Oakfield High School - Oak Leaves Yearbook (Oakfield, WI)

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OUT OF THE Twilight had settled down over the snow-covered hills and valleys of the little mining settlement of St. Johns. The long, low rumble of a freight train, as it lumbered past the depot, was the only sound that disturbed the silence. As the train rounded the curve by the big water tanks, a stealthy figure emerged from beneath the last car. walked unsteadily and then disappearing in the shadow of a group of warehouses and coalsheds. Up at the big saw mills above St. Johns, the saws were humming busily in the clear, cold sunshine of the winter morning and the sawdust was piling up in great shining heaps. The “boss, sitting alone in the office shack, glanced up as a shadow fell across his work, and nodded to the big stranger standing in the doorway. “You’re the boss, aint ye?” the man asked. “I’m Bill McGraw, lookin’ for work.” “You’ll find what you’re looking for here. the boss replied. He called a man who was passing by the open door to show the new man his work. As the boss went back to his accounts he said half aloud, “Some more of the driftwood gang—the kind that stays about a week. Meanwhile as the stranger began his work, the other men watched him indifferently. “Nother Scot.” grumbled Hank Peters. DRIFTWOOD “Scotch nothing, exclaimed another man. “Why man. he’s got the map of Ireland all over his face. “Well, he won’t stay long, whatever he is. returned Hank. “His kind never do. Two weeks passed. Bill was still at the camp. A month passed without taking Bill with it. At the end of the second month he was marked down as a steady” and given a “raise. The big Irishman with his friendly ways, keen wit and inexhaustible stock of Irish yarns, had won the respect of the whole camp, especially of the children, of whom little Mary Ferris was bis most devoted admirer. As the winter wore away, the warm spring weather drew the children out of doors. “Irish Bill would sit on the porch of the Ferris home in the evening, after the day’s work was done, and tell the children long stories. “Me and my sister Nell was alone in the wurruld.’’ he would say. “Me ould aunt, she took us in, but Nell couldn't stand her scolding ould tongue so we ran away. I’d kill the old woman if we stayed there any longer. Nell said. She meant it, too. She was rid-headed. Nell was, with a temper to match, but a kindhearteder soul never breathed. She worked in a rich woman’s kitchen and when the tramps came to the door she'd take the mop or broom to them and

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FRESHMAN Bannister. Iona— She came from the Camp Grounds. This maiden so small. But as for learning She beats them all. Bogie, Lorene— A studious lass. Never known to miss a class. Cowles. Alice— Those eyes so black. And hair of brown, A prettier combination cannot be found. Cowles. Grace— A youthful maiden, fair and bright. Who is bound to have her way all right. Darling, Guy- A black, curly-haired young chap. Who for his studies doesn't give a rap. Ehrhardt, Clinton— A farmer's boy and a daily ride. Light of step but with some stride. Frenzel. Leona— A country maiden, with complexion fair. With hazel eyes and nut brown hair. Hoffman, Dessa— Fair young maiden with winning ways, To whom the preacher’s son wends his way. Jansen, Katherine— That freshman maiden, with solemn face, (But she can handle a junior with grace.) Wagenkneclit, Chester— A youthful fresh,'' with plenty of pep. With bright eye and lively step. ROLL CALL Prine, Hazel— Her quiet manner but willing part. Shows her to have a very good start. Read, Harry— His sweet smile haunts me still. (Irene.) Reynolds. Del mar— A sandy haired youth with eyes of blue. Who to the scouts will e'er be true. Taylor. Mildred— A faithful maiden, from over Lamartine way. Without a miss she comes every day. Worthing, Arthur A cute little fellow, with a bashful mien. Put for all that, knows more than it seems. Ziegler, Irene— Another smile of haunting power. Fisher. Harold All the girls are wild over that smile. SOME FELL BY THR WAYSIDK. Culver, Lucy— A ••hello girl and quite tall, Who left our school, for the lure of the call.” Grabow. Edwin That gabby kid with a stately (?) stride. Alborn, Harold— Maybe you think I am out for some fun. Rut I am not—I’m a minister’s son. Clarken, Gladys— Those snappy eyes and brunette hair, Caused many a lesson to prepare. Wollenburg, Johanna— The maid from Byron Town. 32

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drive them away. You’d break your heart laughing to watch her. She niver shed a tear but once.” he went on soberly. “That was when I told her I was for leaving the ould countree. “Lad,” she said. “I’d wurruk me fingers to the bone for ye. I can't let yez go.” Hut I couldn't stay there and let her wurruk for me so I came to Ameriky. Nell’s married now and happy, but she's never forgot me yet. “I’ve been drifting down the big river from St. Paul ever since. Me ould aunt used to say I was so woodenheaded I couldn’t drown anyway and I’m for thinking she was right, mebbe.” When they were tired he would suggest a song and little Mrs. Ferris would smile to herself as the strains of “Come Back to Erin or The Dear Little Shamrock floated in to her through the open door, the deep Irish voice rambling along with the shrill voices of the children, and clear and sweet above them all the golden voice of Mary. But one day, like a bolt out of the blue, came the blow that shattered their confidence in him. Irish Bill had gone down to St. John’s as usual that Saturday evening and when he came back, they understood and were sorry. Even little Mary crept away saddened by the change in her friend. But the next day Bill seemed so thoroughly penitent and ashamed that they forgave him. But the same thing happened again. “He’s seeing snakes and raving about his sister forgetting him. the Boss said. “He wants the doctor and the priest and the foreman because he thinks he’s going to die. That week cold winter again claimed the country for its own, but every night Bill plodded through the deep snow to the village postoffice. Saturday night a blizzard set in, growing worse every minute. Bill walked towards St. John’s, stopped and shivered. “What's the use? he muttered. “Nell’s forgot. I’ll just stop and get wan drink and go back again. And then above the roar of the storm came the voice of a little child singing the Irish ballad he had taught Mary, the one Nell used to love: “Till the shamrock shall perish, And the emerald shall fade. Thy memory I’ll cherish Sweet Jewel of the glade.' The man listened till the song died away and then went on to the postofflce. There was a letter with a familiar postmark of old Ireland but in the mist that rose suddenly before his eyes, he did not notice that the writing was strange. But when he opened it and spelled out the first words, a sudden fear seized him and his hands shook. It was from Nell’s husband. The postmistress, startled by his white face, asked sympathetically, “No bad news, I hope. Mr. McGraw?” “The wurst in the world, the man choked, “Nell’s dead,” and stumbled blindly out into the night. The snow beat against his face, the wind buffeted him mercilessly, but the man felt nothing, knew nothing but that one bewildered fact. Nell, his Nell, was dead. Stunned, perplexed, the Irishman sobbed. Ye was dying, then. That's why you didn’t write. And they’ll cover ye up in the ould sod.”