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

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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.

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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

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10 THE GREEN AND WHITE The next day a man came to call on him, and told Pierre that his little song had made him a fortune. Pierre, stunned as he was, could not say a word or thank the man, but fell to his knees and uttered a little prayer for Madame Lefebre who had now made his life worth living. Pierre, who was once a poor boy, is now a rich and accomplished composer, and his mother has gained her health and is on the road to recovery. THE PHANTOM CYCLIST It was the year 1900. May 23 of this year the town, or rather “hamlet” of Brookesville was asleep when thru the main street an auto sped making a terrible racket and waking up the town constable, who immediately turned over in his comfortable bed. The next morning Hiram Jackson, a farmer, came down Turnpike Road and saw lying there a body and a bicycle, which was smashed beyond recognition. The body was that of Ernest Wells, a farmhand, and a man who during life never forgot a wrong and took revenge whenever he could. It is the year 1920. May 23 of this year the town, or rather “hamlet” of Brookes- On a bright September morning in the year 1916, forty timid girls and boys entered the portals of the wonderful Colt Memorial High School to take there their places among the ranks of students. These pupils, afteT being interviewed by Mr. Lee, were assigned to the care of Miss Callan and were soon initiated into the life and work Of High School pupils. Our life, as Freshmen, was very quiet; we were not even organized as a class. Each time a class meeting was scheduled the principal, for some reason or other, would not attend the meeting and so the year passed. The next year we came back as Sophomores and our ranks were increased by the so-called “sub-freshmen” who had entered High School the preceding February. Our life that year was most uneventful— in spite of the sleigh ride. However, we did succeed in organizing and elected as our President, Joseph Kelley; Vice President, Fred Serbst; Secretary, Mar- ville is asleep—but not quite—for the innkeeper of the “Golden Gate” is about to lock up for the night. An auto speeds down and stops. A voice calls. “Hey there, innkeeper! Wait a minute!” The autoist jumps out and enters the inn and seating himself inquires the way to the next village. “Well sir,” said the innkeeper, “I can direct you to the village but I would advise you to wait till morning.” “Why?” querried the autoist. “Just this, sir!” replied the innkeeper, “Twenty years ago today Ernest Wells was killed on Turnpike Road. On May 23rd every year a cyclist appears on the road and chases after automobiles until it gets side of the driver. It is said that if the murderer of Ernest Wells rides down that road he will be found dead next morning. Wells is going to avenge himself.” “Huh! I don’t car for any phantoms. I’ve got to go down that road.” Saying this the autoist started out and drove towards and down Turnpike Road. His engine stalled-in that darkest part. What was that on the road! A cyclist! The next morning the innkeeper sees an auto on Turnpike Road. He hurries down and finds his guest of the night before, dead. H. YOUNG, ’20. guerite Murphy; Treasurer, Fred Palmer; Historian, Julia DeFelice. The Executive Committee was composed of Olive Cogge-shall. Jack Walsh and Elmer Matheson. We were not allowed to have any social functions; our life would have been rather monotonous if it were not for the active members of the class who amused us but annoyed the teachers. The Principal, Mr. Lee, resigned in May and Mr. Hobbs, now Superintendent of Schools, was made Principal. The year was soon over and vacation time came once more. In the fall we returned as Juniors. How proud we were! That year we “graduated” to the second floor and felt that we owned the school. Mr. Hobbs, then Principal, tried to make life pleasant for all. The first momentous occasion of our school life occurred this year, namely, our first dance! How we looked forward to that dance! Each girl planned, weeks in advance, the new “gown” she would have,