would he ever share any of his “goodies” with them? Never! “Anyway,” he would say, I’m the youngest, and the only boy, so they ought to give me everything.” His mother regretted this selfishness, but all her efforts to cure it were in vain. One day Mrs. Smith, his mother, made some fudge and butterscotch. Billy was very fond of all kinds of candy, and when his mother gave him several pieces, he ran out into the barn and climbed up in the hay loft where nobody would see him. He ate a great deal of the fudge and was going to start on the butterscotch when someone called, “Billy, Billy!” “Its my sister May,” said Billy. “1 suppose Mother told her about all the candy I had, so she wants some, but she can’t have it,” and he kept as quiet as a mouse. His sister called many times but receiving no answer went away. When the calling ceased, Billy gave a sigh of relief. Now he could eat his candy without anyone’s disturbing him. About supper time he crawled down from the loft and made his way to the house. As he was going across the lawn, his sister May came running ur to him. “Oh Billy!” she cried, “Where have you been? We hunted all Over the place for you and 1 called and called, but you couldn’t be found. Jack Dawson’s mother gave a party, over on their lawn. We had a lovely time, ice cream, cake, and all kinds of candy. Mother sent over some fudge and butterscotch that she made and oh, it was such a lovely party. Its Jack’s birthday you know, and his father has some tickets for the theatre tonight. I’m sorry you weren’t around for now there won’t be any ticket for you.” Billy hung his head for he was ashamed. How he loved ice cream! And what little boy doesn’t like candy? How he re- gretted his own selfish, little party in the hay loft! Now he must miss the wonderful theatre party with the other boys and girls. That night after the other young people had left, Billy cried to his mother and told her why he couldn’t be found and promised he never would be selfish again, for he had learned a lesson he would never forget. LOUISE MURPHY, ’22. A LITTLE COMPOSER In a lonely, dingy room in one( of the poorest streets of London sat Pierre, a fatherless French boy. He was sitting by the bedside of his sick mother, trying to keep up his spirits, although he had nothing to eat that day, and no food whatever in the pantry. At times he thought of his loneliness and hunger and he could hardly keep the tears from his eyes, for he knew nothing would taste so good to his invalid mother as some fruit, but the had not a penny in the house. The many days which he spent with his mother were not idle ones, for he had comnosed a little song with air and Words. One dav while he was out for a walk, he noticed a large poster which announced that Madame Lefebre would sing that night in public. Pierre wished that he might go, and Inter when he reached home he took a piece of paper and pencil and hastily copied his song. He glanced at his mother and as she was asleep he hu-riedly ran to the theatre where Madame Lefebre was to sing. Arriving there, Pierre told Madame Lefebre of his mother’s sickness, and of their poverty, and thought if she would sinrr his little song that probably some publisher would buy it for a small sum, which would enable him to help his mother get well. Madame Lefebre gave Pierre a ticket that he might attend the concert, and to do so' he asked a kind neighbor to come in and care for his mother. When it was almost time for the concert to begin Pierre ran Out of the house happier than he had ever been, and as he entered the hall, he never dreamed that he would ever be in such a grand place. At last Madame Lefebre came out and breathless he waited. Could it be that she was really singing his little song? He listened carefully. Yes, it was his song, and turning around he noticed many a bright eye dimmed with tears by the touching words. After the concert he left, feeling as if he were the only one in the world.