Fitchburg High School - Boulder Yearbook (Fitchburg, MA)

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liandcufTed and led toward the entrance. I was suri)rised to learn IVoin the conversation that the woman who had the man arrested was a secret service detective employed b} ' the circus company to watch for ])iek])oekets. As they came nearer, I saw Michael Gonlding transformed into a ])olieeman. The woman was Miss Drake. It might seem surprising at first that she should choose such an avocation, but when one reflects that during her school da ’S she wrote essays upon induction and deduction and criti- cisms upon Conan Doyle, her profession seems only to be a nat- ural consequence. I again turned to the curiosities before me. A group of Span- ish dancing girls were performing with tambourines, while their feet moved about gracefully, keeping time in perfect accord. As the dance progressed the momentum of the women increased until finally, whirling gracefully around the ring, they all dropped down exhausted upon the floor. The} ' were eight in number, all sisters as the program said, but I found it to be otherwise, for I recognized them as my classmates in Spanish garb. They were Miss Benjamin, Miss Caswell, Miss Conant, Miss Hanna, Miss Hosley, Miss Hawkins, Aliss Keefe, and Miss Murph ' . I next saw before me a wild and rock-bound coast and the high surf beating furiously against the stern cliffs. The white foam of the billows was seething and flying about on all sides and a fierce wind was driving the mountain waves toward the coast and dashing them headlong upon the shore. Above the clifts stood a man whose melancholy countenance and deep, hag. gard eyes bespoke a personality in strange harmony with the scene around him. Just then I heard him utter in a distant voice “To be or not to be, that is the question.” What thoughts could he have? Why stood he thus alone? I wondered at the sight. A great sadness seemed sometime to have overcast him. Perhaps he had lost a dear friend, perhaps he had been unfortunate in love, or perhaps it may be, he had committed some crime for which he had afterward repented. The picture faded away. Another appeared. It was now spring, and the birds and the flowers had begun to cheer the world. A young woman was gathering flowers in the meadow. She was happy, for I could hear her humming the strains of an is

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tricities. George Miller, the giant, was standing beside an ele- phant and towered above the beast by as inueh as an ordineiry man towers above an ox. Miss Beinis was swallowing swords. It might be as well to say here that she was aeenstomed from childhood to swallow at one gulp cakes of sweet ehoeolate whieh she borrowed from Messrs. Andrews and Foster for the oeeasion. In the eenter of the tent was a Kamehatkan village trans- ported into the eireus. The buildings consisted of a dozen tents made of skins, not high enough to permit even a hunehbaek to stand up straight. A group of half-naked ehildren were playing about the tents, and in the foreground two men were sitting elose to an open fire solemnly smoking. They were dressed from head to foot in bearskins and on their heads they wore caps of mink furs. In spite of paint and grease, I could make out the characteristic features of Brownell and Kangas. The latter now and then would utter a monosyllabic click, while the other would reply with a vague movement of the head. These at first seemed to be the only men about the place. I concluded that the rest had probably gone hunting or fishing. But there were many women about the place, who like the rest of their sex were chat- tering continuously, in harsh and discordant tones. Among them I recognized still more of my acquaintances. Miss Gallup was gazing intently upon the giant. Miss Dormin was cooking fish in a stone pot, and Miss Nellie Smith was superintending operations with profuse suggestions. “Cupid” Merriman was here also. Around him was a group of women receiving instruction in needle- work, and to my great astonishment, Misses Miller, Wheeler and Minott were serenely smoking. This whole scene gave me such a feeling of peace and quiet, that I was sorely tempted to withdraw to Kamchatka and end my days in its restful environment. Not far from this village, a young lady was walking a tight rope, utterly unmindful of the fatal abyss below. At first I could not see her face, but as she turned around, I could see the smiling face of Miss Desmond, now listed as “Mile. Marie Desmonde.” Suddenly my attention was attracted to the other end of the tent by a great uproar. A policeman was scuffling with a man who was making desperate efforts to get away. But he was soon 17

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old, f uniliar love song. But she was soon interrupted by a voiee from behind. “How d’ye do? Seems to me I’ve met ye before.’’ “Oh yes, very likely,’’ replied the first, “I am Miss Lena Hardy.” Tlie neweomer looked sur])rised. “Oh yer be, be yer? My name’s Warren — Esther Warren. I guess we uster go t’ sehool together at Fitchburg. I live up over there.’’ She pointed to a shambling cottage. “I raise chickens for th’ market.’’ “Oh! now I rememl)er you!’’ exclaimed Miss Hardy. “Do you happen to know where any of our old classmates are?’’ “Well, I should say!’’ “’Bout a fortnight ago, I looked outen the winder and saw a cart goin’ up th’ street. It had no bosses nor nuthin an’ I didn’t know zactly what ter make on’t. It stopped before my house and two men on th’ front seat got off’ll made a bow. Who do d’ye ’spose the} were? One was Joe Schofield and the other Louis Moreau. One on ’em pressed a but- ton, like they have on ’leetrie bells in th’ city, then both got up on the cart again. Then th’ cart began ter play, without any one turning a crank. Then Schofield began t’ sing and Louis kept time with his feet an’ he did it pretty lively, too. By th’ way, where’s that feller Rod that uster scrape up t’ 3 011 so? You aint married, be yer?’’ Miss Hardy blushed. “I beg pardon,’’ said Miss Warren quickly. “Oh, no offence at all. I was just thinking. We had a little disagreement three years ago, and I haven’t seen him since.” “Do tell! I want ter know!” exclaimed the rustic. “ It’s just as well. Less to do with men th’ better. I never had much use for them anyway.” Miss Hardy blushed again. “Wall, I’ve got to be a’goin’,” Miss Warren continued. “I’ve got to feed my hens. Glad I’ve met ye. Good-bye.” “Good-bye,” answered Miss Hardy. Just then this picture faded and instead appeared the after deck of a large ocean liner eastward bound. Most noticeable among the passengers were two persons promenading about the deck. One was a man. I recognized him as Rodney Wilson. He was the same whom I saw upon the cliff in the storm, but his haggard look was gone and instead he wore the merry counte- nance of his school days. His companion was — Miss Lena Hardy.