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

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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

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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:

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30 THE OAK, LILY AND IVY. fright with which the news would bring to his wife. The thoughts of his last farewell to wife and child which he might never see again stayed in his mind. He must get out of this horrible danger. He must risk any¬ thing to get back. He looked down at his belt. There were his tools and dinner box. Couldn’t he do something with these? He opened his dinner box and found a large piece of steak which was to be his dinner. He had an idea; whether it would work or not was to be found out. He took the rope and wire which were about his belt and tied them together. To the other end of the wire he attached the pliers to which he had tied the piece of meat. Holding on to the rope, he threw the other end of the wire over the high tension wires. The dangling piece of meat attracted the attention of the wolves. One of the wolves grabbed the meat in his jaws and was quickly thrown to the ground. The other wolf, not knowing that death was waiting for him, did the self-same thing. He, too, lay on the snow. Jack relaxed his hold on the rope and the great man killer dropped into the snow. He descended the pole very cautiously, adjusted his snowshoes, and was quickly on his way home. He did not notice the beautiful scenery which he had previously admired. Bill Dowley, who had arrived early, was waiting for Jack. Suddenly he saw the well-built, square-shouldered form of Jack approach from the distance. Bill having given his report. Jack proceeded homeward. He was met by his wife, who was out in the freezing air. “What’s the matter? Anything the matter with Junior?” he asked. “I thought of the wolves ever since that last call, and I have been frightened.” “I was all right. Don’t let your foolish fancies trouble you so. I told you that it was only your imagination.” Donald Consoletti, ’31. IN LEE OF TROUVILLE. (A Short Story.) It was a dull and soundless day. The dark clouds hung low in the heavens, and already a light mist, typically autumnal , was arising, chilling my frame, for I was but lightly vested. My bicycle was quite wet when I reached Trouville, and as I rode through the deserted street, a peculiar sense—a sense of some sorrowful impression pervaded my spirit. Two or three church spires warned me of the larger village beyond. I now felt miserably damp and the biting winds numbed my very form. At length I found myself within view of a single desolate cottage bad¬ ly battered by the bleak winds of approaching winter. A tarn, black and dismal, lay beyond the dwelling, and as I gazed upon it, I shuddered. I dismounted my bicycle and walked up the almost lost path to the front door, which I found locked. I peered through the shutters. I saw nothing queer nothing but an old iron bed, a few chairs, and a table on top of which lay a cup and plate. That was all. Nothing in the rear of the cottage except great clumps of withered field grass and stones. The tarn, so black and gloomy, revealed no sign.