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

Page 16 text:

11 THE CHRONICLE that lie must go home early. The store-keeper replied that he would put up some ginger-snaps for the missus. After taking considerable time wrapping the package, he gave it to Ichabod, who at that time bent down to tuck his trousers into his boots. The store-keeper winked at the others and pointed to Ichabod’s hat, already yellow and greasy with butter. The others catching the idea managed to have errands and business for him to do that kept him there several minutes longer. Finally when freed, his clothes were completely greasy, and as he was going out, the proprietor said, ‘Well, you can go now. We’ve had fun enough to pay for the butter you stole. You’ll be needing new clothes tomorrow. Good-night.’ “That was interesting said Jack. “I'rn glad you told it to me. I’ve often heard that it takes a real Vermonter to outwit a Vermonter, and your story surely proves it.’’ Shirley Jeffords, ’ tl (Author’s note: The legend used in this story is typical of a most any errnont town. It was adapted from American Myths and Legends by Charles S. kinner.) WINDY’S SHOOTING Have you ever met or heard about Windy? If you have ever been to Coles County, Nevada, you can't have missed him. Everybody from six to sixty knows Windy, mostly for his fantastic tales. I'd like to tell you one of his famous tales. It happened like this. One day Windy got a notion that he would like to shoot some w ild game. Now, when Windy gets a notion, no one can stop him from carrying it out. Windy got up bright and early, armed himself, and started out. He must have traveled for two hours before he reached his hunting grounds. And there, about four feet away, were deer tracks. “Well,” said Windy, “looks lak I got somepin’ here”. From this point on, he traveled slowly and cautiously. Then, all of a sudden, he saw a deer drinking water at a small stream! Let me tell you Windy was both thrilled and frightened at the sight. He had a hard time to keep himself from shouting. Anyhow, he got a good aim and shot. Let me say that Windy was so proud of the picture that he had it published in the paper. Ruth Shookie, ’39 WINTER’S LACE Have you ever watched while w inter rain And sleet knit lace on the window pane? The wild w inds roar, the trees bend low , The cold rain falls where last w as snow . But here on my window almost hid, The sleet knits lace as grandmother did. The patterns so dainty they seem to show There’s beauty even in storms, you know. Jean Pattee, ’39

Page 15 text:

THE CHRONICLE 13 THE LEGEND OF RUTLAND Bob Johnson, just arriving in Rutland Vermont to spend the week-end with his schoolmate Jack, exclaimed, “W hy, you would never guess that this is the town mentioned in the legend.” “What do you mean?” questioned Jack, somewhat bewildered. “You mean that you've never heard the legend of Rutland?” exclaimed Bob, surprised that he did not know it. “No, 1 haven’t, but I should like to hear about it. “Well,” replied Bob, “I'll tell it.” “Back in the days of Andrew Jackson, Rutland had a country store, where the store-keeper was burdened by the loungers w ho sat around the small wood stove, talked politics, and nibbled at his dried lish, cheese, crackers, maple sugar, and spruce gum. These nibblings were not considered thefts, and the store-keeper didn't mind because to keep even he often added a penny to a bill. “One cold December evening these loungers sal about the stove as usual relating their tales of wonder, with the store-keeper occasionally adding his bit while he kept busy looking over his stock. Soon he observed Ichabod Thompson, a shiftless fellow, slip a pat of butter out of a firkin, take ofF his hat, and while pretending to wipe his forehead, drop the butter into the hat and put it on again. Ichabod strolled before the blanket department, made a casual inquiry about sales, then, turning up his collar, said he must be going. “‘Oh, don't go yet,’said the store-keeper. 'Wait till I've told you what happened to Hank's saw last week.' Not wanting to arouse suspicion, he settled himself again on the box. The store-keeper, piling wood on the stove, lengthened his story until the sides of the stove were red hot. Ichabod became uneasy and kept wiping his forehead with his handkerchief till he remarked

Page 17 text:

THE CHRONICLE 15 MY ROOM Well, to begin with, my room is about twenty feet up in the air. (on the second story, of course), and is in the form of a rectangular solid eleven by fourteen by eight feet. It contains, among other things, two doors, two windows, and a closet. The hinges on the doors need a little oil; the windows could stand a washing; and the closet—well, I’m trying to convince my father that it needs a few more clothes in it. The floor is covered with light brown linoleum, much the worse for wear. A daintily-flowered pattern adorns the wallpaper, which I assure you, I had no part in choosing. This effeminate atmosphere is partly remedied, however, by large maps tacked on three of the walls, covering about three-fourths of their area. The maps are not put there to hide torn patches in the wall paper, either. Since I have a hobby of collecting maps, I tack some of my best specimens on the walls. On the walls are four of the National Geographic Society's maps of South America, Africa, Europe, and Central America; road maps of New York, New England, New Jersey, and Connecticut; a house number map of Manhattan and the Bronx; and my favorite, a U. S. Coast and Geodetic Survey Chart of the Connecticut Coast from Guilford Harbor to East Haven River. The coastal chart is the kind used as an aid to navigation and gives the position of rocks, harbors, buoys, and lights, as well as depth soundings, channels, the character of the bottom, and other information vital to navigators. On the wall opposite the most frequently-used door glares a vivid sign, ready to smite the eye of everyone who enters the room—“PLEASE—FOB THE COM FORT OF OTHERS—DO NOT SMOKE”. I swiped this sign from the window of a Connecticut Company bus. To ease my conscience, I can truthfully say that the sign was about to fall off anyway; so always ready to make myself useful, I saved the company the trouble of picking it up. Also decorating the wall are several pictures of sailboats in action. (Yes, I’m a sailing fan.) Most of the pictures were clipped from Life and the Sunday Herald Tribune. In one corner of the room are an almost antique desk and a typewriter table with a typewriter on it. There occasionally, when nothing more interesting to do can be found, I buckle down to a little homework. On the desk stands an electric alarm clock, which I had spied, broken, in my father’s office. I brought it home, took it apart, and put it together again. To my great surprise, it worked! So ever since, I have been awakened at seven-fifteen by the noisy buzz of that darn clock. In the desk is a bottle of red ink, which I have not used for five years, although I have been “broke” for nearly that long. Near the table is a dusty book case with twenty or thirty books on it, the titles ranging from Mutiny on the Bounty to Neiv French Review Grammar. In another corner near the closet, is an overflowing wastebasket, which I ought to have emptied two weeks ago. Over there is an odd-looking piece of furniture, a combination table, bureau, and cabinet. On it is a portable phonograph and a pile of jazz recordings, the latest of which is Chick Webb's A-Tisket A-Tasket. In the third corner stand two tennis racquets and my trusty gun, a Daisy No. 195 Buzz Barton Special. While it’s been many a day since I last pulled the trigger, I can still remember the very first window I ever broke with it—and there’s a good reason why I can remember. On the other side of the room is a large, rather dilapidated bureau. On it are a hair brush, a couple of combs, a tie pin, and a wrinkled necktie. Over it