Buxton School - Yearbook (Williamstown, MA)

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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

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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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There is a pasture, And in this pasture graze the wants, the desires, And the hopes of all men. The pasture is large g and has no wall, no gate, no line, no race, But has a sign . . . Associate! That is the rub, For when we choose to use that word We've drawn the line and cut the herd. . . m - Wlllza Horwill THE CROSS The sod, the ash, the mound, The long and level lines stretching, Stretching along the infinite path, and the steps Leaving just a single mark behind, Down one, down two, down one, Down, down, down, gone. Mark the place, Unearth the flowers else they wilt, Replant the grass And hope it rains. When the night grows cold Or the dust rises from the naked ground, With the wind a husky beggar at its side Sweeping away the only impression left, Run to your mothers. Make your homes and reap your fields, Teach your children your ethics, And tomorrow they will be the dust That with the wind sent you home today. Remember creation, And do not look over the hill to the level Where death has banished life, Else the cross, your cross, White, white, unstained by the blood That flows on other shores, Decay your heart too soon. f Alzlron De.r.rau page n inelecn