Ipswich High School - Tiger Yearbook (Ipswich, MA)

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later he lay, a raving maniac, in a little Red Cross hospital in France. November, 1918. Martin, a shell-shocked victim, returned home — home to the big, white, lonely house and Sam, in the suburbs of New York. The noise of the city confused and excited him, his mouth twitched, his eyes opened and shut rapidly, and his whole body trembled at the slightest sound. One night Dr. King frowned sternly as he questioned Martin. “Get away from the city, 11 he advised at length. “Go anywhere, but get away from this confusion.” “Yes, Doctor,” Martin spoke slowly, “I have decided to go back to my old camp — back to the ' Wings of the Morning. 1 11 He laughed shrilly, and looked down at his long, white hands, the only part of his body he seemed able to control. Twisting his slender fingers, he stared into the night. At the door the doctor met Sam and drew him aside. ' Sam,” he said gravely, “keep an eye on your master; take care of him. It will be some time before he will be his old self again.” “Yas suh, deed I will, suh,” assured Sam trying vainly to check the tears that rolled down his dusky face. June found Martin once more at the old cabin surrounded by the green- ness of the valley. Slowly he was gaining possession of his faculties, but still there was something lacking, something lost perhaps in France. Now and then he would dabble in his paints, while Sam made the monthly trips to the town of Kentsville for supplies. It was becoming a familiar sight to see the faith- ful negro slouching along the trail, the mules before him. Dusk was falling when Sam drove the mules into the corral after one of these trips. Overhead dark storm clouds were forming. The wind whistled mournfully among the tall pines. Sam entered the cabin as thunder heralded the approaching storm. Lightning flashed and tore ragged streaks across the storm-swept sky. A giant pine toppled and crashed to earth. Thunder rumbled in the distant hills. Sam found his master in the library sitting near the bay window. The curtain was drawn back; his easel and brushes were by his side. “Sam,” he spoke hoarsely- “Yas suh.” “It — it’s France.” “No suh, no suh,” Sam spoke cheerfully, “just an old discountless storm, and its gonna rain soon,” and he left the cabin to prepare the evening meal Martin stared long down the slopes of the valley, and who can tell what he pictured there, as he sat scarcely hearing the wind tearing ferociously at the eaves of the cabin. Suddenly he seized his brushes, set his easel before him, and began to paint not only the storm -swept scene before him, but more. His face was drawn and haggard. The brush darted over the canvas, — he was living and fighting the battle over again, but with brushes. Then came the rain, and black fingers groped through the room, filling it with night’s dark shadows. The painting was complete, but the artist was not in raptures. He was pale, and his ghastly features seemed to have caught wrinkles in the last few hours that had not been there before. The battle field lay before him. Night was fast approaching. The dead and wounded covered the slope of No Man’s Land. Lightning rent the sky, giant trees toppled, machine guns spit green 15

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odor that tilled one with an inexpressible feeling — a warmth, a joy, a supreme delight in life and all that existed. Wearily the traveler, a tall well built man of steel-grey eyes and dark hair, with a face that betrayed every passing emotion, unpacked the animals and turned them loose in a small corral. After washing in the cold stream at the end of the corral, he entered the cabin, which, although roughly made and enormous in proportions from the outward appearances, was decidedly different inside. A small cozy kitchen was at one end of the cabin, and three large rooms, — a parlor, library, and a bed room, — composed the rest of the structure. As Martin entered, he was greeted by a grinning negro, who was bending over the kitchen stove preparing the evening meal. “Sam, I’m so hungry I could eat nails and like it, 11 exclaimed Martin cheerfully. “Yas’m, Mr. Martin, I’ll have your supper in no time.” Over the supper table that evening Martin checked with Sam the list of supplies he had brought from town and then retired to the library to smoke his evening pipe before the fire. The library was an interesting room. The dark oak paneling of the walls gave the room an air of dignity, and solitude added to the general quietude of the room. Book cases of a deep mahogany stain lined the room on all sides, and by the mellow light of a beautiful glass chandelier, one could see in the distant corner of the room on a small trophy table several silver cups, trophies of art contests. Above the f ireplace gazing complacently down at Martin, hung a life-sized painting of “Boy Blue.” The fire burnt low, and at length Martin retired to his room. To the enquiries of Sam he replied, “Wake me at dawn,” and piled into bed. Light was just beginning to appear above the eastern horizon when Sam shook his master by the shoulder. In an instant Martin was on his feet. Pulling on his robe he entered the library, and approaching the bay window, he drew aside the heavy curtain. The sun, chasing the lingering shadows before it, was rising slowdy above the wooded hills. “Wings,” the artist mused, “Wings of the morning,” and he set his easel by his side. Rapidly and delicately he worked, his brushes transplanting onto canvas, flaming, brilliant colors blending into soft, delicate tinges of lavender and cool shadows. Beautiful wings of color flowed from the end of his brush, and nature was captured at the moment, at dawn, when everything seems the most inspiring. “Breakfast am ready, boss,” Sam called as he heard his master leaving the library. “A masterpiece, Sam,” Martin cried as he seated himself at the table. “I certainly is glad, suh; perhaps we leave this no account place now.” “Perhaps, Sam,” and Martin continued his breakfast. That summer art critics, as well as the countless number of people that gazed at “Wings of the Morning” in the great art gallery of New York, were astounded and hailed it as a masterpiece. Then came the year 1917 and the World War, and Martin left for France with over two million doughboys. Bloodshed, screaming shells, reeking corpses, his dying companions, and the countless horrors that war carries with it, terrified Martin and months 14

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lire, and star shells burnt paths of red scorching fire across the blackened sky. The negro stood at his master ' s side, gazing in awe at the painting before him. Slowly Martin dipped his brush and wrote, “Wings of the Night. —Robert Laite, ’35. Storm Dreams W HITE fingers of fine snow flash ghost-like across the blackness of the road. Cars like burned-out comets, with long white tails, fly noise- lessly by. Inside my car there is comparative comfort — of the chilly sort. The satisfied and satisfying hum of the motor lulls me into semi-consciousness. The white dust grows deeper — the warm eyes of houses look like square patches of yellow on the snow. How good is a fire and friends, and warmth of body and soul within four well-beloved walls! Thank God every wanderer finds a home sometime — somewhere. As the dream grows, the hands guide the wheel instinctively. Mechan- ically the foot seeks the brake and the vision, like a vivacious spirit, goes leaping and bounding from past to future, ignoring the present. Old loves are remembered. Old snatches of old songs that once had poignant meanings come welling up from the heart and are sometimes actually expressed and sometimes lost in the throb and purr of the motor. Even sadness when it is passed is sweet. Beautiful day dreams! Thank God we do not truly expect you to be realized as we conceive you. The joy of fullfillment would be too great for us to bear. And so I dream as the snow sifts in through unseen and unsuspected crevices, and the foot grows numb upon the accelerator, and the car sweeps on, leaving eddies of white mist upon the black of the road and my dreams awaiting realization. — Gertrude Berry, ' 32. 16