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

Page 32 text:

28 THE OAK, LILY AND IVY. lingering silvery caress on the ocean. The scent of flowers mingled pleas¬ antly with the low-toned, pleasant conversation, and in the distance came the tinkling of a guitar. The conversation was general, but soon drifted into personal experiences. It centered as usual on Major Flansworth, writer, artist, and soldier of fortune. “Surely, Major Flansworth, with all your strange and varied experi¬ ences,” said Lady Timothy, playing her part as hostess perfectly, “you must have encountered many odd and interesting people.” “Yes, indeed! But I shall never forget one incident which happened years ago in Paris. It changed me from a boy to a man,” he said quietly, and a look of deep sorrow passed quickly over his face. “Tell us about it, Major,” urged Sir Timothy, and we eagerly joined in this plea. “Well,” began the Major, “after I had graduated from Oxford, I de¬ cided to take up art and accordingly went to Paris. There I became ac¬ quainted with the usual Bohemian crowd and acquired the dress and habits of Bohemian life. And then I became acquainted with Phillipe.” Here again the look of sorrow overspread his face. “Phillipe was a real Bohemian in the exact sense of the word. His clothes were the most bizarre, most untidy of all. His age anywhere between forty and sixty. He was the gayest, most irresponsible, most lovable man I had ever met. “I had known him for about a week when he took me into his confi¬ dence. I had called at his studio, and he had drawn me aside and said: ‘Charles, -I will show you something. It is a great secret, and you must promise to keep it thus. You will promise?’ “ ‘Yes’ ” I said, “ ‘what is it?’ ” “He crossed the room, skillfully avoiding chairs, tables, and other arti¬ cles of furniture which would have filled a two-room apartment. Pulling aside a curtain, he revealed a canvas. “ ‘This,’ he said to me in a hushed, awed tone, ‘is my masterpiece. The Praying Mother I call it. I have been working on it for twenty years. No one knows of it. They think I am nothing but an idler, but when it is finished, my name and picture will live on through immortality’ and a shining happy light illuminated his face. “I saw an elderly woman, kneeling in a great cathedral, beautifully colored lights streaming over her tired, worn face, with a calm, beautiful look in her eyes. “ ‘Phillipe,’ I said to him earnestly, ‘it is surely a masterpiece!’ “Several years passed. I still lingered in Paris on the pretext of study¬ ing art, and I had become deeply attached to Phillipe. He still worked and dreamed over his masterpiece. “ ‘The light in the woman’s eyes,’ he would say to me; ‘it eludes me. There is something lacking. I cannot find it,’ and in a frenzy of anger one day he crashed his hand down on the table, spilling his wine, breaking the glass, and cutting his right hand severely. “I offered him my sympathy, but warned him. ‘Take care of your hand, Phillipe, it looks rather nasty.’ ” “ ‘It is nothing,’ he assured me. ‘But the light in the woman’s eyes— I must find it. That picture must be completed before I die. I am getting old, Charles, my friend.’ ” “Two weeks later, they amputated Phillipe’s right hand up to the elbow. I visited him in the hospital. My sympathy was wordless—I was far too sorry. Phillipe was silent, but at parting he whispered to me, sadly:

Page 31 text:

THE OAK, LILY AND IVY. 27 hundreds at the studio every day. The date, “April 5,” seemed to contain some significance. I vaguely recalled a story I had read once in which the figure “five” was outstanding. I tried vainly to remember its significance. In a few moments I was walking up a foggy London street, reluctant to go home as I felt that I could think better out in the open. As I crossed Grosvenor Square, I was arrested by the shrill voice of a woman calling to a young boy. “Aaron!” she shouted. “Aaron!” I echoed. The dawn of light! Aaron Burr! The letter his sweetheart, Peggy, had written to her father! A secret message,—every fifth word! I had solved it! When I returned I learned that pieces of cracked putty had been dis¬ covered on the window sill. Someone had evidently slammed the window. It was apparent that “J. G.” (I was sure it was he) had entered the room previous to Braggdon and secured the dagger, to mislead the police. Braggdon’s desk was full of “fan mail”; so that expelled the theory that he was puzzled about that letter. When Braggdon arrived, he unsuspiciously moved toward his desk. A sound outside the window arrested his attention and, turning, he gazed with terror upon the face of his murderer, who hurled the dagger at him. In falling, his leg twisted beneath him, so he was killed before he broke his leg. The murderer removed all fingerprints, slammed the window, but failed to notice the clue he left! The fiery speech found in the victim’s desk condemning the underworld confirmed my deduction that the murderer was a member of a notorious gang bent upon punishing Braggdon for disturbing the “peace” of the underworld. When I presented the solution at Headquarters, I was flattered at Darney’s dumbfounded expression. He read: “ ‘April 5, 1930. ‘I warn you not to speak Monday. I will kill if you do. ‘J. G.’ ” and Mr. Braggdon had spoken! I looked triumphantly at Richard King. I had convinced him of the capability of women reporters. “ ‘Long John Gorman’!” gasped the Inspector. The next morning the Daily Tribune blazed forth with the news, the only paper with the complete mystery solved. It was my first “scoop.” I was happy! Anna Rannahan, ’31. HUMORESQUE. (A Short Story.) The dinner had been excellent. So were the cigars, judging from the laughter and good-humored conversation which drifted in through the open window. “Let’s join the men,” said the beautiful, vivacious Lady Timothy, who was our hostess at their famous plantation in Cuba. We assented and strolled onto the verandah. The night was warm and flooded with moonlight. The stars twinkled brightly, and the moon cast a

Page 33 text:

29 THE OAK, LILY AND IVY. Charles, my friend, I have found the light in the woman’s eyes, but my masterpiece will never be completed.’ ‘T rushed from the room. A great desire for tears came, but I fought it off, and as I walked along the street, Goethe’s words clamored in my ears, ‘God is a greater humorist than I.’ That was the last day of my boy¬ hood.” The low clear voice ceased, a deep silence fell on the gay company, and a chilling wind swept up from the ocean. Lillian Chafetz, ’31. HIGH TENSION. (A Short Story.) It was half past eight by the clock over the fireplace in the home of Jack Nolan, head linesman of his community. Jack, dressed in warm cloth¬ ing, attached to his belt, wire, a pair of pliers, a rope and in fact everything which a linesman would need for emergency. His wife, in the meantime, had prepared his lunch. “Take care of Junior while I’m gone.” “Take care of yourself. Jack,” answered his wife. Jack stepped from his warm home out into the cold biting air. Bill Dowley, his assistant, met him. “All have left, sir.” “Fine. Take care. Bill.” Knowing all his men had left. Jack started off on his route. After walk¬ ing about a half mile or so(, he approached the first pole. He ascended the pole to test the wir es, connected the transmitter, and telephoned to his home. “Hello, wifey! Everything’s fine.” “Junior’s fine. Jack. Take care,” was the reply. In a minute he was on his way for the second pole. Plodding along, he noticed the sun’s reflection on the snow; the snow covered tree tops with the gilded edges was a beautiful sight. Below him in a little valley was a stream of cold, sparkling spring water bordered with birch trees. After leaving these beautiful sights, he arrived at his second pole. He then descended and was soon on his way to the last pole. This last journey was tiresome. Jack was hungry; his tools began to feel heavy, making the walking difficult. Finally he arrived at his last pole; he tele¬ phoned his wife. “This is Jack. Everything’s fine.” He suddenly paused, a frightened look came over his face, for two wolves were approaching. “What’s the matter. Jack? Are you in danger? Are those wolves I hear?” “No, it’s just your imagination,” he quickly replied, and then discon¬ nected the telephone. Trapped and with no one to help him! What could he do? He re¬ mained in his position, thinking of a way to get rid of them. “I must get rid of them before they attract the others ” he said to himself. In his mind ran the horrible thoughts of the hungry man-eating wolves tearing his body to pieces; his men finding the remains; the horror and