Holbrook High School - Echo Yearbook (Holbrook, MA)

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THE ECHO 15 “You may read it if you wish,” answered the bewildered girl politely as she offered it to her. The former obeyed, and as she too slowly replaced the letter, in a fit of rage shouted, “Well, he needn’t think he’s going to take you away from me for nothing. Haven’t I clothed and fed you for over five years? Does he think that I can get another girl who’ll do my work for nothing?” Rose flinched at this as she thought of the scanty clothing which had covered her skinny body and of the many nights she had been sent to bed without any supper. Never- theless, she bravely stood her ground and replied, “He’s my legal guardian. Madam, and I am going to do whatever he thinks best.” “The madam” started to speak, but, thinking better of it, turned around and stamped out of the room, slamming the door behind her. Rose was left in a daze and wished with all her heart she could remain in bed for a little while longer and concen- trate on this most exciting message. But she well knew what would happen if she wasn’t up on time to get breakfast and ’tend to Maureen, So, out of bed she hopped and in a twinkling was on her way downstairs. Deftly and quietly she worked all morning, washing clothes, dishes and the kitchen floor, ironing and sewing, each minute fear- ing that Mrs. Branley would appear, and the storm would break again. But luck seemed to be with her, for it was not long after she had succeeded in getting Maureen interested with her blocks that the telephone rang. This call turned out to be a luncheon invita- tion for her mistress. The latter accepted it, for this meant that she wouldn’t have to buy a noon meal that day. “The baby can eat the soup that’s in the ice-box, and if you can scrape anything up, you may have it. Don’t you dare to touch the pudding that’s in the pantry, or you’ll wish you hadn’t.” Such were her parting- words to Rose. When at last Rose’s duties were all per- formed, she with the baby on her arm, hur- riedly climbed the two flights of rickety stairs to her forlorn little room up in the attic. Her heart was singing merrily as she mounted the stairs and entered her room. Placing Maureen down on her cot, she reread for the fifth time the wonderful letter. This happy little girl was soon awakened from her day dreaming, however, by a loud rap on the front door of the house. Thank- ing her lucky stars Mrs. Branley wasn’t at home, for she well knew what would happen to anyone she caught knocking at her front door. Rose descended the stairs. Upon open- ing the door, she was greeted with a cheery — “Hello. I say, are you Rose Brinton?” “Why, yes,” stammered the startled maiden, “I am.” “So you’re the lucky little mistress of Sunnylake. Well, well, I sure am glad to meet you,” this from the stranger as he ex- tended his hand toward Rose. This stricken little lady listened to this marvelous man as he related to her the story of her father’s death and of the mansion which she now was in command of. “Here,” he said as he finished, “this is a note for you written by your Dad on his death bed. She took it from him, her tiny hand trembling, and her flushed face covered with tears. She read — My darling daughter, I am writing to you as I draw my last breath. Be faithful to your music for your mother’s sake until you succeed, and pray to God that one day we may all be united in the other world. Good-bye and good luck to you, my loved one. With all my love, Dad. The next day saw Rose on the train from Greenville, with all its disappointment, to France, her home land, speeding along to happiness and success with her sympathetic and watchful guardian at her side. Grace Kelly, ’34. R. Hagg: “I’ve got to design a hot-dog stand, what would you suggest as material?” Joe Mack: “A rustic affair of dogwood covered with bark.” The human brain is a wonderful organ. It starts working as scon as we wake in the morning, and never stops till we get to school. Mr. Walsh: “I will now use my hat to rep- resent the planet Mars. Are there any questions before I go on?” Daley: “Yes, is Mars inhabited?” This verse does not mean a thing It’s merely here for volume I simply copied this gol-darned thing To fill up this gosh darned column. — Exchange. Lucas: “I want a pair of corduroy pa nts.” Salesman: “How long?” Lucas: “How long? I don’t want to rent them, I want to buy them.” Doctor: “Did you sleep with two windows open as I told you?” Sick One: “No, I have only one window, but I opened it twice.” Mr. Neal: “Are you the kind of a worker that watches the clock?” Maxham: “No, Sir, I have a wrist watch.” Miss Maguire: “What does transparent mean ?” F. Roberts: “Something you can see through.” Miss Maguire: “Yes, and give me an illus- tration.” F. Roberts: “A Doughnut!

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14 THE ECHO of money and g’ood times. You know, dear, that can’t last forever. It all turns out just like that. Her money has gone, her good times, and most of her life.” “Oh, mother, do you think I can help her in any way? Isn’t there something I can do?” pleaded Sue. “No, dear. I’m afraid not,” Mrs. Loring answered quickly. After a long pause Sue straightened up and smiled. “Well, mother, I may as well tell you that I will marry Jerry Carr if he asks me to. You see I was going to give up my position and run off with that wealthy Tom Boyce. I see my mistake now. Mother, and I know how foolish I was to think of such a thing. Going with Ruth and watch- ing her have a good time, plenty of money, and a beautiful car; well, it just made me blue,” explained Sue as she combed her black wavy hair. “I should be thankful I have a friend like Jerry Carr, and a position so I can pay you and Dad back for what you gave me,” pouted Sue. “Jerry has graduated from a clerk in the Home National Bank to the Vice President, and is now building a beautiful home for you, dear,” smiled Mrs. Loring with large expressive eyes as she hugged her daughter and said “Well, how do, Jerry, have you come for Mrs. Carr?” Kathleen Eldridge. A FRIEND “For goodness sakes. Rosy, will you stop that baby’s screeching?” yelled Mrs. Bran- ley from the porch where she was reposing in a lounging chair, reading a magazine, and munching on expensive chocolates. “I’m doing the very best I can, madam,” (Mrs. Branley always required Rose to call her this) answered Rose almost in tears. “Why must she call me that dreadful name when she knows I hate it so?” she sobbed to herself as she rocked the baby back and forth, doing everything in her power to quiet her. This unfortunate lass was a pretty but delicate girl of fourteen years. She had never known the care and love of a mother and believed her father to be lost at sea. But Rose was no squealer and always did her duty, never complained nor fretted over the unfortunate life which was hers. However, nearly every night her pillow would be wet with hot tears, for this young lady wanted to become a great piano player like her dad and was deprived of this privilege by her most disagreeable and selfish mistress. Mrs. Branley had a piano, but she always kept it locked and hid the key, for she detested any kind of music and especially (as she called it) “Rosy’s hammering.” Rose knew where the key was, but she didn’t dare to touch it as she received whippings enough for things that she didn’t do without forcing another on herself. One night, however, when Mrs. Branley had gone out to a meeting. Rose could no longer resist the temptation, and after getting Maureen tucked snugly in bed, she went to her shabby but spotless room, where she unearthed the three cherished pieces given to her by her ever glorious daddy. From thence, she made her way to the attic, and finding the key, proceeded to unlock and dust off the beloved instrument. Next, she seated herself on a wooden box and opened the well-worn sheets of music. Slow- ly but surely she fingered the keys, and when at last she had finished her first piece, she was crying so hard from sheer happiness that she did not at first hear the baby howl- ing. When, however, she did become aware of the fact, another, an d this a more alarm- ing sound, reached her panic-stricken senses. She whirled around to see Mrs. Branley with a dangerous looking whip in her long hand and an expression on her hard, set face that would frighten the bravest of all creatures. Rose cried herself to sleep again that night, “kicking” herself over and over again for having given in to her emotions. She was awakened the next morning by a loud rap on the door, and then a key turning in the old rusty lock. Her mistress, by the way, locked the poor girl in her room each night and unlocked the door at five o’clock sharp each morning as a signal for Rose to get up. “Here is a letter addressed to you. Rosy,” grumbled the selfish old woman as she stood on the threshold and hurled it across the room towards Rose. “Thank you,” replied the latter court- eously as she proceeded to pick it up and open it. “Oh my heavens!” exclaimed our little friend as she read the letter through the first time. Then, not being able to believe her own eyes, she read it a second time pausing for a few seconds on each word so that it might sink in. She even pinched herself to make sure she wasn’t dreaming, for these were the words she read. 66 Parker Avenue, Paris, France. June 6, 1930. My dear Rose, As your legal guardian, I have at last suc- ceeded in locating you and am coming to you as fast as a boat from France will carry me. I hope you are well. I can’t wait to see you and tell you of the great fortune left to you by your dear departed Dad. A sincere friend, Mr. Anthony Gaston. Hesitantly, Rose put the miracle back into its envelope, still only half realizing its meaning. “What’s it say?” barked Widow Branley sharply.

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16 THE ECHO “ONE ROGERS (Excerpts from the log of the Cryptic) Alone ... on a desert island way off in the black blue spaces of a map of the Pacific, Henry Rogers stood on a rocky promontory, an arm stretched out in vain appeal to that small gray sail that was fast diminishing on the horizon. Wheeling birds scolded shrilly, and small brown monkeys scattered impotently at the human figure crumpled so hopelessly on th« rocks. Hours later when the vertical sun had turned the sea from deep blue to green and was making the shore a hot white dazzle, Rogers stirred and, cursing, betook himself to the shade of a few cocoanut palms in a manner saying, “Well, it’s all up now, but I might as well die in comfort.” Here with his back to a tree, his chin on his chest, he disconsolately reviewed his trip on that dis- reputable coastwise steamer which he had, to his present sorrow, discovered to be a modern pirateer. Futilely he questioned why he had not agreed, with mental reservations, to become one of them; fool that he was, he had not conceived it possible for them to carry out their threats. A brilliant orchid and sulphur sunset passed unnoticed; a moon as glowing as a New England harvest moon spent the night in attendance on the myriad “angels lan- terns” without recognition from that pitiful figure; the mist-blue and tangerine of sun- rise brought only a fretful sleep for human troubles. Noonday, however, awoke him with seething heat and myriad flies. Grumblingly changing position, he re- awakened to his condition, the meagre store of provisions, and the smallness of all mankind. Seeing that his little bit of ammunition was dangerously close to the water, he stretched with a great cracking of joints and secured them in some pride of possession. With a few more prodigious yawns he proceeded to explore his “teaspoonful of sand and patch of green twigs.” The only thing of promise in the whole island was the fruitful cluster of cocoanut palms which adorned the top of the little hill. How the monkeys ever got there was a lasting wonder What would soon become of them was not. That answer was applicable also to the numerous sea birds which rose in such squawking, feathery panic at his approach. Rogers took a cyni- cal pleasure in calculating how many birds and cocoanuts it woul d take for a man to exist “in this dismal hole.” . . . . LOST” Day after day dawned and set in glitter- ing magnificence until that poor shelterless soul cursed the sun, the sea, the island, but chiefly himself. Hour after hour he spent in wandering around the beach when cool, dig- ging for shell fish; hour after heated hour he spent sitting in the narrow, changing- shade of his three palms, talking to himeslf, reciting his grievances, planning wild, hair- brained vengeances. Then one day he found gold as he was idly scratching in the sand — good-sized glit- tering particles all over the place ; why, that was what gave the beach that bright dazzle at noonday. His island was rich! His inac- tive life was now filled with a great purpose ; he worked zealously in the dim of morning, sweated in the midday brightness, and plugged slowly but steadily through the afternoon until faintness made him stop for rest. He filled three great sand hollows at the foot of the palms, lined them with bird feathers to protect his treasure. Each night before he slept he worshipped this shimmer- ing, glinting mass with standard ritual — plunging his arms elbow deep into the pits, bringing up handfuls to drop through his fingers again in a glancing cascade of moon- made magic, and finally covering it up with feverish, furtive halts as if the dozing mon- keys were enemies of his love. Months later, as he straightened from his work to rest his back and wipe the sweat from his bearded face, he noticed far out on the horizon a drift of faint smoke. This ecstatic joy broke the remnants of his once powerful will, the final restraint of his gold fever, and sent him, screaming, across the rocky promontory, urged him to tie his tattered shirt on a pole and wave it fran- tically, and supported him as the steamer gradually assumed a clearer shape on the horizon. Steadily nearer it seemed to come, nearer, just a little nearer, and then slowly receded from view again. That gray cloud of smoke, once seeming to have waved in friendly greeting, was now a mocking, sarcastic fin- ger pointed in demoniacal glee at the futile man. The sun was again the weapon of Satan, the palm trees were a “couple of sticks,” the island of gold was a “teaspoon of sand.” Even the gray sea birds and the now lone monkey voiced no sympathy for that pros- trate, broken form alone on the rock. Ruth Hill, ’34. A gum chewing boy A cud chewing cow Seem to me Alike somehow. A difference there is, Oh — I see it now— It’s the thoughtful look On the face of the cow.