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

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THE GREEN AND WHITE 5 Mr. He was evidently “shacking” hens, and what could I do? I stood and smiled at him, not thinking what I was doing, my mind was so busy trying to think of a way to keep those three hens. I think I flustered him a little, for after a minute he snapped out “Well!” “We’ll go down this way,” I said, going down the steps and closing the door behind me. I led him down a path, talking about Mr. Smith who was traveling in the West. He got quite nervous and red. and by this time I had led him right to that haystack. I was walking quietly past when I suddenly stood and gazed in the hole. “Oh, look!” I shrieked, pointing at the hole. Mr. He looked and saw what I had seen—two yellow green eyes, a horrible black face, open red mouth and sharp white teeth; moreover, he had heard that terrible noise—rattle, clank, rumble, growl. Mr. He turned and ran—plainly turned and ran—while I stood and watched him. Down the path, through the gate and down the road he bounced, like a great rubber ball. Then I turned back to the haystack frmo whence emerged our big black cat “Tummus,” yawning and licking his whiskers, his foot caught in a big iron chain! EMILY SANFORD, ’21. HE WHO WAITS Who was “He Who Waits?” No one knew. When did he come? No one knew. Where did he come from, and how did he come? No one knew. He was just there waiting and watching, waiting for someone or no One, some time or no time; and watching “Old Troublesome, watching all the rises and falls of the water, perhaps Waiting for it to bring back those it had Swept away, his wife, his mother, his daughters and sons, perhaps hoping it would snatch him in, also; yet perhaps hoping it woudn’t. His only companion was a dog, a greyhound, and as he and his dog sat on the banks of “Old Troublesome,” he could hear the merry laughter and voices of the happy valley people. He could sit silent for hours, listening. One evening as he sat there, strains of music echoed up to him, but he was not listening to that, for away around the mountain he could hear the roar of falling . water, the crash of ’-ocks and uprooted trees. All of a sudden, it became much louder. He jumped to his feet. Would he still be silent and let the gay valley people be Swept away by the torrent? Or would he warn them that “Old Troublesome” was rising He ran to his hut, wrote on a scrap of paper, “Troublesome’s up,” tied it to the collar of his dog and sent him swiftly down the mountain. And the roar grew louder. He listened. The music stopped. He listened. Then he heard the hum of a motor, and a little roadster shot out onto the plain, loaded with people and baggage. A second started out. a third, and soon there were dozens, fleeing from the horror of the torrent, out onto the safe plain where there was no “Old Troublesome.” And he who stayed behind still waited and watched. EMILY SANFORD. ’21. THE SHERIFF’S REWARD It was a cold stormy night in January. The thermometer registered a few degrees below zero and the snow was falling thick and fast. Sheriff-elect, Hiram Jones, lay back in his office chair, a big black cigar between his thick lips and his hat tipped at a dangerous angle on his semi-bald head. Hiram had recently been elected Sheriff of the distinguished town of Clayville, an office which he was sure he was qualified to hold. The salary of the office had been increased on account of the H. C. L., but besides this the town w.as going to have real protection now that Hiram Jones, Esq., was Sheriff. Hiram was in a pensive mood. He was proud of his qualifications for the office but since he had begun his duties things had been very quiet about town, unusually quiet, and he was aching for an opportunity to show his courage and skill. He was startled by a sudden knock at the door and upon opening it he was confronted by a tall, robust young man of about thirty, who asked him if he was the Sheriff. At Hiram’s nod in the affirmative he entered, after shaking the snow from his clothing, and drew up a chair by the Sheriff. “Well, since you are Clayville’s guardian of the peace, you are the one with whom I have business. I am from the Detective Agency and I am here on very important business. An attempt to rob the bank is to be made tonight and I have reasons to believe that the person planning the affair is one of the worst criminals in the country and there is a great reward offered for his arrest. I cannot succeed without your assistance and if you will help me I will generously recompense you.” Hiram was in an ecstasy of delight. This was a prime opportunity to display his courage and daring, besides think of the great amount of money he would receive. Several hours later when all Clayville was asleep the Sheriff and the stranger made their way to the bank. The Sheriff

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4 THE GREEN AND WHITE and if each and every member of his or her class will co-operate with the other members, the class as a whole will be enabled to co-operate with the principal and thus the relations between the teacher and the individual pupil, and the relations between the classes and the principal will be most pleasant and much more will be accomplished. DEMOCRACY IN THE C. M. H. S. At this time when all the nations of the earth are struggling to recover from the effects of the war, a war the like of which the world has never witnessed, democracy is the greatest factor. Democracy defined is “A government by the people collectively, by elected Representatives.” Autocracy has failed and after a terrible war, in which all the nations of the earth have fought valiantly, democracy has been triumphant. In every sphere of life we find the essence of democracy. Right here in our school it dominates. The very air is imbued with it. There are no exclusive societies and each and every individual, regardless of race, color or creed, is entitled to the same privileges. Here we learn to love and cherish true democracy and there is no greater evidence of this than the fact that about one hundred young men from tms school responded to the country’s call and were willing to suffer everything, even the supreme sacrifice, that democracy might prevail. THE HOLE IN THE HAYSTACK One day last summer, I was walking past a haystack when from a hole beneath it came a terrible noise—rumbles, mutters and rattles. I jumped and looked in the hole, and there I saw two horrible green eyes and a most distorted countenance, black and awful. My! but 'I ran and hopped and jumped and scooted to the house. I told the family about it and none of them dared to go out to investigate—my father being away at the time—so we had to borrow hay from a neighbor for the cow, and we spent much time walking away around the haystack to get things the other side of it. For about a week we kept this up, and on Friday all the family went away and left me alone in the house. By and by there came a knock at the door. I looked out of the window and saw a plump, pompous little man standing before the door. I thought it would be safe to open it and I did so. “Good afternoon,” he said. “Mr. Smith,” (my father) “told me to come here this afternoon to look at the hens, and I’m to take two for the luncheon at the club tomorrow.” “Yes?” said I—I knew my father belonged to some sort of a club—“where did you meet Mr. Smith?” “At the Warren station, last night,” he said. “Oh, yes, I see,” I said, and so I did. My father at that moment was, most positively, on a train traveling from Chicago to Detroit, and that was quite a few miles from Warren.

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6 THE GREEN AND WHITE shook the dozing watchman and explained the situation to him. The word of Hiram Jones was weighty in Clayville and the watchman admitted the two men to the bank and returned to his post. Soon after, when that gentleman’s loud snores were heard, the stranger slipped over to his side and opening a small vial he saturated a cloth with its contents and applied it to the nostrils of the sleeper. This strange action at once aroused the Sheriff’s suspicion but the stranger at once calmed him by saying that in the fight that was sure to follow, the watchman might mistake them for the robbers and shoot them. “Ain’t it most time for them pesky robbers to show up? inquired the Sheriff of his companion. “Oh, they will be here any time now. Look out of that window and see if everything is all right.” Just as he turned his back he felt a terrific blow on the head. There were many stars around him, and then total darkness. Ages later he awoke as if from a bad dream. Little by little his mind cleared and suddenly the truth dawned upon him. He hastily scrambled to his feet and made his way to the vault. It was empty except for a note addressed to the Sheriff of Clayville. It read: “Dear Mr. Sheriff: All that I got was about twenty-five thousand dollars; that’s the worst of these little country banks. However it’s better than nothing. I am leaving the reward for your invaluable assistance in the form of advice. In the future do not place too much trust in complete strangers.” Hiram Jones, Esq., read the letter through again and then forgetful of the dignity of his office, forgetful of everything else, he snatched the highly polished new badge from his vest, and stamping on it in a frenzy, he swore long and loudlv. J. C. K. ’20 A DAY WITH “TOMMY, THE LITTLE BUCKAROO,” OF THE AF RANCH “Oh, Tommy! Are you awake? As these words penetrate my sub-consciousness I try to figure out who I am and where. Can it be I am in my home in Bristol with the prospect of nothing more exciting than the routine of the day’s housework before me? Or am I am in Pasadena, the mecca of all tourists, with the interesting day of a winter visitor in Southern California ahead of me? Slowly I open my eyes. Above me the stars are faintly shining while the first faint streaks of dawn outline the distant snow-capped mountains. The faraway howling of coyotes, a pheasant calling to its mate, the soft mooing of cattle, the exultant bark of a dog proclaiming a rabbit cornered in some tree stump, the impatient whinnying of a horse, are the sounds borne to my ears, while what is even more insistent is the voice of “the Boss. “Oh you Buckaroo 1 Are you going to round up the cattle this morning? ’Zona is saddled and waiting.” With a bound I am out of bed and racing toward the house. Dashing cold water on eyes only half open, a few moments spent in brushing hair and teeth, hastily donning khaki riding breeches, middy, etc., not to forget a surreptitious trip, in true boy fashion, to the cookie jar and I am ready for the day’s adventures. Fully awake now I realize who I am and where I am. Five months before I had arrived in southern California to spend the winter. I had been there barely a week when meeting a girlhood friend (our friendship dated back to Bristol before I was of school age) this in substance was what she said to me, “My husband, little boy and I start in two days for our ranch 200 miles north of here. We are going to make the trip in our Dodge and if you really want a taste of ranch life be ready to go with us at that time.” Hasty planning, rapid packing, hurried farewells and cancelling of social engagements filled the next two days. Then presto! The identity of Miss Thomas of conservative New England was lost in what it had pleased the ranchmen to nickname me, “Tommy, the Little Buckaroo of the AF Ranch.” You too are wondering just as I wondered, what a “buckaroo” is. As near as I can make out it is the cowboys’ pro-nounciation of the Spanish word “vaquero” meaning horseman or cattleman. Some pronounce it as though it is spelled “buck’-care-row,” while others use the more familiar “buck’-a-ruc” (buckaroo.) But ’Zona is impatient to be off. My foot barely touches the stirrup before she is galloping away with Towser the dog, following closely at her heels. As the crisp morning air sends the blood tingling to my cheeks and the beauty of God’s country unfolds all around me, I am glad for the wonderful joy of life. We soon sight the cattle and with a command to Towser to “Heelop! Heeloh!’’ and the cattleman’s cry (which I adopted) of “Huddy! Huddy!” we dash ahead and turn the leaders, wheel suddenly after a creature that is dodging to one side and finally succeed in sending the whole herd galloping toward the corrals. Ah, that is the best sport ever! During the milking I busy myself with feeding and watering some of the stock— first Patricia and Arizona (the saddle horses) then Maud and Jennie (the