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

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THE OAK, LILY AND IVY. 27 rang out in the stillness and was echoed by a dull thud as the forward man dropped to the ground. Hastily Jameson put his pistol back in the holster and jumped from his horse. He exchanged uniforms with the lad who lay so still on the cold ground. Quietly he mounted again. “The wooden bridge—important papers—‘son of liberty’! ” he muttered over and over as he rode on. Awaiting him on the bridge was the messenger, James Hancock, a strong, sturdy patriot lad, who carried with him the precious papers. He paced up and down, pulling his coat collar higher as he shivered. His horse neighed impa¬ tiently. Hancock, too, was getting quite impatient. “I wonder why in the devil he doesn’t come; it’s after twelve now.” Then footsteps sounded. “Who goes?” came a sharp law command from Hancock, as he raised his pistol. The figure stopped. “A friend, ‘son of liberty’ ” he answered. Hancock’s fire arm came down with a jerk. “Glad you’ve come. You’re Webb, aren’t you?” he asked as he drew from his pocket a small package securely bound. He handed it to the spy. Jameson grasped it and thrust it inside his coat. “Cold, isn’t it?” Hancock asked jovially, lighter of heart, having exe¬ cuted his part of the affair. “Yes,” replied the spy, turning to go. “Have a hard time coming down?” “No.” The spy backed farther away. “Well, goodbye, and good luck to you.” But by this time Jameson was running down the road. Hancock turned to his horse. He stopped suddenly. “Hancock.” He heard his name called softly. Was his imagination play¬ ing with him or— “Hancock.” This time the voice was a little nearer. He ran across the bridge. A man stood there swaying back and forth, then fell against the railing. He gasped. “Get him,” he whispered, pointing a shaking finger in the direction of the fleeing Webb. “He’s—he’s a spy. “I’m—I’m the messenger—‘a son of lib¬ erty’—he tried to kill-” His voice trailed off into silence, and he fell with a shudder to the ground. Hancock stood too stunned to move. He didn’t understand. Then like a flash it came to him. He jumped on his horse, and rode like mad down the road after the fleeing figure who carried the precious papers. Thoughts raced through his mind keeping pace with the horse’s hoofs. A spy—the papers—he thought he killed Webb—Webb had come to the bridge after all. He must get the papers; he had to get the papers. He grasped his pistol till his knuckles were white. He urged his horse onward. The horse spurted forward with more speed. Hancock was gaining on the spy. Less and less, the distance came between them. He was gaining; he would be able to get the papers back. He urged his horse on more and more, still more. He stood in the stirrups and fired, but the fleeing horse did not lessen its speed. He reached for his other gun. It was his last chance, his only chance. He must shoot and kill. “Heaven help me,” he breathed. He fired again. The horse in advance reared on his hind legs, and th spy slowly slid to the ground. Elizabeth Sherburne, ’2

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26 THE OAK, LILY AND IVY. He awoke with beads of perspiration upon his brow, awoke to see by the sun streaming in at his window that the morning was well along, and the tin box was still safe. “Thank Heaven, it was only a dream,” he murmured. “I must try again to open the box.” He took from his pocket a button hook, and after a little tiresome experi¬ menting opened the lock. He lifted the lid eagerly, and prepared to gaze upon the stolen bonds. But over his face came a startling change. An ashy look of disappointment followed the glowing, hopeful look. He grabbed at one of the folded, silver looking pieces of paper and opened it to find nothing but mere waste paper. Overwhelmed, he sank into a chair in a hopeless posture. John C. Lynch, Jr. THE WOODEN BRIDGE. The Major paced up and down the room, his hands tightly clasped behind him. “The lad’s so young,” he thought. “I wonder if I dare trust him. But then, if he had courage enough to volunteer to go down there and get the papers, I think he must be trustworthy. He seemed to want to prove to me that he could do it.” “Jameson,” he called as he stopped in the middle of the bare unfurnished room. A door opened, and a man dressed in the uniform of a Colonial Whig entered. “Yes, Sir,” he said saluting. “Go and get Daniel Webb.” The door closed softly as Jameson left. The Major continued his pacing until a tall young lad appeared on the threshold. “Yes, sir,” he asked, his keen brown eyes flashing and his face illuminated with the spirit of adventure. The Major motioned to him to be seated at the only table in the room, and drawing a map from his pocket, he placed it before them. “I hope you understand fully the danger and seriousness of this errand which you plan to undertake. To-night at half past eleven you are to be at this wooden bridge which crosses the river about here.” He placed his finger on the map. “Here you will find a messenger waiting for you and you will be given these papers which are so very important to us. Take every precaution that is necessary, for you are going on a dangerous errand. The pass word is ‘son of liberty.’ ” He rose and Webb turned to go. “Good luck to you,” he said as they parted, “and may the Lord be with you!” The figure of Jameson crouched back into the shadows of the dark passage as Webb passed down the hall. He laughed triumphantly, “The Lord be with you! Humph, I guess He’ll need to be with you, and the sign is ‘son of liberty,’ ” he mused. “Ha-ha, Major Wayne,” he whisperd with a sneer, “you didn’t know that your dear Jameson was a British spy!” At eleven o’clock that night a lone rider was galloping swiftly along the river road in the cold and heavy rain. But soon another rider appeared quite a distance behind him. The first figure turned with a start in the saddle. A shot

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28 THE OAK, LILY AND IVY. FAITH. The stage on which we play our dramas of life has for most of us but one setting. Characters come, move about, taking their leave by way of familiar exits. Palace or hovel is the setting for our figures. The echo of the faintly rumbling wheels on the muddy road could still be heard as Dora Sarkoff, the peasant wife, crooned a Jewish melody to her babe. The big black kettle swayed on its crane, and an atmosphere of content and cheerfulness prevailed over the simple scene in the shanty-hut. Her husband, Josef, and small son had departed for Moscow, the great city where all peasants display their country wares in exchange for other mer¬ chandise. This was their way of making a living. He scowled at the gather¬ ing clouds and urged the oxen on, refusing to confess to ' himself the dread of the destination which they were approaching. Not very far from the Sarkoff dwelling was a saloon where all the lower class of Russian peasants congregated to eat, drink, and plan their next mas¬ sacre of human lives. What heartless creatures they were! They glorified in seeing others suffer, especially women and children of other races than their own. A foreboding stillness hung over the liquor-sodden air as the men gathered around the bar. A few tables made of old barrels were scattered about the place, which was dimly lighted by flickering candles. Soon the stillness was broken by a loud shot that came from the doorway. This was the beginning of the massacre which will long remain in the memory of those who escaped their merciless slaughter. The peasants were so intoxicated with liquor that one rifle report meant a fight to them, and this was one thing they craved. Bottles were broken, shots rang out from all si des, and the angry cries of the bearded men could be heard far down the road. The candles were overturned and soon the building was a mass of flames. Out poured the angry mob car¬ rying lighted torches, screeching and yelling, setting aflame the small shanties, burning the poor innocent women and small children. Screams of pain and terror could be heard for miles. Innocent babes were dashed to death before the eyes of their mothers—pitiful sights. Upon hearing the loud moans and cries for mercy, Dora ran to the window and saw what she had already dreaded—a massacre. She felt faint and dizzy. They would soon be upon her! She would be tortured alive. She sank to her knees, and because of her unfailing faith in God, she uttered a prayer. “Oh God! Help me save my baby! Have mercy on me! Deliver me from these hungry plunderers!” The family across the way were already in their clutches, for the little children could be heard crying for their mother, and then slowly their cries were heard no more. Unoffending little Jewish children paying with their lives, because the murderous peasants glorified in seeing others suffer. There was no time to lose; she must act at once. A thought flashed through her mind. Yes, He had answered her prayer. She quickly overturned tables, chairs, boxes, broke dishes, tore the bed covering, smashed the windows, and Mattered pieces of torn clothing all over the floor. She did this so they would ink another group of their own kind had already reaped their harvest, ri Grasping the child to her breast, she climbed up on a ladder to a small dpening in the ceiling, pulling up the ladder after her. Here she crawled into