Clifton High School - Rotunda Yearbook (Clifton, NJ)

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Spot, noticing: his master in that dignified position before such an uninteresting box, pricked up his ears, and trotted over to the boy. For the next half hour Matthew hopefully dragged the old chest in the direction of his house—his feet on the earth, his head in the clouds— rehearsing what he would say when he was congratulated on his good fortune. And how he would pose for the newspaper photographers! Spot helped the general excitement all he could by barking endlessly and jumping up at Matt and appearing to bite his stockings, his tail swinging eagerly. “Get down, Spot, get down. Ooh!—a real treasure!” He reached home. Mr. Herriway arriving at the same time, having come by the road in his wagon, bustled into the kitchen and set down the baskets. Matt could not tell them fast enough. His eyes were bright and round. At each suggestion of a new sentence his enthusiasm grew. Then he stopped. Mr. Herriway threw back his head and roared. “Let’s see it”'—as soon as he could speak. Somewhat dismayed, the little would-be hero pointed out of the back door. The man’s eyes widened a little when he saw the “treasure”; then he fell to laughing again, this time harder than at his first surprise. The boy’s mother looked a little puzzled and smiled faintly in the corner of her mouth. Then—a cry from Matt, a medley of sounds caused by the pounding of an axe against the old rotten chest, and an amused laugh from Mr. Herriway. A moment later and an ordinary, broken trunk—and empty—lay in the yard surrounded by onlookers upon whose faces the expressions varied widely. Matthew began to cry with disappointment; tears trickled down his cheeks over the mud and freckles. The man spoke. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but ’twas so darn funny! Only Friday last I threw out that trunk; it wa’n’t no good no more, and I just threw it out. Treasure, ’ey? Guess again, Matt.” With that he laughed once more and, taking out his watch, bade them good-day. Matt bit his lips hard and then the hot tears came in a blinding flood. His mother consoled him the best she could. After a few min- utes he arose and walked into the house, his feet still on the earth; but his head he kn°w not where. RUTH McCOLLOM, ’23. Page Sixteen

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THE NUGGET OR the third time Mrs. Haldane exerted all her shrill ap- paratus to arouse Matthew, who was sitting with a dull grin on his face, eagerly reading line after line. Suddenly he became conscious of the familiar sound of his name being called, and jumped up with wild eyes; “Treasure Island dropped to the floor. “What’s the matter with you?”—the words flooded his confused senses. “How I’ve stood and called you and called you. I want you to go to Herriway’s and tell him to bring the fruit over on his way to market this morning. I’m ready to do it up now. I thought I could do the cherries today and then--” “A’right—can I bring Spot?” He whistled to the watching dog. “Yes—and, Matt—tell him to bring only two baskets instead of three.” “G’bye.” His mind was still roving over the alluring mazes and mysteries of the book. He told Mr. Herriway to bring the fruit, ate in silence the apple that was handed to him, and turned to go. “Oh, I forgot—only bring two baskets. She don’t want the other one.” “Don’t want it? Well. My! your feet are muddy—did you come across lots? If you want, you can go down the path in the yard there like we alius do. It won’t be so muddy, maybe.” “A’right,” he agreed unconcernedly, his eyes on the red strawberries that were flirting with him from the dark green muddy leaves. His shoe caught behind a rake; the world bumped around; his face was in the mud. Disgustedly picking himself up, he could hear Mr. Herriway ask- ing his wife where the baskets were. He left the garden, and, disre- garding, jumped over the hedge into more mud, and broke into a run. He stopped short—his eyes bulged and fastened on something ahead of him. As though not to scare it away he crept slowly to it, the wonder in his eyes increasing. “Ooh!—ooh!—Spot—a reg'lar treasure—in a chest ’n’ everything. Ooh gosh!” he gulped. The old ,wet chest lay on the ground beside him, musty, and ancient. He dropped to his knees in reverence. “And it won’t open, either. How mys—mys—mysterious!” Page Fifteen

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DAY DREAMS Sometimes when English class seems slow I slouch down in my seat, quite low. My head upon my hand I lean, And then I start to dream and dream. Ofttimes I am Elaine, the fair With eyes of blue—and golden hair, And oh, my heart is broke in twain, For I have loved—but loved in vain. Sometimes I am a martyr brave, And when folks pass beside my grave, They bow their heads and whisper low! “She saved our country from the foe.” Sometimes, I’m held by pirates bold, To tell where is the hidden gold. But, by some little trick of mine— I kill them all—all fifty-nine. I’m wandering with him by a brook. (Just as one reads of in a book.) The birds sing sweetly up above, I listen to his words of love. It is so nice to have him near, He clasps my hand—he whispers—“ Here.” A voice at my elbow cries, “What is it that word modifies?” I start—I come to earth once more. Oh me, but English is a bore! But oh, my dreams! Alas! Alas! My castles fall—they go to smash! L. A. BECK, ’23. Page Seventeen