Buxton School - Yearbook (Williamstown, MA)

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to see once again their loved-ones and friends who had died. This was about the most exciting thing that had happened to our little town in an awful long time. About eleven forty-five, he arrived looking just the same but with a queer smile on his face. He had no implements or tools but only a small faded leather book. He looked around at the large crowd, and they in turn grew silent and apprehensive as they waited. After a careful study of the graves, he walked over to a small one in a corner which seemed to have had little care or attention for many years. It was the grave of Mary Larson who had died ten years before after fall- ing down her cellar stairs. Her husband, Ben, a sullen and solitary man, had never remarried, but lived by himself with few friends and no relatives. Standing in front of the grave, the old man opened his little book and started to read silently to himself. Ben Larson, who had arrived late, began pushing his way to the front of the crowd to see what was happening. He had been out possum hunting that evening and seeing all the commotion at the cemetery, had come over to investigate. Liv- ing so far out of town, he had heard nothing of the old man, and when the people, in hushed whispers, explained to him what was going on he immediately grew very excited. From time to time, the old man would interrupt his reading to look up at the crowd and seeing Ben he laughed a queer croaking kind of laugh. Then he started making strange signs with his hands as if to call the spirit out of the grave. By this time, the expression on Ben Larson's face had turned from one of astonishment to a look of intense horror and fright. Then the old man turned to the people and raising a hand to silence them he said: Now it is time to . . . Iust then, Ben Larson uttered a horrible scream and grabbing his hunting gun and stumbling toward the old man he fired three shots at him and screamed: I won't have her ghost coming back to haunt me. I didn't mean to push her. I won't let her come back. Then grabbing up his gun again, he fired the fourth shell into his own head, and fell over on top of his wife's grave. The old man, who had died instantly, lay over to the side with the same strange smile on his face. The next day there was a clipping on the town bulletin board from the state capitol's daily newspaper, reading: Maniac escapes from state asylum. He is about seventy years old and believes he has supernatural powers. - Hnn Jlalheww page .revenlcen

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SOLITUDE The crying sands of winter's coming, Out on nothing, into nothing, Forging through a spinning world of silence. Quiet sands: a portrait of the lost forgotten earth, And man, who came to leave his step behind. - 11 lzlron Deazfau MAN IAC? HELDON, Ohio, population one thousand, was submerged in a thick coat of fog on that memorable November afternoon. It was way back in the late nineteen twenties when I was still in my teens, but I think I'll remember that old man's face as long as I live. I guess this might be clearer to all of you if I started from the beginning. Around five o'clock on this late fall afternoon was when we first noticed the old man trudging up Main Street. He seemed to have at- tracted most of the town's stray dogs, for there were at least a half dozen of them running along at his heels, yelping and growling. He had a withered look about him, with his long scraggly beard and stooped shoulders. He carried no pack or knapsack like the ordinary tramp but only a crooked stick to lean on. Paying no attention to anyone, he went over to the town bulletin board and pinned up a small piece of paper. Then laughing quietly to himself, he proceeded down the street and disappeared. As soon as he left, a few curious townspeople saunter- ed up to the bulletin board to see what the old man had placed there. After a few seconds a gasp of astonishment was echoed amongst the crowd, for the sign read: AT MIDNIGHT TOMORROW NIGHT, IN YOUR CEMETERY, I WILL RAISE SOMEONE FROM THE DEAD. The startled people scattered around in small groups and excitedly discussed the strange old man and his prophecy. Before the day was over, everyone in our small town had been told about the notice and they all speculated as to what it really meant. Very few people really believed the message, but they were all eager to know what was going to take place in the cemetery at midnight. The next evening, as early as seven o'clock, cars and buggies started arriving at the cemetery. No one had seen anything of the old man since the previous afternoon, but in a small town like ours everything that happens out of the ordinary always causes a lot of excitement. Most of the townspeople, even though they put little faith in the old man's words, spent most of the day wondering what it would be like page .rixleen

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FOG With satanic robes it seeks to veil the earth Gliding, sliding, Clinging, seeping life, color, into its vastness. A horn is sounded like the cry of a child lost in oblivion. But its density suffocates all sound. Beneath it water can only breathe gently, Hills must fade before it, Scent must bury itself within it. But sun may permeate, dissolve it, Until fog becomes mere wisps And life springs upward outward And laughs again. -Elizabeth Shulman Slipping away, away beyond the roofs of the hills, slipping through the trees, through the earth, and through all those intricacies that should serve to hold it, preserve it. The air becomes cold as it slips further away and again those very things, like the trees and the earth, begin to reflect the widened absence. The basis of progression and achievement now act as reflectors and destroyers where before, as though an inverted mountain were the scope and all views were focused outwardly, now the view is narrowed and the line of sight is surrounded and directed. Whereas before acceptance of reality was so natural that it became secondary to the intangible, now each object must have a logical ex- planation, and those divine things that are beyond explanation seem so often to fade. 4 - Thelma ddelman page cighlcen