Manchester High School - Somanhis Yearbook (Manchester, CT)

Page 33 text:

SOMANHIS which led into Four Corners. It was different from what it had been yester- day, although yesterday had been just such a dry, drowsy day as this one was. A short way down the road he saw one of “them gasoline contraptions” as he characterized automobiles, drawn up beside the road. As he drew nearer, he noted that it was deserted. There was a very disagreeable smell in the air, a smell not unlike bad fish two days’ old. A bit) inquisitive, Tom dismounted from his rumbling wagon and investi- gated. The car was one of those mas- sive seven passenger machines which had been made when automobile manu- facturers were not afraid to put real met- al into their creations. It was empty. But on the other side Tom, stalwart, grizzled old) Westener with all his for- midable, unshaven face, sturdy frame, and eagle eyes, drew back in horror, for there lay the body of a dead Indian. After his first shock, Tom examined the body more closely and made out the sag- ging features to be those of old Chicken Wing, an Indian trader. Chicken Wing had long been a frequenter of Four Cor- ners. Little was known of him except that he had come into town about once every two months to trade some Indian products for what the white men had to offer. All the way from the scene of the tragedy to Four Corners, Tom ruminat- ed on the death of the Indian. Surely the man had had no enemies. As far as anyone knew he had always been just a quiet old Redskin who had been in the employ of various Indian tribes carrying their products to the many little towns of that section of Arizona. The sheriff of Four Corners, a fat shade lover called Jim Corban, was in- terested but not concerned further than to send the customary medical examiner to the body and see to its burial. Soon everything went on as before, and the murder, which had caused a little inter- est in the drowsy Four Corners, was for- gotten. Then one day a stranger came into town. No one took much notice of him except that he was somebody from the Eastern states. He was easily distin- guishable as such; he was rather wide awake. Tom Berkley noted him. He observed him when he came into the EVENTS 31 saloon for a drink. He watched him as he read the weekly paper. He sauntered after him as he went along down the “main street” to his boarding house. He watched him for several days, for he had not forgotten the murder, as the others had. Yet, he couldn't see anything unusual about this man until one day— Well, there was a little rancher just outside the town, very near to the spot where old Chicken Wing had been mur- dered. Jock Tomlinson he was, prob- ably once a Scotchman; his left eye had that characteristic droop. But he had lived out West so long that he was one of them. He had a daughter; probably you had guessed that by now, and you're right—she was pretty. As usual, this story has to have some sort of love affair, so suffice it to say the stranger had in some way become attracted to this girl, Nobody but Tom noticed that they had met in the post office and exchanged meaning glances. Nobody else had seen them walk off in- to the sunset one night. The next day Jock Tomlinson rode in- to town all excited. He told the sheriff that his daughter had disappeared the night before, and that he thought she had gone with a stranger who had been staying in town for the past few weeks. As usual, the sheriff sent out a posse, which was very careful to take some lunch along, and some fishing rods too. So much for that. But Tom knew. Somehow he felt that same atmosphere that he had on the day that he had dis- covered the body. He went again to the spot. The auto was not there. It had been there ever since the time of the murder, but it was gone now. Tom looked around for awhile. Then he found a little card on which was printed, “James Brown, Insurance, 112 East 42nd Street, New York. Tom found out that Jock’s daughter had attended a school in Gotham the year before. That was sufficient. Ile re- ceived a reply to his telegraph, which he sent a week later, which said, “Yes, we eloped. Don’t tell Jock. We want to surprise him.” Well, that’s about all there is to the story. They were married and lived happily—

Page 32 text:

30 SOMANHIS EVENTS play has been presented we feel that we could rival Job. There are a hundred other things of equal importance that a person learns in dramatics. It would not be fair to pass over the appreciation that one gains of the drama. We realize the efforts of those men and women who are trying to make the stage a thing of art, and thing of beauty, and a thing of admiration. Yes, to the casual observer, dramatics in high school may seem foolish, of lit- tle value, and merely a pastime; but to the observing person it is a thing of im- portance, a thing as important as math- ematics, or history, or the languages, because it teaches the student those things that he will need most in the future. IS AMERICA A MELTING POT? It was on one of the New York to Liv- erpool trips of the “Berengaria” that a junior officer asked the question, “Is America a melting pot?’ The upright young Englishman of whom he asked it considered for a long two minutes and then replied in a somewhat lengthy fash- ion. The junior, who is my friend and who reported this to me, sat absorbed, for the young man’s voice was pleasing- ly sonorous and the officer was a good listener. “Really,” he said finally, “that isn‘t a question that IT should presume to an- swer. Much better men than I have an- swered it completely. However , since I have been abroad seeing America for the past month, perhaps I may take the liberty to express myself on the subject. “America is, I believe, a melting pot, not in the ugly sense of the word that gives the impression of people of all the world being poured into a machine to emerge stamped according to a set pat- tern to live humdrum lives of no conse- quence, but in the sense that many people of the world seek, through the refining processes of the melting pot, the realization of their aims. In passing through the pot, they lose those sordid, mercenary characteristics to come out men and women of clear ideals and of the energy—pep’ you call it—to carry out those ideals. “Americans are a peculiar people. During my stay T met a great many of them, and TI was impressed by the fact that the names showed a varied foreign derivation, I was also impressed by the fact that cach person practiced good sportsmanship. They all had the ‘give- and-take’ and the ‘never-say-die’ spirit as a standard. It is peculiar, it seems to me, to find this one common ideal before people of such varied descent. T think I saw in them the spirit of all Americans and if Tam right in this, then America is. in truth a melting pot; for, after all, what is a melting pot if it is not a cru- cible into which different metals are placed, refined, and drawn off as an analogous substance? It is in this way that America appears to me, the an- alogous substance being the true Ameri- cans. That is my answer, captain.” My friend, who is of staunch New England stock, got to his feet, yawned, said that he had enjoyed the talk but he really couldn’t see how some of these “Dagos” and Polacks” were the true Americans and went to bed. IT agree with the young Englishman; and because the junior officer and I are true friends, I fear the day when he be- comes disillusioned. Stephen Williams THE DEAD INDIAN (With apologies to all the writers of de- tective stories.) It was one of those very sultry days in mid-summer when the gnats buzz in such a way that they make even the most wakeful feel sleepy. The land all about the little town of Four Corners was covered with a fine powder which the sun had manufactured from what had formerly been damp soil. There was something ominous in the air. It was not something of great concern, but a restlessness which seemed somehow to grip at one’s nervous system and make it tingle just a little. Old Tom Berkley observed that the atmosphere was a trifle different as he rode down the long, flat, dusty road

Page 34 text:

32 SOMANHIS EVENTS Oh, you want to know about the mur- der? Why, it wasn’t any murder at all. The stranger had merely bought the old bus to carry him over the rough roads of the West so that he might see his girl, and had accidently struck the In- dian and had killed him. Not knowing the character of Western justice, he had been afraid to report the accident until he saw what was going to be done. He fooled them all except old Tom. Ile knew all the time. S. E. Mozzer THE DAGUERREOTYPE If Grandma Rock had been like many other folks, she might have prayed that she would not have to pass the cightieth milestone in life. She uttered no such prayer, for she still longed to be of use in the world. Grandma was like a piece of old tapes- try, its beauty softened though worn thin. Like a rare, old piece of lace she was put away on a high shelf—thus she referred to her luxurious apartment in her son’s home. She was the object of affection and care on the part of her son and his wife, and of their daughter, Bar- bara. Grandma longed to be useful, but there was little she could do, even if she had the strength, for the Rock pocket- book was large and well-filled; a nurse attended her and a maid cared for her rooms, which were on the third floor be- cause she preferred them there. From the broad bay window of her living room she could see the river with its long line of warships; the busy but beautiful street which faced the park; and on a clear day could hear the conductor on a sight-seeing bus call out: “Rock, steel manufacturer.” She was not lonesome. The family visited her many times a day, and the nurse was a good companion. Robert, her son, often came before he went to work and again when he arrived home, and when the women were out, he would sit for hours talking. Robert’s wife, Ann, was a loveable person, who came up many times to show her own or Barbara’s dresses, and to talk of her daughter’s affairs. In the year 1912, Barbara had what Grandma called a “steady beau.” “Tt’s queer,” laughed Ann; “I’ve taken her everywhere and she has met all types of men but she had her heart set on Jack, next door!” “Very natural,” said grandma, “and I don’t blame her a bit!” Jarbara also spent much time on the upper floor. She was beauty, health, and hapiness all in one. She had her own way and naturally expected it. As yet no unhappy event had entered her life. There was a certain spot in Grandma's room, however, which Barbara always avoided. On the desk stood a daguer- reotype of a young man in a blue uni- form and cap, wearing a sword at his side. The picture was placed so that it could be seen from every point in the room. One day Grandma noticed that Barbara looked everywhere, at the glow- ing fire, the crow ded bookshelves, the beautiful pictures, the roses in their glass vases—everywhere but at Grand- ma’s dearest treasure. She knew how Barbara felt toward grief, death and loneliness. ‘Phe man in the picture had died in battle, and had left Grandma alone. From her seat in the bay window, Grandma could sce the family next door whenever they went out or came in. The father and mother waved, the girl threw kisses; but the boy called, for he was the most intimate with her. Onee Grandma showed him something which she had never shown to anyone. It was the sword which she had the maid bring from the trunk in the storeroom, Jack soon found that Grandma had hours to give him, and that she knew many things that were in his. school books. He was growing more manly every day, had ceased to yell or yodel, but often whistled. It was needless, however, to signal her, for she was al- ways watching for him. He used to point out the warships to her as they lined up along the river. After Jack was graduated from Harvard, he was what Grandma called “a man.” Several years passed and Barbara also thought him “a man.” When in Grand- ma’s room she would walk straight to the window and unblushingly watch the house next door. Love had found her!