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

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4 OAK, LILY AND IVY. 0 was poor and his eyesight was weak. Then the doctor forbade his writing any more. Deprived of his chief source of income as well as the joy of his life he soon after died and left me an orphan. Since his death I have played in the streets. Generally people are kind. So you found me this afternoon. That is all.” The old man was radiant with joy. “So you have no one belonging to you. Then you shall be my proteg?, my son. You, with your wonderful youth and vitality shall bs the prop of my old age ! Together we shall finish my great Sonata! Here, take my violin, play as you never have before!” As the sweet notes vibrated through the lofty studi o, the excited old man beamed with joy. He leaned forward in his chair as if to drink in every dulcet note that fell frcm the skillful fingers of the player, and when it was finished he sank back and sobbed with happiness. “Soy, you are an artist, worthy even to play my great Sonata!” Thus Paul Revierre took up his abode in the shabby quarters of Professor M chelini and under his careful teaching, thrived and advanced in his beloved art. Paul’s presence seemed to have transformed the feeble old musician. His marvellous vitality and energy infused new life in the slender frame of the other. Together they worked on the Sonata. So the winter months passed and when Spring peeped forth in the budding trees and soft, exhilarating air,the work was completed and pronounced by the many critics who ca ne to the humble studio to hear it, a true masterpiece of technique and beauty. Then came the night when Paul was to play it for a select audience at a musicale given by a noted society leader. The spacious hall was dense with people, for the fame of the new compo¬ sition had spread. When Paul, glowing with pride, his handsome picturesque face flushed with joy, appeared upon the stage, there was a mighty burst of applause. Smiling and delighted, Paul bowed his thanks and sent a glance of overflowing bliss at the white-haired figure in the front row. As he lifted the bow and gently stroked the strings of his violin, there was deathly silence. Softly, sweetly, the weird music swelled through the room, now rising exultantly in rapturous transports of ecstacy, now throbbing with fierce bursts of passion, then, gradually becoming gentler and subdued, it moaned and sobbed and finally died away in one last quivering wail. The deafening applause that followed was immediate and sincere, for not a heart in that huge auditor¬ ium but was moved to its depths by the pathos and melancholy of the piece. Time after time, Paul re-appeared before the curtain, and when he appeared the last time, leading by the arm the feeble old Professor, the delight of the audi¬ ence could not be checked. Paul shortened the flattering reception which followed as much as possible, for he knew his aged foster father was in a state of dangerous excitement and wished to leave the heated, perfumed hall for the quiet of the studio. The ride home was made in silence, for both hearts were too full for words. When their chambers had been reached and Paul had installed the overjoyed Professor in a cozy armchair by the fireplace, the latter said wonderingly, “Please Paul, my son, play to me once again those exquisite notes I heard tonight. I never im-

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OAK, LILY AND IVY VOL. XXXIII. MILFORD, MASS., NOV,, 1916. NO. 2. Published Monthly During the School Year by the Pupils of the Milford High School. Board of Editors : Editor-In-Chief, Beatrice L. Baitles, ’17. Assistant Lditoii, Helen Mead, ’17. Business Manager, .Joseph C. Bruce, ’17. Dorothy E. Lilley, ’17. Karl S. Roberts, ’18. Edmund T. Welch, ’17, Fred J. Niro, ’17. Catherine Burns, ’17. F. Elizabeth Hears, ’17 Katherine H. Lester, ’18. Elmer C. Nelson, ’18 Esther E. Haskard, ’18. Chester 0. Avery, ’18 Subscription Rates : For the year, 50 cents. Single copies, 10 cent ' s. Address all communications to Oak, Lily and Ivy, Milford, Mass. Entered at the Milford, Mass. Post Office, as second class matter. THE MUSIC MASTER. Outside it was clear and cold with a hint of snow in the air. The biting, penetrating wind painted ears and cheeks a rosy hue, and quickened the steps of the many pedestrians who thronged the streets. But Professor Michelini walked along slowly, unmindful of the cold or the passing crowds. On his thin, aesthetic face, with its classic Italian features and large beautiful eyes, was an expression of deep melancholy. Sad indeed were his reflections as he walked along. Constantly he thought of his unfinished Sonata. The professor felt himself growing old and he grieved for his lost youth, grieved also at the idea of departing without completing his masterpiece, in which he had put all the yearning and passion of his unloved, starved life. Sadly he walked along until his attention was arrested by strains of sweet music. His well trained ears in¬ stantly recognized the musical genius of the player. Impetuously he made his way through the crowd from the midst of which the sounds came. He halted in amazement at what he saw. Standing before him, violin on chin, was a boy with a face of the most wistful and striking beauty. His soft, velvety eyes were dim with emotion, his sensitive lips quivered with the passion of his play¬ ing. In an instant the Professor was by his side. “Boy”, he cried, “you are marvelous! Such a touch! Such power of ex¬ pression!” he drew a deep breath-“It is wonderful. Who taught you to play like that? Come boy, come with me. I must know more of you”, and shaking with excitement he led the bewildered boy away. All the way to his studio, the Professor plied his companion with questions. The youthful musician’s story was simple. “I am Paul Revierre”, he said. “My father was a great composer, but he

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OAK. LILY AND IVY. agined anything could be so beautiful. Paul immediately picked up his violin and once again made the strings vibrate with fierce passion and wild exultation. As he played the Professor, enthralled, closed his eyes, a smile of serene, per¬ fect contentment softened and beautified the rugged, wrinkled face over which the ruddy firelight flickered carressingly, and with the last throbbing wail of the violin, the gentle spirit soared away on the magic wings of the music. B. L. B. ‘17. THE MASTER SHOT. For many years old Jean had been the head guardsman of the barrack house at Versailles, and now that his hair wa sturned a silvery gray, he deter¬ mined to select one from his many young guardsmen who might suitably fill his place. But he must be a master shot for it had long been the custom to adjudge no man an expert marksman until he had proven his mettle by striking at some difficult target. The report was given out that old Jean was seeking for someone to take his place, and each and every one of them resolved to do his best in the final test. To Francois, blithe, gay, and lighthearted, this was an excellent opportun¬ ity for he had just lead home his young bride,Marie, and was desirous of advanc¬ ing himself for her sake. He determined to win, and looked about for a way of accomplishing his purpose. Faithfully and diligently he practised at targets, with his whole heart and soul in his work; but it seemed indeed that the more he tried the less successful he became. His skill in marksmanship seemed to have vanished as if by magic. Bit he persevered. “I must succeed,” he would go into the hills and cry, while the echo ever came back, “I must succeed.” He scoured the country far and wide in order to practice on the wild game, and many a bullet went astray in a vain attempt to strike a chosen mark. If he took careful aim at a wild bird soaring gracefully and gently through the azure heavens he was sure to be sorely vexed by seeing it continue its aimless flight while his bullet was lost in the vastness of the atmosphere- “Alas!” he would lament, “when the final day comes, I shall lose.” No longer was he the gay, light-hearted Francois, but a gloomy, despairing man. Giving up his fruitless practise he sat in meditating silence by his fireside. As he sat thus one evening staring into the fire and lost in thought, a hand was laid suddenly on his shoulder, and turning nervously he beheld a hideous old witch whose face was distorted by a horrible, ghastly grin. “Fear not Francois,” she whispered, “only seek for me and you shall have your wish.” Francois did not need to be told who this strange creature was, this crone of the woods who people said had dealings with the Evil one. Another un¬ earthly, mocking grin, a shake of her hoary head and she was gone. One moment of irresolution, one moment of hesitation and then with a