Ipswich High School - Tiger Yearbook (Ipswich, MA)

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through the everdeepening snow towards Lincoln Station. She knew the way well having made the trip often, and depended, not on any man-made trail, but on her own keen, quivering nostrils. Early the next morning at Lincoln Sta- tion an astonished set of men saw a limp- ing bloody dog drawing a stronglimbed, unconscious man in her teeth, tired and shivering from head to foot. Some of them easily recognized Karak, and Lip-ton, when he recovered, was able to tell the story of his rescue so that another story of a dumb beast’s heroism was added to the list of those already known. JULIA F. DOUGHTY, 1922. MY ENGLISH LESSON ’Twas almost nine o’clock one morning bright ; Most easily might the teacher have dis- cerned With what reluctant minds we to our English turned, How slowly Brown his Math, put out of sight. The room was hushed in peaceful silence rare, When in her sudden ivay the teacher said, “Tomorrow’s lesson,” here rose every head, “Tomorrow’s lesson is to write a poem.” While walking home from school that af- ternoon, 1 lost myself in earnest thought of what My poem should be about, but naught. No hope nor plan could I divine so soon. But taking pen and ink that night, I labored earnestly, although my hopes were dead, And so I wrote this poem which you have read, And that was all that I could write. NATHAN SUSHELSKY, 1921. SUPREME SACRIFICE At the edge of a small wood near the French village of Hugemont, lived a little boy of nine years named Bossuet. He was small for his age, with a dark complexion and dark eyes and he was a cripple. He lived alone at the time in his little cottage. A neighbor came in each day to do his work and prepare his simple meals. In normal times he lived with his father in the cottage but now his father had gone at the call of Napoleon against the Eng- lish to the battle ground of Waterloo. During one of the fiercest battles the soldiers had ever seen, on the day the Eng- lish bombarded the French from the Church, and were answered by tempests of flame, on the day on which the English had effected the worst massacres of the fight, little Bossuet sat on the steps in front of his house and wondered. Where was his father now? Was he fighting des- perately or was he lying dead or dying in some obscure spot? Bossuet was a pas- sionate child. The more he pondered, and thought about his father the more he wanted to see him. Something seemed calling, calling him to his father. Oil the battle field all was quiet except for a shot that rang out now and then either from the gun of the guard or of a 11

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need was urgent, and Lipton, used as he was to Iho ways of traders, was neverthe- less inclined to believe the Hayes City trader when he said the half breeds were almost as good as any dog. For two perfect days Lipton travelled, s’ccping, eating, and even exercising in his sledge. When the third day dawned e’ear and cold and Lipton was congratu- lating himself on having the same weath- er throughout the trip, he noticed a strange uneasiness among his dogs. Karak was trying her best to quiet them, nipping here and snapping there, but she only suc- ceeded in exciting them the more. Lipton soon got out to quiet them, just taking a short walk with them to exercise bis stiff- ened limbs. Suddenly the leader jerked away from him and started on a swift trot. Before Lipton had time to grab the reins the others started and in a second they were going so fast that no man cou’d pos- sibly overtake them. At first Lipton tried but soon gave up the attempt and regain- ed Ihe trail, intending to walk to Lincoln Station, the nearest settlement, which was a good half day’s journey in the sledge. When he started everything was perfectly still except for the crunchi ng of his feet on the crusty snow. A wolf bayed in the d stance, then another and another. Then Lipton heard his dogs answer the call. He couM even distinguish Karak ’s deep growling tones. Tie decided it was the wolves which had excited them and thank- ed his stars he was carrying a loaded pis- tol. But a twenty-four hour’s journey over icy ground without food and with uncer- tain weather for the night is without doubt a bad prospect. By nightfall he was weary and hungry, and if he stopped for even a minute the cold penetrated his jacket. Northern lights were flickering across the sky, there was no moon — no stars. Lipton noticed all these things me- chanically. He was beginning to walk mechanically. Once he slipped, twisted his anide and limped painfully on. When- ever he thought of anything he said to himself he was glad the moon would not rise till just before the’ Northern lighls faded, and it would not set till dawn had come. Be had assured himself of that be- fore he started on this trip against which all his friends had advised him. Two hours more he tramped. Suddenly he realized it was growing dark. Looking about him he saw the moon had set and there was no streak of dawn in the East. Then he remembered he had expected to get to Lincoln Station by noon or in the evening at the latest. Still he walked on another hour, off the trail and probably in a circle. Still no sign of dawn. All at once he felt a damp, cold splash on his face and realized it was beginning to snow. Once more he slipped, falling this time with his leg doubled sickeningly un- ed him. The man tried to rise but coidcT not, and was forced to drag himself along as best he could, he did not know where. Soon his mind began to wander ; occasion- ally he would lose utter control of him- self and shriek for help from the echoless, frozen wastes. Then he would be silent again, creeping along in the snow. He thought to himself he would die there and no one would know or care. The oily trader would laugh — spread out bis oily hands. Thorough-bred dogs! “Karak, good Karak!” He imagined the dog had come and Avas licking his benumbed cheeks. The imagination seemed to warm him as he gave up all attempt of moving and lay where he was with the snow si- lent, deathlike, enshrouding him. Start- led he suddenly realized Karak was next to him, bloody, with the reins of the sledge bitten through and flapping about him. She put her strong teeth in Lipton ’s belt and dragged as fast as she could 10

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spy or prowler. The sun, hesitating on the brink of the horizon, gave one last, blood-reflected glance and slipped behind the hills as if to shut out the horrible scene before it. Within the battered, decrepit walls of Waterloo there was fatigue but no slum- ber ; there was hunger, but no food ; there was thirst but no water; there were dead bodies but no graves ; there were leaders without followers and followers without leaders. It was a terrible night. Except for those who were to sleep forever, there was no rest. In a corner beneath some vines lay a Frenchman, groaning for water, and call- ing for his little lame boy. Yes, it was Bossuet’s father, Combeferre. While he was praying for his child the hand of Providence, or the hand of Fate, (who could tell which?) was guiding Bos- suet on his home-made crutches toward the battle ground. He was small and al- though his crutches were impediments to his progress he soon reached the inside of the ground, guided by that unseen hand. He searched along the walls diligently for his father. He dared not call lest he should be heard and killed as a spy. At last he could go no farther and sinking down in a corner cried softly to himself. But only for a moment, for Bossuet, like all boys, hated tears and he resolutely brushed them away. At this moment his heart stood still with terror. What was that noise? He listened. A shot rang out and all was still again. When Bossuet had quieted his fears he heard again a whisper cry. He fears he he rd again a whispered cry. He drew nearer the sound, and then, his heart failing him, he backed away from it in fear. Suppose it were an Englishman ! The parched cry came again more loud; “Bossuet, come!” Bossuet’s heart leaped and he made his way as quickly as possi- ble to his father’s side. “Water!” Where could he get a drop of water? His father was dying of thirst. Peering through the darkness to which his eyes had now become accustomed he saw indistinctly a soldier lying not ten feet away drinking from a flask. He must get the water. He crept cautiously to- ward the Englishman and stealing upon him quickly snatched it from his hands. The man cried out, a shot came hurtling through the air and struck Bossuet’s de- formed limb. He staggered and fell faint- ing, but still mindful of his purpose, c;-ep f painfully to his father’s side and held the water to his parched lips. The last drops gone, the man breathed a sigh of relief and turned his head to em- brace his brave son. At that instant little Bossuet, overcome by pain and faintness, sank forward upon the breast of his par- ent and died quietly. A few years later at the edge of a for- est in Hugomont, in a tiny cottage, there sits alone an old man, in the clothes of a soldier. His snow-white hair falls down upon his shoulders. His ears are grown deaf with listening for his son’s song; his eyes are grown dim with tears and with watching for his child’s bright face. But Providence, or Fate, have given the lame hero a supreme dawn, have drawn him from the supreme shadow of pain into a haven of rest and happiness. So while the old father sits quietly, only waiting the call of that Holy Monarch to summon him, .lot to battle as before, but to a glorious home where no mortal hand can snatch his happiness from hinj. LUCY LEE, 1922. 12