Hamden Hall Country Day School - Perennial Pine Yearbook (New Haven, CT)

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THE LUCK OF THE IRISH As she strolled down Fifth Avenue, Colleen O'Brien admitted to herself that never was there so grand or so beautiful a country as America. Of course, she could never love it as she loved her native Ireland and the little house in Carrick where she had been born, but she did love it as the land of miracles and wonders that it was. Why, four days after her boat had docked she had been employed as a maid by a rich New York family and had earned more money than she had ever seen or had before in her life. Only one thing bothered her: Americans certainly had strange customs, she was sure she would never understand their ways. just the other day Mrs. Vandershack, her employer, had requested the queerest thing of her. Colleen, she had said, as you are the maid in this house, it is your duty to answer the door. It is the custom among the better families in New York to use calling cards whenever we go visiting. So please take the small silver tray on the hall table to the door with you. The visitor will put her card on this and then you bring it to me. That afternoon the front doorbell rang. Colleen, remembering Mrs. Vandershack's words, approached the door with the tray in her hand. What should she say? Mrs. Vander- shack hadn't told her that. Opening the door she thrust the tray out under the visitors' noses and said as politely as she could, Tickets, please. A long pause followed-finally three cards were placed on the tray. Colleen drew the tray inside and slammed the door shut. On receiving the cards Mrs. Vandershack was overjoyed. Imagine, the heads of the Socialite Club had come to visit her. Trying to hide her excitement she sauntered slowly down the stairs, but on looking around did not perceive her guests. Colleen, she whispered, where are they? Why, Mum, I left them standing out on the doorstep. With a moan Mrs. Vandershack rushed to the door and looked out. There was no one there. Colleen left Mrs. Vandershack's the next day. She still didn't know why she had been discharged, but anyway, everything was all right. For now, one day later, she was on her way to her new job. Goodness, things certainly happened fast in America. It really was a wonderful country. Ann Perkins Form IV fifty-one

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A FANTASY All winter the dark. foreboding winds had howled and swirled in and out of the little hills and valleys. The sun was rarely seen, for when it tried to show its face, it was quickly covered over by grey clouds. So much snow had fallen that one couldn't distinguish the earth from the heavens, and terrifying shadows crawled behind every turn as night stole on. The trees resembled spiders' webs with all their branches covered with the glistening flakes. On one of those cold nights one might catch a glimpse of a sturdy little house perched on top of a hill, with a beckoning light shining brightly in one of its windows, and as one's eyes followed it and peeked in the window, a cheery fire would be seen burning in the grate. The room was a cozy one containing handsome old furniture, and a bright skin rug lay on the polished oak floor. Silver platters were displayed in the cupboard and a towering old grandfather clock ticked heartily in the corner. Sur risin 1 the rooms never seemed to ather dust or dirt or need aintin ' ever - 8, Y thing was always neat and pretty. ' Reading by the fireside sat an old lady with a very young and beautiful appearance about her. She had soft, blue eyes and wonderfully brown, wavy hair. Her skin was like a lily. No, all those long years of seclusion had not marred her beauty nor the beauty of her little house. Soon winter was over and Spring appeared and left and Summer came. With it came the flowers, the birds, the bees and the pleasant singing of the crickets. Once again the hills and valleys were alive after their long sleep. The mistress sat outside in her garden watching all the little animals and insects and often went down to the brook to watch the minnows and the frogs. Every day some of the village folk came up to chat with her and bring her good things to eat. How beautiful and good life is and how wonderful it is to live, she would think to herself, never stopping to question how other people lived, believing that they led good, happy lives like hers. One day no visitors came to see her. Towards evening a small boy raced up the hill, thrust her a newspaper and ran down again. The mistress, since this was the first newspaper she had read for a long time, walked slowly into the house, opening it as she went. Gradually the meaning of those three cold, black letters that stood out so clerly on the front page came back to her. They read W A R . Suddenly she realized the truth about other people. Way down in the cellar was heard a deep rumbling and a crash as the little house collapsed. Then all was still. Berit Ore Form II My

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0 TRUE HEROISM This story happened at a farm situated far in the country where one could walk for hours to find other people. It lay beside a hill which was covered with many trees, one more beautiful than the other. The farm was at that time already very old and so were the inhabitants. It was very early in the morning. The sun had started the day after a long sleep and brought its smiling happiness and joy to the earth, and the air was full of peace. The birds were busy looking for food to feed their hungry young ones. Two roosters, the rulers of the big hen-house beside the stable, guided their flock, consisting of an old hen and many little chickens, to the food dish which stood under the old elm tree and was known as the best one of the whole farm. But the peace does not last very long when two roosters have to eat together. After a short time they argued about a kernel of corn, in spite of there being plenty to feed four roosters. ' The one said, That is my cornf, No, said the other, that is my corn. I noticed it first. But it was put there for me, said the first. So both became very angry and spread out their wings, opened their beaks, and the second cried, The corn is mine, because my breed is the better one. No, my breed is better, as my family is older. But l came from a brown egg and brown is the most beautiful color. But l was born in a white egg and white is the most beautiful color. I am right. No, I am right. The roosters saw now that the problem had to be solved in another way and so both screamed, The right is with the stronger one. They attacked furiously. They jumped in the air in order to rush on the enemy and to tear off some feathers. The kernel of corn, which was the reason for all this disturbance, was already trodden into the mud. The old hen with her chickens tried to stop them, but nobody paid any attention to her. All the animals had interrupted their work to watch the fight. ' fifty-two