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

Page 8 text:

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

Page 7 text:

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

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