Lyman Hall High school - Singer Chronicle Yearbook (Wallingford, CT)

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12 THE CHRONICLE GOOD OLD SANTA It was Christmas Eve at Mr. Brown’s house. After a scanty supper Mr. and Mrs. Brown gathered around the fireplace with their five children—John, twelve; Frank, ten; Mary, eight; William, six; and Joan, five. Hard luck surely had found their home; for Mr. Brown, a machinist, had been out of work for six months; and Mrs. Brown, who earned a little money by her sewing, had just gotten out of bed after three weeks of illness. Mr. Brown was sitting very quietly while Mrs. Brown was making curtains. “Oh, Mother, tonight good old Santa comes,” shouted little Bill. Mrs. Brown sighed and laid down her sewing, saying, “I only wish he were coming, William, but I got a radiogram from him yesterday saying that his reindeer have colic and will be unable to make the trip.” “Don’t worry, Mother; good old Santa will find a way,” replied Bill. At nine o’clock, Mrs. Brown, with tears in her eyes, had tucked her children into bed. She knew that their stockings would be empty in the morning. Mrs. Brown had just started sewing again when a knock was heard at the door. Mr. Brown opened the door, and Santa Claus stepped in. On his back he had a big bag full of candy, fruits, and toys, which he dropped on the floor, saying, “Here is a little something for the children. Please accept it with my best wishes. I am rich in money but not in happiness. I have at last found out how to be happy. Good-night.” Mr. and Mrs. Brown murmured their thanks mingled with much surprise and joy. Bright and early on Christmas morning the children arose. Their eyes sparkled with joy as they beheld their many gifts. Little Bill, between spinning a top and eating candy, said, “I told you Santa would come. He never forgets. Good old Santa!” Robert Loring, ’33 MERRY CHRISTMAS Christmas afternoon! The Joneses have a lighted tree, and around its artificial roots presents are heaped—presents for Jack, for Betty, and for the little baby—presents for and from relatives, neighbors, and friends, and presents for each other. Jack has the briefcase he wanted —yes, and the camera, too. And Betty really has the beaded bag and the little fur jacket for which she craved. The Joneses and their guests have partaken of a bountiful feast with the usual oversize turkey, nuts, fruit, and spiced cake. And now, this crisp, clear afternoon, Mr. Jones is taking Jack on a pilgrimage of good faith. They are taking a huge basket of food to the charity center; they are taking a bouquet of flowers to the hospital. Jack is also taking Bill, the old crippled fireman, for a drive. After that. Jack is going down to the club to help distribute Christmas cheer to those who are in need of it. In this way, the Joneses are keeping the true Christmas spirit. Mary Jasinski, ’35

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THE CHRONICLE 11 FINDERS KEEPERS Jim Blake walked slowly down the main street of a large city, just as he had done every day for the last ten months. As he paused to watch a girl arrange a window display in a bakery, he remembered that he was hungry. Except for a few slices of dry bread, which he had finished three days before, he had not eaten for ten days. Jim Blake was nineteen years old and discouraged. Fifty miles away, in a small town, his widowed mother was very sick, and he could do nothing to help her. He was without funds and had been without a job so long he wasn’t sure he still remembered how to work. About a block below the bakery his foot kicked a small object into the gutter. He walked slowly over and picked it up. It was a billfold made of fine leather. Slowly he looked inside. There was no identification card, but another pocket contained five hundred dollars in bills and small change. J m Blake lay awake late that night on his cot in the Salvation Army lodging rooms. With that money he could put his mother well on the road to recovery. He said to himself, “Finders are keepers.” Somehow those words did not sound right. He reasoned that he needed the jmoney far more than anyone who could go around with that much money in his pocket and no identification card, but his early training told him that he could not keep the money. The fight in his mind was long and bitter, but in the end he decided to do the honorable thing, and at last he fell asleep with a feeling of joy in the fact that he had done right. When the public library opened the next morning, Jim Blake was the first one inside. He went to the newspaper rack and picked up the local paper, where he found what he was looking for and went back outside. Once more Jim Blake walked slowly down the main street. An hour later he knocked on the door of a small cottage on the outskirts of the city. A young man about twenty-one years old answered it. He identified the billfold to the satisfaction of Jim Blake, who handed it over to him. The young man asked Jim to come in, and they sat talking awhile. The man, John Morse, explained that he had a job, but that he was taking the day off to search for his money. The money, he went on to explain, had been drawn from the bank to be sent to his sick mother. In turn Jim Blake told about his own mother, who was also sick. Three days later Jim was sitting behind a huge desk, hard at work. Mr. Morse had told the whole story to his employer, and that man, impressed by Jim’s honesty, had given him a job. This all happened in July. Now it was December. Jim Blake had taken a week off to pay a visit to his mother. She was now enjoying much better health. Jim Blake had known what it was to be poor and suffering; so he rose early Christmas morning and went about his task of giving clothing and food to those he could. Of course, he did not have too much himself as yet, but he gave what he could to make others happy. That night Jim Blake lay down rejoicing in the good he had done that day. As he fell asleep, he thought back over the past year and decided that his biggest and wisest decision had been that “finders are not always keepers.” Alfred Bradford, ’33

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THE CHRONICLE 13 LOSING ENTHUSIASM My stocking was hung over the fireplace, and the Christmas tree was fully trimmed. I danced about in gleeful anticipation of what Santa Claus would bring to a good boy. During the past few weeks I had been very, very good. Before my mother hustled me off to bed, I cast one last cheery glance at the blissful scene. I was very tired, and consequently my weary body went off to dreamland almost as soon as my head touched the pillow. I enjoyed numerous dreams about Christmas. Sometimes I dreamed about what Santa Claus would give me; at others I dreamed that I was Santa Claus and drove his handsome reindeer through the deep snow. After this I dreamed about bells, which rang till I awoke. “Could that be Santa Claus?” I asked. Suddenly an impish thought entered my head. I told myself that I would soon find out. I remembered that certain boys had told me that to believe in Santa Claus was nonsense. I decided to hustle down and tell Santa about this talk. I also carried the secret thought that he would skip those rude boys. I tiptoed quietly down the stairs. My mother was startled by my abrupt appearance, and I was startled by my disappointing discovery. Mother hustled me back to bed without explanation. The next day my arguments in favor of the existence of Santa Claus were only half-hearted, and subsequently they fell off altogether. Edward Gayer, ’33 THE TRUTH ABOUT SANTA When Billy T. was eight years old, He thought himself so veiy bold That in his sleep he’d open his eyes And see how Santa was disguised. Then midnight came—no noise he heard, Not e’n a cat that gently purred; So from his bed he quickly stole. To assure the myth of Santa told. Softly down the stairs he came; Surely he was not to blame If caught while peeking in the door; He’d creep around the parlor floor. At last he reached the bottom step, And to the room he slowly crept, Down upon his hands and knees, Scared to death for fear he’d sneeze. Then slowly he gazed around the room; His face took on a look of gloom. O dear, O dear, it can’t be true, For there stood Dad—a Santa too! Lillian Kast, ’33