Buxton School - Yearbook (Williamstown, MA)

Page 29 text:

fm-1' 2-vw' we-v--T - - When Chrilrlmac come.r il 111' lime for .ringing and going oul info lhe nighl bundled up wilh a good .rupply of .rong.r-for lhe .rurrounding hou.fe.r. Alma al lhilr lime, we have a Chrilrlmaw parly for everyone connecled wilh lhe Jchool. Each penron draw.r .romeone el.re'.f name a week before, and lhi.r re.rull.f in lhe giving of .filly pre.renl.r and lhe reading of lzumoroua' poem.r allached lo lhe gifl.r. We .ring carolr aflerwardr and end lhe evening with refremhmen l.r and dancing. The winler .reem.r lo go quickly for lhere are .ro many acliviliex and recrealionw lo fill up our lime. Xllany ouldoor job.r are lo be done .ruch am chopping wood for lhe freplacea' and felling lreewfor lumber. Qflen al 5.45 in llze morning a .rmall group would be oul in lhe wood.f. Thi.r wa.r by no mean.r a compulwoly job bul ralher lhe incenlive waffound in lhe peace of lhe wood.r and lhe .rpirilual beauly of an early morning .runri.re plum a greal feeling of accomplilrhmenl. There waw alwaga hol coffee before going oul and lime lo relax and lalk. AJ- French wa.r ollen hallinglzf Jpoken, llze .rleepg morningx were alive and amu.ring. One parlicularly wonderful morning llze group gol inlo lhe car and drove lo lhe lop of lhe lllohawk Trail lo walch lhe .funriwe over lhe valley. Ulher morn ing.f were Jpenl, when il wax loo cold lo work, lalking, lzlrlening lo mu.ric, or walking. Work program on Saturday morning i.r alro a necemraly par! of lhe gear'.r cooperalive accompliwhmenl. I l includew .ruch lhingw a.r cleaning lhe hou,re, working on lhe groundc and converling lhe old corn crib inlo a lhealre. Belween Chrilrlmaa' and Jpring, becauwe of lhe deep Jnow, much of lhe lime i.f .fpenl indoonr and lhiw period .rcemw lhe mo.rl inlenfefor inlelleclual growlh, including mach crealive wriling. Pk HF lk Pk Pk l stopped, I listened, but did not enter ing I heard the whispers, then laughter free and long. I started to enter, but turned away again For I did not belong. S Ann Jlalhewa' wk Ik if lk Ik A soft mesh spreads swiftly over the earth trapping those whose minds have drained the earth of all beauty. Those small enough slipped easily through, and once again called on the Cyclops to hurl away all wretched existence. - Thelma Adelman page lwenly-.reven

Page 28 text:

I have sinned And I have sinned directly and indirectly And I have sinned the worst of all sins. I have compelled those who wish not to sin Into sin. The product of a so-called society Wlhich I, myself, have created. According to a code of laws Of an unknown something, And that is a sin For I have created and I have sinned out of nothing. And that too is a sin. I am the lover but not the loved The individual but yet the masses, The sinner, and the sinned. - lfylllfam Horwlll dfler walking and running in ll11'.r cold and flftldfllliul almo.rpl1ere llzere fir a plaee wlzere we are alwagx welcome. Ylzere in ll1e preerence of llze lclnd of people wlzo we know are nzore llzan Wl..f6 and more llzan wonderful we can .wp a lzol cup of eqfee. flnd ll IIJ' nalural llzal in a eommunllu Juelz am lluir llzere .rlzould lze ll1e.re people: llze gardener and lnir wlfe. I lze gardener wlzo lm .ro muelz more llzan jaw! a gardener f he lil' a doclor, a mlalefman, and a man ,ro wzlre llzal ll IIA' a pllu llzal llze world eannol paufe-for a momenl I0 lzlrlen lo l11'.r pl11'lo.ropl1-y. Here zlr llze l1ou.re wlzere you can .ffl down and lell all your .recrel llzouglzlm lo lz1'.r wlle and lo lzlnz and lzlrlen lo all llzelr wzirdom llzal gearir of experience lzave lauglzl llzem. page lwenly-.fix

Page 30 text:

THE PAINTED SM ILE ODERICK propped his crooked elbows on the sill of his window and glanced across the soft red brick of the tenements with their splashes of color made by potted geraniums and checked kitchen curtains whipping against the window frames. He followed the slant lines of the fire escapes to their termination in the little dirt squares below where the pachysandra and ivy struggled in the grey sooty earth. He followed the contour of the sagging fences 7 the pathway of the alley cats. He caught the variation of color on the wash lines. Roderick smiled and nibbled the end of his paint brush. It was the time in the evening when the eastern windows hold the glint of the western sun, and cooking smells mingle with clinking silver and dishware to be carried away on a small sighing breeze. The same breeze which rocked the leaves of a tree below and the same which fanned lightly his hollow cheek . . . wafted playfully, laughingly across his hol- low cheek. Then Roderick bit hard on the end of his paint brush and the wood split and splintered inside his mouth. He leaned his head far out the window and spat at the grimy dirt of the square yard below. He laughed now, and his laugh rose to a Crescendo and it roared on the rising wave of the sighing breeze. Laugh, Roderick, laugh. Laugh at the little woman who hangs out her window across the way, laugh at the stooped little man who shakes his cane at a prowling tomcat, laugh at the street urchin who bounces his indian rubber ball against the sag- ging fence. Laugh, Roderick, laugh - but remember the echo of that laugh rebounds on the faces of the soft red brick to mock you. Roderick, remember well your first night here, when you flung open this window as it is now and you smiled at the woman who hung from her window, and watched the color of the sinking sun die on her rounded cheek while the same sighing breeze caught a small laugh and carried it to the trees where it could mingle with the laughing of the leaves. Roderick, remember well the morning. The smell of bacon and coffee grounds that hung in the air before the little breeze awakened. Your canvas was bare, but you painted on it with sure strokes, the warmth of the soft colored brick and the yellow hue of the cornices. You used burnt umber and sooty black in the shadows and in the dark caverns of the windows. You purpled the shadows of the paving stones below, dabbed yellow-green for the sun-touched leaves. Roderick, you nibbled gently on the end of your brush that day and you hummed softly. As you painted, you dreamed of a one-man show. White-haired critics stroking whitened beards, dark, thin young men gesturing with long- fingered hands, women sighing, smiling, maybe even crying. People awed by the power of your color, Roderick, your composition, each object page lwenly-sigh!