Clifton High School - Rotunda Yearbook (Clifton, NJ)

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THE REFLECTOR You may help me drive the dogs that draw the milk wagon,” said John the next morning as they ate breakfast. And so I can help earn some money for your kind mother?” Hope asked John. John had two dogs and a little two-wheeled cart to which he harnessed them every morning. Into the cart his mother put two shining pails and a long handled dipper for measuring. Off started the cart along the narrow street with Hope on one side and John on the other. At every cottage the Dutch housewives had a pleasant smile for the little English lass. The days passed with blue skies and the sun shining down upon the canal. Hope’s days with John were busy, merry ones. She too had wooden shoes now and John’s mother had made her a warm, red skirt and a little green velvet coat. Hope looked like a real Dutch girl as she skated to school every morning. There was never any place in England, Hope thought, so merry and gay as the little frozen canal in front of her new home. It seemed that everybody was on skates; the market women, the school children, and even the old doctor skated to see his sick patients. Aren’t you glad that you came to Holland to be my little sister?” asked John as they skated to school one morning. I am very glad. But, oh, John, I wish I could see my father.” Spring came early to the canal and once more the tulips burst into bloom. Hope had never seen such beautiful flowers in all her life. As the warm summer days went by Hope grew sad, for her father had not yet come and she knew that there was not much money in the home into which she had been welcomed so kindly. The only link she had to her old home and father was a golden locket which she prized very greatly. John’s mother had told her that it was worth a great deal so Hope thought to sell it to make some money. One Saturday morning when John was on an errand for his mother, Hope took her precious locket and hurried out of the house. She had decided to go down to the dyke at the coast where many merchant ships came in and where she would be sure to sell it. As soon as she reached the dyke she began to cry, Who wants to buy my locket a, pretty locket.” She was so intent on holding her treasure correctly that she collided with a man. Looking up she heard him cry. Hope, Hope, my little Hope, at last I have found you.” Father, Father! Where have you been so long?” Hope rushed into his arms and there were many explanations amid laughter and tears. 20

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THE REFLECTOR “WV Patience Rewarded T BERING over the boat rail, Hope strained her weary, blue eyes to catch a glimpse of land. The sun shone brightly and suddenly like a fairy place the city appeared. There were tall church spires, shining high towers, ribbon-like canals, and many whirling windmills. Amsterdam in Holland was the haven of this little boat load of Pilgrims. Hope Arnold, a little English girl of ten years, blue eyed and flaxen haired, shivered, and turned to one of the women at her side. Do you think my father will be waiting for me on shore? The last thing he said to me before he put me on the boat was, 'Wait for me Hope. I will be with you soon.’ But that was a long time ago.” The woman turned away that the little girl might not see the tears in her eyes for Hope’s father had met with a sad fate. Just before the ship that bore the pilgrims to Holland sailed he had been cast into prison by the King because of his belief, and Hope was all alone. Perhaps your father will meet you some day in Amsterdam and if he told you to be patient and wait for him he will surely come.” There were friends waiting on shore for all,—brothers and fathers who had come some time before from England to make homes for them. Everybody had some place to go and Hope looked about her bewildered. Welcome to Holland, little English maid. And where are you going to live?” asked a Dutch housewife who had come over from England some time before and knew what it meant to be a stranger in a new land. Hope looked up wonderingly and then told her that she was expect- ing her father but that he had not come nor did she know when he would come. Poor little girl you shall come home with me. There is always room for one more in my home,” the woman said kindly. She took Hope’s hand and led her away from the others along the canal. The house where they stopped was made of red brick and it looked very cosy to poor little Hope. They opened the door into a quaint, shining kitchen. The floor was made of white tiles and there was a queer little fire place over which was hung a copper kettle. There were stiff white curtains at the windows and on the sill of one was a row of blos- soming plants. There was another room beyond where there was a strange bed built in the wall. John, John,’ the woman called, come in to see your new little sister. You have always wanted a playmate and here is one come to live with you.” A plump, rosy little boy with eyes as blue as Hope’s own and dressed in brown trousers and clumsy wooden shoes, entered the room. Soon they were chatting merrily like the best of friends. 19

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THE REFLECTOR Hope’s father had been released from prison many months before but he could not find Hope. All the other people who had been on the boat with Hope had gone to America and there was no one to tell Mr. Arnold where his little daughter was. Now he could make a home for her and reward John’s mother. Julia Gross, Feb. ’30. Armistice Shrill fife, shrill Beat drum, beat Cross the hill! Thru the street! Rouse the living dead. Every bell is ringing, Hail the one that said, America is singing, Peace man—Peace! Peace man—Peace! Peace man, Peace. War must cease! Honest men will preach, Earnest women teach, Peace man—Peace! Vernon Charles Grounds, Feb ’32. Told at Twilight Shyly the partng sunbeams Stole back through the painted glass, And wrapped n their garments of glory A subdued and a heavenly mass. When they fell ’round about us As we dreamed on the closing day, They mingled; the dreams and the sunbeams, And left us with shadows of grey. And after the shadows came darkness, And the painted glass tarnished black, So dark and so black ’round about us That our dreams—could they ever come back? How could such dreams ever perish, Though they seemed to have passed away Dreams gone away with the sunbeams, Away with the close of day? For when the morn has arisen From the depths of the black of night, They too shall come back with the sunbeams In the waves of its magic light. Ellen Phillips ’30. 21