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

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V E R L Y N Musing On New Year’s Eve By VV. THEODORE ELLIOTT How often do we wonder what the New Year will reveal to us within its yet unopened pages! We are ever ask- ing ourselves, “How much power have I to influence the direction of the course which I am about to follow.” In our classes and among ourselves we debate the matter, attempting to reach a satis- factory conclusion as to what part luck has to play in the drama of our lives. We are uncertain whether to accept Henley’s conviction that “I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul,” or whether to follow the school of thought of those who agree that we have no authority whatsoever in determining which pathway we shall pursue. Most of us probably do not go to the extreme of accepting either belief outright. We stand somewhere on the middle ground. While we do not know what the outcome of the game will be, we recognize the fact that the record of how we played it will depend entire- ly upon us. It is from this point of view that we are determined to make the year to come a year of profit and of happiness. If we guide our days with courage and discretion, what other out- come can there be? Sayings Of The Teachers By w. e. E. D. Mr. Hapgood—You people seem to have the idea that— Miss Blaine—Now people, today, etc. Mr. Bagster-Collins—We have already taken more time on this than I had planned, but I’ll only keep you a minute or two longer. Miss MacVey—(Um-hum, um-hum) ; All right! Miss Bole—Don’t you think; do you see? Miss Drew—Now girls — er — use your better judgment. Miss Hoffman — Please don't leave your coats in the classroom. Miss Hodges—This doesn’t explain it- self! Mrs. Buzzell—Oh-ah-Girls. Miss Fernow—Isn’t that so, class? Mr. Mathewson—And therefore—. [18]

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V E R L Y N They’re Off! By EVELYN ROGERS Jean was attractive — yes, very at- tractive in her green riding breeches, white shirt and brown sleeveless sweater. She sat under the awning before “Lucky Guy’s” stables, watch- ing Earl, Lucky’s care-taker, polish the outfit Lucky was to wear in the Free- for-All that afternoon. At her trimly booted feet lay Pal, her Scotch-terrier. “Jean.” Jean turned to see Billie Cope coming towards her. “Jean, I got bad news for ya’.” “Bad news? What is it?” asked Jean, somewhat startled. “ ‘Home Spun’, Mack’s horse, jest kicked Jimmie plumb in the leg and hurt him somethin’ awful! I betcha ya' have to scratch Lucky Guy.” The ten year old youth was excited and talked very rapidly. “Jimmie is hurt? When did it hap- pen?’ queried Jean. “Jest a little time ago. He said t’ be sure t’ get word t’ ya’ so that ya’ could get another driver, but I betcha ya’ can’t get nobody t’ drive.” “You don’t think I can, Billie? What nr'kes you think that?” Jean question- ed laughingly. The boy grinned back, showing where a front tooth had been extracted. His freckled face did not beam as ra- diantly as it usually did when he smiled. One could easily see that Billie was worried. “Well, Jean,” he began hesitantly, “T’ tell the truth, I was listenin’ t’ some of the men right after Jimmie was hurt. They was actin’ too happy over his bein’ hurt t’ suit me. They are tickled ’cause they say you can’t get nobody t’ drive and they can win easier. They are all ’fraid of him. They think he is still a mean horse an’ a man- killer.” While Billie talked, Jean became more determined than ever that he should race. No one had wanted her to enter him in the first place and had tried to keep her from it. Now she would race him at any cost. She rose and with a short, “Thanks, Billie”, started off with Pal at her heels. She asked many men to drive but they all answered the same — not in words but in ways. They said “I’m too young t’ die.” “Nope, not drivin’ t’-day.” or, “I guess not!” She walked back to her stables very disappointed. It was plain to be seen that Lucky Guy wasn’t wanted in the race. What should she do? Of course, it wasn’t a matter of life and death, but just the same she wanted Lucky to race. Sud- denly an idea struck her. She, herself, would drive in that race! She called Earl and told him of her plan. “I’m going to drive, — no, don’t interrupt me. I know that Dad told you to keep me out of trouble and you are doing very nicely, but this is my own business! I shall dress like a man, look like a man and drive like a man. No one will be the wiser if you don’t tell them—not even Dad. Now go get Tom Allard’s driver’s coat and cap. We have found a driver. A man from New York State, but he hasn’t any driver's uniform. His name is --------- let me see, his name is Hal Williams. [20]