Petersburg High School - Missile Yearbook (Petersburg, VA)

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THE MISSILE 9 relations who think enough of me to take me in, but, whether or no, I don’t sleep another night behind that hateful fence.” The topic of all this seated discussion was the front fence of the Spencer farmhouse. The Spencers were an old and well-known family and prided themselves on being “men of their word.” Especially did the present occupant, John Spen- cer, boast freely concerning this particular trait of his charac- ter. The fence referred to had served faithfully many genera- tions of Spencers, being rewarded every ten years by a fresh coating of paint. Somehow or other, the weather during the last ten years had been unusually persistent in its efforts to demolish the old fence, and it did look a good deal battered and worn, and fully deserving of being painted two months before the usual time. But not so thought the master of the house. He was “a man of his word” and that fence would not be painted on any account with his money before Spring. The outcome was that, on that very afternoon, Maria packed her worldly possessions and left for her sister Sally’s, in a neighboring town. “Oh ! this is what I call happiness,” John muttered to him- self, as returning from the day’s labors, he, for the first time in seventeen years entered the house with his shoes on. But, of course, something had to occur, to mar his happiness. Lit- tle mishaps come to all, he thought. He liked his eggs boiled soft and he was sure Maria used to boil them sixty-five min- utes on similar occasions ; and, again, he was positive she used a bunch of red pepper for the cabbage ; and what on earth made soup red? Oh! yes, he remembered — those little packages which came in the gelatine, he knew that was it. That dinner somewhat marred his jovial nature, and his spirits were greatly depressed as he eyed the stack of pans and dishes he had used in preparing the meal. He soon began to own that it w!as a bit lonely for a body to be living alone, especially when you had tried it the other way. “Of course, Maria did have me to cheer her up in her house work, and that helped her a good bit,” he thought. But

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8 THE MISSILE A Man of Mord SIMPLY won’t stay here another clay Jonn Spencer, and that’s an end of it all. Here, for fourteen years I have slaved for you, working my hands almost to the bone just for your comfort, and now, when I ask a simple favor of you, you raise your eyebrows in that hateful fashion and positively refuse me — me, Maria Spencer, your own lawful wife, whom you promised before God to cherish as long as breath was in your body — here you refuse me a trifling thing like that. Well, men will be fools, no matter how you try to make them otherwise. But you will regret it, John Spencer, when I’m gone and there is not a soul here to cook your meals; and the Lord knows you do love to eat more than any white man I ever saw or heard tell of ; and, besides, you’ll own yourself that that old fence does look awful, and just for the sake of keeping your word, you actually refuse to have it painted. Well, you keep on, but I’m going to get out this very day. I ain’t used to nothing like this : I’ve been cised to better all my life ; and for me, Marie Spencer, to live behind a fence like that, why, why — I just ain’t a’ going to do it and I hope you understand it for once and all.” ‘Well, Maria, a poor body does get tired of hearing a wo- man talk on one subject for two solid hours without stopping. But you are right, I ain’t a’ going to have that air fence painted before next spring, no matter what you say. I’m a man of my word, I am, Maria. Yo’u ain’t never heard tell of a Spencer breaking his word, and you heard me say last year that I would have that fence painted this here coming spring, and I mean what I said. That old fence has been standing for ages, and it has been a rule in our family to paint it every ten years, and I ain’t the man to spoil its record by painting it two months before the time. I am a man of my word, Maria, I am, and ye knows it well.” “Well, that settles it, John Spencer, and when you see. me again, it will be a cold day in summer. I guess I have some

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10 THE MISSILE the thought didn’t give him mtich consolation, and it was a very forlorn looking figure that trudged wearily up the steps to bed. Lying awake, a sudden plan presented itself. “I’ll do it, ' he said, “I’ll do it now.’’ He stumbled over to the desk, and finding the paper and pen scribbled the following note: Dear Maria : I just can’t get along without ye. Come home by Monday and all will be right. Your failthful husband, John. The inmates of a certain flat in a near by town were not all in a very serene state of mind. Two weeks had passed, and Maria Spencer still clung to her rebellious ideas, although it was certainly telling on her. She had never received John’s hastily scribbled note ; consequently, thinking him perfectly satisfied, she had foolishly refrained from writing to him. Nevertheless, her heart longed for him, and she did want to see the old place so much. Often at night she lay awake, wondering if he missed the usual fire in his room and his cozy slippers ' and dressing gown. As days went on, the thought of his possible loneliness haunted her continually, and she determined to write him and ask his forgiveness and tell him she was coming home. With a fast beating heart she alighted from the rickety spring wagon at the farm house gate. Suddenly she stopped short in the dusty road — There was the front fence painted a brilliant green and it yet lacked three weeks of appointed time ! “Well! Well! she cried in amazement, “if this don’t beat all good saints!” “And it does look nice too, now don’t it?” she said, talking loudly to herself, as she cast admiring glances at the shining fence. At the sound of her familiar voice John started up from his chair on the side porch, and