Lyndon State College - Northern Lights Yearbook (Lyndonville, VT)

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V E R L Y N In an instant each had a flood of questions. How? When? Where? If you look carefully you may detect a certain expression that memories bring when soldiers are asked to relate their experiences. Jimmy had that look as he shook his head and contemplated the funny, mis- shapen shrub, the crack on the second step and the uneven lawn that sur- rounded the little old house. Star Gazing By KATHRYN MUNN ‘‘Will someone tell me where you girls are going? What? Looking at the stars — oh yes! We’re to do that for nature tomorrow, aren’t we? Hey, wait a minute and I’ll go with you. “Flora, where are my mittens? Who borrowed them? Somebody must have! Oh, that’s so; I lost them last year, didn’t I? “Well, are you ready? There’s the telephone—wait a minute ’till we see who it’s for. Me! Now who do you suppose would be calling me this year? Don’t go without me. “Well, now we’re out here, where are the stars? Oh, I see it—look! Right over there! What? Well, my soul, I never saw a street light up that high before! Will you turn off that flash- light? Now — you say that’s the big dipper: perhaps if you get your mitten off that map we could find them just as quickly. If you ask me that’s the Milky Way right up there. That’s what I said — that long white streak. “Did you bring the protractor? We’ve got to measure the latitude of the North Star you remember. Well, don’t be silly. Of course I knew we had to find it first; but I thought you’d done that long ago. “Gee! Isn’t it cold here? Who’s that standing in front of Mason’s? He looks familiar, doesn’t he? Oh, you’ve found the North Star. “Well, why doesn’t somebody meas- ure it? Hold the cold cream jar steady. Don’t get the protractor in your eye, Esther! Wait! You’re looking at the flashlight, not the North Star. 45 de- grees! Let me look! You know we have to take the average. I hope I’m looking at the right star. That’s close enough — come on, let’s go. I was never so cold in my life. All right — measure it again if you want to — I’m going in. Who thought of this crazy idea, anyway?” r 8]

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January - 1938 trudged, it seemed the earth around, although in reality it could have been only a few miles. Higher to the rocky formations peculiar to New England’s hillsides. Up eventually to the gorge. Sure enough there swung the bridge. His memory had not played him false. There swung the bridge, swung like a pendulum, slowly like his beating, laboring pulse, swung by one cable far, far into the depth of the gorge below! The one remaining cable stretched across the taunting gap. One strand of wire tied the world together. One bit of rusty cable connected him with his home, his family and relief from this nightmare. In frustrated desperation he lay up- on his stomach and tested the wire. Grasping it he snapped it as he would snap the garden hose back home or as he would a piece of rope. It rose and fell in snaky waves, annoyed at being so rudely handled. The vibrations reached the otherside and returned in all haste as if to protest such rude treatment. Back and forth, back and forth between wall and hand and yet came no tearing wrench, no slipping, no pulling loose, no rusty screech. The cable had been well strung. It held firm and true as the day it was hung! Could he cross? Would it hold his weight? Slowly, experimentally, he hooked his elbows over the iron, loosed his footing and swung free. There he dangled. Spiders on a thread matched his acrobatics and he the helpless fly. Slowly, inch by inch, he shortened the gap. Stubbornly he gained a foot or two. Favoring his frosted hand made it the more difficult. His pulse pound- ed in his head. He could feel his neck getting thick. A kaleidoscope of color- ed sparks darted here and there. His shoes pulled him down. His arms ached and pulled unmercifully at his shoulder sockets. Over and over, one hand clenched before the other let go. Don’t look down. Stop thinking. Go a little slower so the cable won’t rock. Time and again his will alone saved him. A weak- er man would have long since gone hurtling to the depths below, to be smothered by the frenzied water and ground to pulp by the waiting rocks. At last after tremendous toil his toes scraped the opposite wall. In one last superhuman exercise of inspired strength he crawled up and stumbled panting to the ground. He could go to sleep. The moss here was soft and com- fortable. Green feathers grown just to sleep on. But he must not. When his breath had returned to normal and the mists had cleared away from before his eyes he struggled to his feet and plodded onward. Each minute, each step, brought pain, and each etched as acid every detail of his struggle in his mind. That afternoon he stumbled into the dooryard of a highland farm. The owner, a young fellow, stood in the doorway of the red barn studying mi- nutely his flooded fields and making mental calculations of the damage. Now he started forward as Jimmy came into view around the corner. £ sjc :: Days later he entered his own warm kitchen to surprise a grief-stricken wife and round-eyed family. With stories of the flood so fresh and vivid in their minds they gazed at the apparition before them almost with disbelief. [7]

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January 19 3 8 Ghost Or No Ghost By BARBARA ROSE Tom Drew sat before the fire doz- ing, his head on his chest, a newspaper held limply in his hand. A log rolled. He roused himself, poked the fire, and then stretched out comfortably in his chair, feet toward the blaze. It had been a hard day, what with that major operation in the morning, all those calls in the afternoon, and so many people in the office after supper. And he had missed Alice, too. Three days had seemed like three years when she was gone. She should be back soon. He glanced at the clock. Yes, any min- ute now. Footsteps sounded in the hall, and a cheery voice greeted the maid. The next minute the library door opened, and Alice came in. “Ah, there you are, darling,” she cried, coming over to the fire as Tom arose. She kissed him, then drew off her coat and threw it on the couch— “Oh, but it’s grand to be home.” Perch- ing on the arm of the chair, she invited Tom to sit down again — “Did you miss me?” “Terribly,” admitted Tom. “Tell me, did you have a good time?” “Wonderful. We did the town from A to Z. We went to Radio City, and Jack Dempsey’s Restaurant, and a mil- lion other places. But tell me about yourself. Have you been very busy? You look tired.” “Quite, but things have gone well. There’s quite a lot of sickness, but no- body seems to be seriously ill. Mrs. Preston sent her check yesterday, and I received Jackman’s this morning.” “Both while I’ve been gone! Grand! They’re big ones, too, aren’t they?” “They certainly are” said Tom, look- ing pleased. “Well,” said Alice slowly, “we haven’t any debts, and nothing to buy at present, so it seems to me, Thomas Drew, that you have no excuse what- ever for not buying me an old house in the country. You know I’m dying to have one.” “But Alice,” Tom objected, “you know that I’ve got to have the office redecorated, and some new furniture in the waiting-room. That couch fairly sags.” “That was all new last year, and be- sides, it won’t cost much to redecorate the office. No, Tom, you’ve absolutely no excuse this time.” “All right, darling. I’ll make a bar- gain with you,” Tom spoke slowly, cal- culatingly, “You mustn’t get any or- dinary old house------.” “Of course,” agreed Alice. “It must have the distinction,” con- tinued Tom, “of having an honest-to- goodness ghost, that I can see. I won’t buy it otherwise. But if you find one with a ghost, you may have it. Other- wise, I get my office redecorated, and the new waiting-room furniture.” Tom thought complacently that with such a string attached, he might as well go ahead and see the decorators. He’d like an old house, but he’d never get any time to stay there if he had it, so why------. [9]