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

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6 OAK, LILY AND IVY. all? “No.” “Well! That’s funny, he came down into the bar-room last night and wanted to shave us. Scared everybody so we couldn’t induce them to return again.” “Guess I’ve laid your ghost then, if you have any more trouble with him send for me—I’ll settle him.” With that the salesman paid his bill and went away, leaving the man doubtfully shaking his head. Two or three months later the young man again came to the hotel and in¬ quired if they had seen anymore of the barber ghost. “As an appreciation of the service rendered, I’ll let you have one of the best rooms in the house for nothing.” And the man who had had courage enough to face a ghost went to a good night’s rest chuckling to himself. Miriam E. Ball, 15. A Marnerian Fantasy. Gray, lingering twilight merges away into night, black, thick and still, save lrom the moan of the cold winter wind sighing throughout the trees; now the faint howl of a wolf, now the demoniacal laugh of the owl wails away into dead silence. Far away among the lonely hills a rough shack nestles in the shelter of the woods. Within, the walls are of rough boards; nothing adorns the interior save a rude bunk of dried leaves. A little to the right is a fire-place made of sticks plastered with mud, in which a fire dances, merrily casting gro¬ tesque shadows on the opposite walls. In the farthest corner, at a rickety, home¬ made table, his face lighted momentarily by the fire, sits a man counting a large bag of coins. In the dim light of the flickering candle the beams play on a face not good to look upon. His parchment-hued cheeks are deep and sunken; from either side of a thin, hawk-like nose bulge two piercing, wild and restless eyes. Now as he opens his mouth, a set of yellow fangs come into view. Surmount¬ ing all is a long, unkempt mop of gray hair which ill conceals a ragged scar on his wrinkled brow. The clinking of coins continues in a monotonous jingling stream. At last it is all counted and with crazy laughs, he kisses and throws his arms about the bags burying his face in the beloved pile. There he rests until,—what is that he sees in the fire before him? A clearly defined face, the visage of one whom he had robbed bit by bit, steadily, persistently. The miser starts, shivers, begins to pick nervously at the table with his long talon-tipped nails. Now it is gone, but stop! another pair of eyes gleam beseechingly from out that glowing mass. Each in turn they come, those he had wronged. Oh God! Now the face of the man he murdered! See ! there is the same wound on the temple from which even now drops of blood seem to ooze. With a shriek he rises, and sweeping the gold to the floor, he leaps to the shelter of the bunk and there, face down, he lies, shivering and clutching at the dead leaves beneath him. From the shelter of his arms he peers again toward the fire. “The Fire !” It is still there ! It fascinates, hypnotizes, calls, and like one in a dream, he arises, and crouches unwillingly, moves toward the fire and

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OAK, LILY AND IVY VOL XXIX. MILFORD, MASS., JANUARY, 1913. NO. 4. Published Monthly During the School Year by the Pupils of the Milford High School. BOAED OF EDITOES. Editors-in-Ctiief, Ealph Luce, ' 13, Julia McCarthy, ’13. Business Manager, Luigi Sanclementi, ’13. Assistants. George Caldicott, ? 14. Leslie Adams, ’14. Helen Edmands, ' 13. Lorana Henderson, ’13. Luigi DeOicco, ? 14. Frederick Holmes, ' 15. Subscription Bates: For the year, 50 cents. Single Copies, 10 cents. Address all communications to Oak, Lily and Ivy, Milford, Mass. Entered at the Milford, Mass., Post Office, as second class matter. Shivers and Shavers. A traveling salesman stopped at a hotel to inquire for a night’s lodging. The hotelkeeper said he was sorry but the only room empty was one that he had not been able to let. A barber had killed himself in that room and his spirit still haunted the place. Nothing daunted, the man replied, “Humph, show it to me. I’m not afraid of ghosts.” “Very well,” and the innkeeper led the way. The young man undressed and went to bed but somehow couldn’t sleep. The wind came up and a cold heavy fog settled down into rain. lie was falling asleep when he thought he heard a kind of moaning. He started up in bed and —“Do—you—want—to be—shaved?” “Do—you—want—to be—shaved?’’ “Do—you—want—to he—shaved?” “What the-is that,” and he jumped out of bed and followed the sound. It seemed near the window, and again in grave yard tones, “Do—you—want—to be—shaved?” “Do—you—want—to be —shaved?” He raised the sash and listened—it was quite close now, “Do— you—want—to-be—shaved?” “Ah, there he is! ” he exclaimed and pushing up the window he broke off the branch of a tree, which blowing back and forth across the pane created the noise. “Ghosts, nothing,” and he climbed back into bed. His room, however, was right over the bar and the noisy carousing kept the poor man distracted. Clinking of glasses, quarreling, shouting, continued until he lost all patience and flew out of bed exclaiming, “Can’t they let a fellow sleep! I’ll fix them.” Taking the sheet and his razor he went down the stairs to the bar and appeared in the doorway, crying, “Do—you—want—to be—- shaved r ” “Do—you—want—to lie—shaved?” “Do—you—want—to be shaved?” Everybody fled and the barkeeper hid under the counter so the salesman returned to his room to get his hard earned sleep. In the morning the landlord asked him if he’d seen anything of the ghost?

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OAK, LILY AND IVY. 7 the face. Nearer and nearer he approaches; now his clothes smoke in the scorch¬ ing heat; beads of perspiration stand out on his forehead. A live coal drops to the floor; soon a tiny flame springs up; it spreads. The smoke thickens, yet the figure, spellbound by the face in the coals, cannot stir. In a little time nearby hills are wakened by the crackle and by the ruddy glow of a pile of blazing timbers which shine like a beacon; but soon the light fades and dies out and once more over all settles the cold clammy darkness of doom. Geo. Caldicott, ’14. Twice Traveled Trails. To Doc and me, hunting is a vocation. From our childhood we have been accustomed to handle guns. As a very little fellow, I can remember what a cer¬ emony father made of teaching me to clean his guns; what reverence and care for weapons he instilled. Later when I went along with him into the woods, how diligently he interested me in the catechism of hunting! And now, when¬ ever we can, when the office is not full of doleful patients, or when I am not hindered by that pest of the school boy, afternoon session, Doc and I shoulder our guns and tramp away. Thanksgiving day we set apart as a day of great devotion to game and early we started out. We crossed the road and proceeded to hunt over a wet and exceedingly thickly wooded swamp. It was cold and damp and every bush seemed determined to catch and hold on to some part of our clothing or skin. We travelled in silence though once in a while an occa¬ sional “Ouch!” would come from either Doc or me, as we stooped to crawl under some tightly woven branches or vineswhere some very friendly and pain¬ fully affectionate horse-briars would grab our legs and command our immediate attention. At last we reached the end of the swamp and we climbed over a wall into a field that had once been post of the woods, but was now filled with scrub oaks and underbrush. Scattered here and there were closely intertangled piles of dry brush and briars which afforded excellent hiding for small game. We stamped over all these piles but the “Jinks” the god of all luck was certainly with us for no sign of a living animal did we see. Beyond this field was a similar one which, however, was able to boast of one or two small pine trees in the further corner, but, of no very promising places for game. We had chosen unwisely and were about to turn back when Doc saw an old milk can on a rock beneath one of the pines. You who do not know Doc cannot appreciate the fact that even if he is my uncle, he is more of a “kid” for liking fun than am I; and that combination of milk-can and gun was too much for him. It was the first time that morning that he was really animated and I grinned in sympathy as I heard him give that clearly-cut “up-in-the-air” laugh of his and saw him raise his gun and let drive. I hoped against hope that he wouldn’t hit that can. I wanted to hear his apologies which are always most elaborate when he fails to hit. But the shot struck the can squarely and as the sharp report rang out a rabbit scurried from beside him toward the back of the field. His sudden appearance so startled us that for a moment neither of us fired at him. The sur¬ prise, however, was only momentary and before he had gone many yards, a well directed shot stopped his swift flight. I don’t remember now just whose it was but I claimed it and was allowed to keep it. When we had recovered our confused senses, we continued our way through the next field. This area was covered with a buck grove and, to our great amazement, before we left the place another rabbit was added to the collection.