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

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24 THE OAK, LILY AND IVY. form. The Great One bent over and petted the dog, murmuring, “Good, old Shrimp, I’ve found myself at last. I’ve come out from my grave of books to stay. Did you see his nose? Good old boy.” The dog with the great bone which he had retrieved at the last moment from the scrap box arched his back for those fine caresses. Here was a master! They arrived at the house. He rang the bell. The mistress answered the door. “Why, Henry, what has happened? And William Marston with a bone.” Such a look of horror! The Great One spoke, “Here is your dog and I’ve come back to get .‘yes’ for an answer. I’ll not go without it.” “Why,”—it was over. That night on the divan the place of honor was held by “Shrimp” with two friends at his side in a world of their own. John Greenough, ’24. THE LACQUER BOX. The old man wended his solitary way along the narrow street and up the stairs leading to the squalid boarding house, unaware of the close scrutiny of two pairs of shifty eyes. The owners of these eyes stepped from the doorway opposite and one remarked, “Well, there he is.” “Yuh,” was the reply. “Will we try to-night?” “Yuh,” repeated his friend, “C’mon. I gotta see ‘Soapy’,” and the two de¬ parted down a darksome alley. The old man in the dingy hall fumbled with the key to his ill-kept rooms. He entered and locked the door, then crossed the room to an old-fashioned trunk in a corner. He opened it, and drew from it a lacquer box. He took something from his pocket which he dropped into the receptacle. He stood thus, apparently gloating over the contents of the box. Then he shut it and replaced it in the trunk and locked that. In this district where ordinarily no embarrassing questions are asked, the old man had been the proverbial thorn in the side of the public’s curiosity. He had no friends, no employment, yet he seemed able to eat regularly and his land¬ lady could testify that his room was paid for in advance. The denizens of this district, all of them intimates, if not friends of the police, had come to the con¬ clusion that the old man was a miser, and two of his neighbors were convinced that the lacquer box held his savings. Through the key-hole they had watched the old man playing with the con¬ tents of the box, always, however, with his back to them. Their avarice, con¬ trolled as long as possible, could no longer be resisted. They were determined to have this box with or without the old man’s consent. This was the night decided upon to try and obtain the box, and they had gone to get certain tools of their trade. The old man ate a frugal meal, went to bed and put out the light. Two hours later there was a faint shuffle in the hall. A creak, the door rattled for a second, then swung slowly inward. “Take it easy,” was heard in a sibilant whisper. There was a startled cry from the old man, which was broken by a dull thud. The sound of labored breathing and muttered curses were then the only sounds in the room as the men worked on the trunk. At last it was open and the box in their hands.

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THE OAK, LILY AND IVY. 23 tress, who placed him there with whispers and cajolery which meant nothing of importance to this dog. Sleep comes to all of us in comfort and so, too, it came to Marston William I. Sleep brought dreams, beautiful dreams of the model dogdom. Cows were straying, waiting to be chased, cats strode listlessly about waiting to b e teased, the scrap box held its inviting cover open, fields in which to roam were plentiful. Such were his dreams and in the ecstasy of pleasure, his short barks, unconscious to himself, drew the attention of his mistress from her book. Marston William I had a regard for his mistress, but for one other there was a respect and appreciation. This was a man, a frequent caller at the house, who talked of business to his mistress and of his expectancy of success. This was his god, his idol. His caresses spoke of power, clean and muscular, but never yet had Marston William I romped with his adopted lord. A sharp bark, and ears cocked, fully awake he rushed to the door. Foot¬ steps, his footsteps, the master. The door opened and the dog leaped to greet him. A harsh, “Down, sir!’’ caused him to stop and look blinkingly at the “great” one. What caused that frown? Why such a harsh greeting? The dog’s troubled mind scented something wrong. His nice master in trouble! Impossible! But yes, it must be so. Those quiet tones in which he spoke to mistress. The in¬ decision, and was that a final no? The Great One refused and in trouble. How could “Shrimpy” help him? Oh! to have him speak to him as “Shrimpy” once again. The man went towards the door, opened it, paused hesitant, lingered a mo¬ ment and passed on, but not before Marston William I had gone out unnoticed to wait at the corner of the walk. The Great One came down the walk, sorely troubled, and did not notice Marston William expectantly awaiting a caress. It was some time before he did notice him and then, “Back home, sir.” The dog turned, trotted a few steps, stopped and turned again. He was walking ahead again. Straight towards the alley. The dog followed. Unnoticed the dog entered the alley with the man. That meat box looked inviting. Then the tyrant’s voice, “Sic ’em, Tige.” His first instinct was to run. He half turned, stopped, and then the fighting blood of those past generations came to the fore. His legs stiffened, back bristled, and he awaited the approach of the big, burly yellow dog. The brute dog leapt to seize this mere pup and dispose of him in a few short moments, but his jaws closed on empty space and a sharp twinge in his leg spoke for the keenness of the aristocrat’s teeth. “Clean him up, kill ’m,” so the tyrant yelled. It was then the Great One turned and noting the smaller dog, yelled to the owner of the larger dog to call the brute off. His request was greeted with a salient to the stomach. Something snapped. His arm went out, met flesh and drew blood. This was a new feeling of exultation. Forgotten were days of past obedience to the “tie that binds.” The lust of battle held him. The fight of the dogs ended, as most dog fights do, in one standing off and offering no attack and the other ready but unwilling. A crowd soon gathered. This was a novelty. The tyrant of the alley fighting with a pedigree dog. A swelling sea of blue mounted on the Great One’s eye and then fury itself seemed loose. His arms worked like pistons. With trip hammer blows he beat back his assailant to be robbed of his victory by the voice of the constable. “Boys, boys, not in public, settle it anywhere but on the street. At it again, Mulligan, you knave of a butch¬ er! It’s about time you received your dessert.” So the amiable officer ended the episode. The Great One looked about, called, “Shrimp, come here.” The dog leapt to the fore with spirit and they started towards home. The dog’s mind was im¬ pressed. What lightness of step! What new life! Here was his master in true

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THE OAK, LILY AND IVY. 25 Five minutes later the occupants of the house were aroused by piercing shrieks, the shrieks of doomed, or badly frightened men. When the police arrived they found three lifeless forms in the squalid room. Henry Van Buren, the eccentric naturalist, dead of a broken skull and his slayers lying one on the floor and the other across the rifled trunk which had held the lacquer box. Three venomous adders, Van Buren’s latest specimens, had slithered across the floor to the shelter of the bed to escape the feet of the curious who came to the scene. Francis McNary, ’24. HASTE. Sonnet. At break of day he rushes forth to fight. He wakes his men with hasty trumpet blast, And scorns to praise the rising sun. The height In distant mists is crowned with a fast And noble fortress. This he makes his aim. His warriors storm the gates. The wall is lost Before his quick assault. But then his fame Is shattered by the rising foe. The cost Is dear. His men fall back. He urges: all With no avail. They drop fatigued. Too late He pauses with regret that caution’s call He did not heed. You marvel at his fate! Then list to wisdom, lest you meet the worst: “To climb steep hills requires slow pace at first.” Marion Littlefield, ’24. EVENING. Sonnet. The sun is slowly sinking o’er the hills, And evening casts its shadows soft and clear; The moon slips from its amber clouds of frills, As one by one the silent stars appear. The birds with sleepy twitters go to rest, The flowers nod their dewy heads in sleep, As mother nature in soft coolness dressed With gentle tender smile begins to peep Into the dreaming bud and quiet nest. And then the night bird soars to meet the blue, With fluted note of ecstasy, his best, While guarding all is silver light and dew As evening’s curtain swaying in the breeze Becomes a mist in night’s sweet peaceful ease. Evelyn Wiggin, ’24.