Plainfield High School - Hermiad Yearbook (Central Village, CT)

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THE HERMIAD 15 grandfather clock, which looked' as if a dust cloth would do it no harm. There had been a mystery surrounding this clock for several weeks. Althoug' no one in the family wound the clock, it continued to run, and it was only a twenty-four hour clcck. It ticked monotonously, and, as the two' girls climbed the dusty stairs, the distinct ticking of the clock reached their .. G:odness! I think it is so peculiar that clock should run without being wound, because when grandmother had it it stopped unless sne wound it every day , remarked Ethel. Say! I knnw what I'm going to do , said Gerry. I will spend the night up here and see what happens. Will you keep me csmpany ? No, I think it is ridiculous to spend the night up here just to watch. that old clock , replied Ethel with decision. The girls spent the remainder cf the afternoon rummaging about in the attic. The subject of the clock was not mentioned again, but Gerry, when it came time for retiring, tucked two books under one arm, Fluff, the cat, under the other, and with a few apples far refreshment, started for the attic. She lit the lamp and proceeded to read. After no little difficulty she became absorbed in a stcrybook, but she did not like those dark corners. You know an oil lamp doesn't give an exceptionally gcod light. At the stroke of twelve Gerry chanced to look up and there stood a figure in white! It picked up the winding key and wound the clock! Fluff, who had been peacefully curled up in Gerry's lap, suddenly jumped to the floor, went cver to the figure, purred, and rubbed against its legs. Either because of the creaking of the boards as Fluff walked, or for some other cause, this strange something awoke, and proved to be none other than Ethel, sleepwalking. After that the clock stopped if not wound by some one of the family, for an arrangement was put on Ethel's bedroom door so that when the door was opened a bell rang, and if she tried any more sleep walking, she was awakened by the noise of the bell as she opened the door. fi-Sv ure sToRY or A TYPEWRITER fEllen Thornley, 19311 WAS manufactured with the utmost care and packed away in a large box. Then followed a very upsetting ride and it was same time after I had been set quietly down, that I could again breathe freely. Several days later I was unpacked, but not with the same care with which I had been packed. I looked around to see what ssrt of a place I was in, and from the appearance of the building, I gathered it was a school,

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14 THE HERMIAD CROPS C Marion Wilcox, 1 93 1 J HERE had been a sudden and violent charge in the weather. The mercury had gine down below the zero mark. Steam heat had failed to exist. Water had frozen in the pipes on the way from the well to the house. The wind whistled around the corners and down the chimney of the old hcuse. Blue nosed and shivering, the boarders at Mrs. Hasheroft's gathered around the breakfast table and, for the sake of getting warm, sipped at the weak coffee which was set before them. Between sips and shivers the uncomfortable boarders proceeded to criticize the climate. This ccld weather is greatg you cught not to find fault with it , observed the philosophical boarder as he buttered a hot biscuit. And besides, it's gzod for the crops . That's the same old story , retorted the argumentative boarder. When it rains a week at a stretch, we're told we mustn't complain-because it's good for the crops. When there ccrres a snow three feet deep, we must bear it meekly, because it's good for the crops. You always have that alibi . . But I'd like to know what crap a cold wave like this is good for , questioned an enraged boarder. Why, the ice crop, of course , the philcsophical bcarder replied' clamly buttering another biscuit. With a deadly look at the philosophical boarder, the enraged loser rose hastily from his chair and left the rcom. 45+-D SOLVING THE MYSTERY fAlice Smith, 1934 J T WAS a typical blue Mcnday g outside it was pouring and no sane person would have cared to venture away from the warntth of his own Hreside as the rain, added to the snow, was succeeding in making it very slippery. Out doors was not the only place that was dingy, it was also dark and dreary inside. Ethel and Gerry Travis had found it a most unpleasant afternoong they considered it a whole day cf their vacation wasted, and yoi' know vacations go by fast enough without wasting them. At last, after wandering through all the other rcoms of the Travis homestead, Ethel suggested that they go up to the attic. There stocd in the ccrner of the dusty old attic a large, one-time proud

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16 THE HERMIAD Later I was to learn it was Plainfield High Schcol. I was rather disappcinted because I had had higher ambitions than to be a niachine in a school roont, and have students treat me in a manner very improper for a respectable typewriter. I was carried up three flights of stairs and placed on a table in a room with many cther typewriters. They all locked old and worn out. This school surely needed new typewriters , I thought. I asked the typewriter nearest me, How long have you been here? The answer came in a very tired, cracked vcice, Six months . What , I answered, but you look so old! Yes, and so will you six months from now , was the reply. I did not say any more but stopped to think. Could it really be that bad? The next morning' when the teacher entered the room, she walked over to me, lifted my cover, and admired my appearance. I was very proud. When the pupils reported the first period I heard her say, We have a new type- writer and I want you to treat it with care . I am afraid that they did not hear the teac'her's coxrmand, or that they did not understand the meaning of the word care. Several different classes came in, several different pupils used me. That night I was very tired and unhappy. Day after day the same nerve wrecking grind! The other typewriter had spoken the truth. I could not last long at this pace. One day I felt so ill I could not work at all and the teacher called the repairman to find out what could be the matter with me. I was no longer a new and bright type- writer but an cld wreck. The change had come about in just a few shcrt weeks. The repairman had to be called more and more often, but he could do very little for me. One year after I entered Plainfield' High School I left, this time, not in the glory with which I had entered, but in disgrace-with the junk man. I had been discarded. Thus ends the sad story of a typewriter. AN ADVENTURE WITH A PUNGENT ODOR CMaybelle Carpenter, 19313 T WAS a dark, weird night in Ncvember. Not a star was in siglht, yet Bill decided it was the very night to take his cousin Julia cn a little adventure. Julia was a city girl. She had never visited the country before, so of course everything was strange to her. However the strangeness did not phase her for she was eager to learn the wonders of nature which were revealed