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

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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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6 OAK, LILY AND IVY. A window of the fort burst suddenly open and with a wild shout, “To arms, to arms, for your lives” a small boy sprang into the presence of a regi¬ ment of terrified soldiers and was immediately lost in the confusion of men, rushing in different directions, shouting and exclaiming in their eager haste to find their arms. In another moment, the enemy was upon them and for hours the battle raged with unspeakable fury. One moment it seemed that the regiment of the encamp¬ ment would conquer and the next that it would be defeated- At last the thunder ceased, the dark clouds rolled back and the first rays of the rising sun looked upon a field of blood where many noble warriors lay dead. But it also looked upon the encampment, standing as before with the country’s flag flapping proudly in the soft morning breeze. The soldiers within were rejoicing over the victory. Joy seemed to fill every nook and corner of the great encampment. Exclamations of triumph resounded from wall to wall as each soldier congratulated his friends for having won the battle. Then the doors were thrown wide open and the regiment marched out upon the green chatting gayly together. Suddenly a shout pierced the air and rang across the valley, echoing and re-echoing along the mountain sides, “Three cheers for the Hero of the Fort!” and as the boy was clasped in his father’s arms, joy ineffable sang in his heart. Ruth Haskard, T3. -4 The Elusive Smith. Helen sat at her desk in a large bay-window, in the library studying Latin grammar and trying to cram into her brain, “amo, amas, amat,” when looking down the street, she caught a glimpse of her chum, May Bradford, whom she had not seen for two weeks, coming up on the run. “Good-bye, studying,” Helen said, sorrowfully throwing down her book. “I want to go to that concert tonight, and when shall I study for that exam!” But studying, exam, and everything was forgotten, when in a couple of minutes May came running in the back door, burst into the library, twisted her around four or five times and finally said: “You haven’t changed a bit since the last time I saw you, you little midget! Oh, yes, I expected to see you plugging at your studying; it seems to me if you’d stand up and walk around once in a while you’d grow a mite.” “For goodness’ sake,” exclaimed Helen, “what is the matter with you? Have you gone mad during the last two weeks, May? Where have you been? Hurry up and tell and please stop jumping around so.” “Now, wait till I take off my duds, although you didn’t ask me to, and oh, yes, I’ll run out and give a message to your mother. You sit down there and count your fingers and I’ll be back in a jiff and tell you all about it,’’ exclaimed May. In the course of a minute, May came running back through the hall yelling, “Talk about Peter Coodles’ trip to New York! That was a jumble compared to my trip last week.” “Is that where you were? You know you haven’t been up for two weeks, and I wondered where you had been. Did you have a good time? Do tell me all about it,” said Helen. “Well.” continued May, as she settled down on the sofa, and tucked about ten sofa-pillows around her, “you know we have friends in New York, John Smith

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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.