Milford High School - Oak Lily and Ivy Yearbook (Milford, MA)

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s OAK, LILY AND IVY. friends lived, in fact, they were acquainted. She said they had lived in the house where I first inquired, but moved away over a year ago to Brooklyn and said if I would have lunch with her, she would go with me to their latest address. “I thanked her, but declined both invitation and offer to escort me, because I was to go that afternoon to visit the Zoo with my cousin. When I arrived home, they were going from one window to the other looking for me. They thought I. surely was lost. I told them I was all right, but it was John Smith and his family who were lost. I don’t believe 1 shall try again, to find anyone, especially in New York, unless I know exactly where they live.” G. E. K. ’ 13 . The Eternal Problem. The principal figure in this narrative is a common, ordinary, twentieth-century boy, who still exists, and expects to live for some time to come. He attended high school and among his studies was English. This boy did not dislike English, neither did he especially care for it, although the writing of the weekly theme did not usually present any terrors to him. But one week, the teacher informed the class that the next theme must be a narrative, and that did disturb him, for narratives suggested by his own life were not in his line. He thought over the things he had done, with the result that he concluded he must have lived an extremely “tame” life. To be sure, he had been to Boston, and farther, but he had written about trips, until he was heartily tired of the word “trip.” Narrow es¬ capes were apparently not his lot, for, with the exception of having a grindstone nearly fall upon him, there was no other accident which he could remember. Next he turuned his attention to fictitious subjects, but the greater writers seemed to have monopolized all possibilities in this line, and if he used himself as the hero of such a theme, embarassing explanations might be forthcoming. His mind had apparently rebelled. In vain did he try to think of something which would do for that troublesome theme; but the more he thought the worse things became, and his mind finally faded to a blank on the subject. How inconsistent of his un¬ ruly brain to balk on such a simple thing as a theme, even if he did detest writing narratives! Must he give up like aristocratic people who have nervous prostra¬ tion, and professors whose brains have become foggy through overstudy? Surely he was not aristocratic, nor had he ever studied more than was good for him! At last, he decided that his fussy mental machine wanted some fresh air; to battle with it further was impossible, so he decided to arbitrate, and forthwith took a walk. He soon forgot his troubles while looking for his friends, and was consequently happy; but his joy was short-lived, for that awful nightmare,-Nar¬ rative, exhibited its hideous countenance before his frightened eyes. His step dragged, his joy fled, changing his happy walk into a semi-funeral march. When at last he found himself at home, he sat down to his work, and suddenly a possibility revealed itself to him. With a great deal of doubt as to the outcome, he wrote this theme,—“The Eternal Problem—what shall I write?” A Freshman.

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OAK, LILY AND IVY. 7 and his family, who left Milford about four years ago. As I was going to spend a week in New York, I thought I should look them up.” “I don’t remember them,” Helen said. “How many are there in the family and are they anywhere near our age?’’ “Oh, they lived right near us; you ought to remember them,” answered May. “There are two boys and a girl. John is about my age, Harold is as old as you, and Dorothy is about ten, I guess. “I left here last Monday, took a boat for New York at Fall River, and oh, Helen, talk about glorious rides! It was simply great on the water that night, the sky never seemed so clear, the stars never seemed so bright. When I arrived in New York in the morning, I took a cab—there were only about a hundred around the dock,—and went to my cousin’s house, or flat rather, on 29 th street. “I had a lovely time. My cousins did everything to entertain me. Oh, Helen, I’d love to have you meet my oldest cousin, he’s certainly great! I know you’d like him. He took me to the opera Tuesday evening, and then to supper. Helen, wouldn’t you just love to live in a city, where things are lively?” But ig¬ noring May’s question, Helen sputtered out, “And stupid, didn’t you even ask him out this summer?” “Of course I did, and he’s going to spend The Fourth with us, but if you don’t sit down and stop asking questions, I won’t tell another word.” Helen sat down with a sigh and May continued,—“Well, when we got back to my cousin’s, I was willing to go to bed.” “What opera was it, and who was the Prima Donna? I wish I had been with you,” Helen sighed enviously. “Oh, it w r as some Italian opera, I don’t remember the name, but Tettrazini sang it. If you had only been with me, shouldn’t we have had a splendid time? Wednesday morning it was raining, cousin Alice had letters to write and I said I would call on some friends. Well, I started out to find the Smiths. I had their address, or I thought I had, and didn’t think I should have much trouble locating them. I don’t know much about the streets in New York so I called a cab and gave the address to the cabby. In about fifteen minutes the cab stopped before an im¬ posing apartment house, one of those brown stone fronts. I certainly received a shock, because the Smiths never lived in that style when in Milford, and I thought they must have been very lucky since arriving in New York. Nevertheless, I dis¬ missed the cabby, ran up the steps and rang the bell. The door was opened by a trim little maid, of whom I asked if John Smith lived there. “ ‘No, no one by that name lived there.’ She was a new maid and did not know whether or not any Smiths lived in the neighborhood, but would inquire. The maid was gone so long I thought she had forgotten all about me. At last, she returned and said there had been a family named Smith in the flat below, but they had moved a week ago. I thanked her and went out. How I wished I had not been in such a hurry to dismiss the cab, but I resolved to make the best of it, and decided to take a car. I walked to the corner of the street and asked a policeman where I should find a car for the address the maid had given me, and was fortunate enough in finding one coming toward me. Then it was nearly noon. I was getting hungry, and thought if I didn’t find my friends before long I should have to give up. After about ten minutes ride on the car, I reached the street I was looking for. A policeman directed me to the house. This house was still more imposing than the last, but I went to the door and rang the bell. This time I was even more disappointed than before. The family I had traced across the city were indeed Smiths, the man’s name was even John Smith; but they were not the family I was looking for. Imagine how I felt after asking for Mrs. Smith, to be obliged to tell her I had made a grave mistake. I explained my mis¬ take as well as I could, and she was very kind. She told me she knew where my

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OAK, LILY AND IVY. 9 Ghost of 13, Just as patrolman Moore sent in the midnight call at Box 13, a shot rang out in the darkness. Moore dropped with scarcely a struggle, the bullet entering his hack and finding lodgment in his heart while his hand slipped from the hook with which he had just sent in the “all right” signal. The locality was a tough one and as Moore had arrested more than one law¬ breaker, each in turn had promised vengeance when his term was over. The thing predicted now occurred. Two hours later the roundsman found him laying in a pool of his own blood. An alarm was sent in to headquarters and soon the patrol with reserves arrived on the scene. A search of the surroundings offered no clue to the murderer and after a little, the case was given up. Soon another man was put on Moore’s beat, and the calls were sent in, the same as usual. One morning Larson, the new man, was called upon to explain why he had not sent in the call from Box 13 that night. “I did send in the call,” answered Larson in reply to the accusation. “If you did the recorder failed to note it,” said the sergeant grimly. “Why I sent in that call just as sure as I’m standing here,” replied the man, the sincerity in his voice almost convincing the sergeant. “Oh, come now, cut that! You know you didn’t send in that call. I guess you were afraid of Moore’s ghost,” rejoined the sergeant as he walked out of the room. Later, Larson was able to prove that the call had been sent in, therefore the box was overhauled. The patrolman spurred on by the sergeant’s taunt about Moore’s ghost gave evidence of the superstition in all mankind and fought shy of going on that beat. One night about three weeks after the murder of Moore a call came from the “hoodoo” box; the call was one of alarm and soon all the officers were being driven in the patrol team to the scene of action. As the vehicle dashed up to the box, not a person was in sight. The sergeant, very angry, looked about for the patrolman, but found that at the time the call had been sent in, Larson must have been blocks away. As time passed on, the calls from Box 13 became more and more frequent and each false. In a short time this sort of unaccountable alarm calling, began to wear on the nerves of the men. The calls came mostly at night and yet nobody was ever seen to pull a call. At last the sergeant became desperate and had a man stationed nearby to watch the box. No one came near, but in the morning he found two calls registered. The sergeant could stand it no longer; not a patrolman would go on that beat. That next night he stationed a group of policemen around the cursed box. The night was one of the worst of the year. A heavy rain was falling, driven by the howling wind as it shrieked mournfully through the tossing trees. The men hid themselves as best they could, some behind rocks, others in the shelter of tree trunks. The first part of the night passed uneventfully, the solitude broken only by the moaning of the wind or the creak of one branch rubbing against another. It was about midnight; Hogan, cold, stiff, and weary, crouching behind his bolder, suddenly saw a large white figure approaching through the swirling darkness. The form was advancing when a buzz which denoted an alarm call, came from the box. A shiver passed through Hogan’s body. He could swear that the object was not within fifteen feet of the box, yet the call had been sent in. As the appari¬ tion came nearer he crouched low behind his protection. Once again the buzz, from the haunted box!