Providence Technical High School - Review Yearbook (Providence, RI)

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rilE TECH REVIEW 19:50 40 The Night Before Christmas By Helen E. Kinnccom, '30. “’T was the night before Christmas And all through the house, Not a creature Was stirring; Not even a mouse. Jeanie Patterson’s cheeks dimpled in a smile as the nonsensical rhyme flitted through her head, but she sobered again as she reflected on the probable truth of the statement. She thought of that last Christ- mas Eve, of the lights, the gay crowd. Oh what a party that had been! Dear old Dad! Jeanie cupped her chin in her hands and fell to musing. A sweeter lass than Jeanie Patterson would be hard to find. Small of stature, golden hair, blue eyes, peach bloom cheeks and a wistful heart-shaped mouth combined to make what seemed to more than one person the most adorable bit of humanity he had ever seen. But this same, small Jeanie Patterson also had a will of her own, a stubborn will inherited from her Scotch- Irish father. A little less than a year ago these two wills had clashed. Jeanie had wanted to go abroad to study music; her father had been determined that she should not. Edwin Patterson was not a hard man, and he was well able to give his mother- less daughter anything she might desire in the way of education, travel or pleasure. But Jeanie was an only and idolized child, and her father wanted her all to himself. Yet she adhered to her decision, and on the night her father pronounced his verdict, Jeanie ran away, determined some- how to earn enough money to get across and thus obtain her one desire—to be a famous singer. Jeanie secured a small flat in a fairly good neighborhood in Brooklyn, N. Y., and managed to live by giving piano lessons to such pupils as she could pick up. and occasionally singing at parties or recep- tions at the homes of some of the more in- fluential members of the community, with whom she had become acquainted. That her father had searched for her, she knew, even to the extent of having hired detec- tives on her trail. But they had never found her, and the people about her were none the wiser. And tonight she was to sing at the Glcnn- Richardson’s Ball. Jeanie found herself thrilling to the fact, and her eyes sparkled as she slipped into her dress. It was a dainty affair of orchid taffeta which had taken two weeks’ pay in the purchasing; but Jeanie put it on without a pang. Tonight was to be a night of joy; time enough for remorse later. She powdered her small nose, gave a last searching glance in the mirror, and then, in the height of her ex- travagance, called a taxi. The Glenn-Richardson party was in full swing when Jeanie arrived, and she was met at the door by Mrs. Richardson, whom we shall call Natalie, herself a charming debutante of only three years previous. As Jeanie entered, a young man in a corner of the room started violently, but soon re- covered himself and hastily looked around to see if anyone had noticed his act. He reassured himself on that score, and after staring hard at Jeanie for a few seconds longer, he rose and made his way to the side of James Richardson, of the junior law firm of Richardson Bourne, who was sitting rather disconsolately on a sofa and looking decidedly bored with the whole affair. Bruce Sydney, whom we shall take this opportunity to introduce, was a young fel- low of about twenty-three, and just out of college. He stood about five feet nine, and

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1930 THE TECH REVIEW 4.5 Islands in Fact and Fiction By Daniel Earle, '30. [Awarded Boys' Brize in Anthony Medal Contest.] Islands, those enchanted spots in the midst of a great ocean, which harbor pirates, castaways, and other heroes of our story book days. Many an exciting hour has been spent by most of us as we followed Robinson Crusoe about his little kingdom, or, hidden in some dark recess of Treasure Island, heard Long John Silver plot some dark and terrible deed. We have, in all of our imaginary visitings come upon our islands just as the last rays of a tropical sun were playing upon the highlands, bathing the whole vista in the most harmonious and enchanting colors possible. We have always wakened on our islands with the splash of a waterfall ringing in our ears, with a slight breeze swaying the palm trees, and with the prospect of a happy and beautiful day before us. We have invari- ably walked from our abode down to the seashore, and there we have seen the great blue ocean stretching away into oblivion, and, nearer to us myriads of beautiful fish darting in and out among the coral reefs. We have, without fail, seen our hero and heroine brought together by some queer twist of fate, and always have we left our island with a feeling of remorse which can only be likened to the loss of a very dear friend. I hese islands are the islands of fiction. I have traveled. My summers have been spent on the decks of mercantile vessels plying between the great ports of this world. I have seen the Atlantic, the Pacific, the Mediterranean, each in its calmness and then in its fury. Being of a romantic nature I have watched for one of my pictured islands in the hope that some day I might walk, in reality, in the foot-steps of Captain Kidd or Robinson Crusoe. In many of our voyages the lookout’s hail of Land, Ho! , would come down to us, and sure enough, in a short time we would see, rising before us an island. But w'hat a shock awaits one. This is not an island! It can’t be! Why! there arc no beautiful palm trees waving out their welcome to you; in fact, you see but a few struggling bushes. What is more, there are no beautiful waterfalls or bubbling springs. What! unbelievable as it may seem, there is no water of any kind. Surely, you say, this mass of broken stone and struggling vegetation is a glaring ex- ception to the general run of islands, but as each successive Land, Ho! brings you running to the ship’s rail, and you pass an- other of these barren spots, you begin to realize that the beautiful abodes of you. island heroes have been but the creation of the minds of authors. In spite of these things which I have just related, in spite of the fact that I may never travel again, I will always cherish my pictured island, and, if some day it is my good fortune to find it, I will be happy on the island of my story book days.

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1980 THE TECH REVIEW 47 was the possessor of a mop of curly coal- black hair, rather deep set blue-gray eyes, and a shining row of even, white teeth, which showed to advantage when he parted his lips in a quick, dazzling smile, which he often did. It was with one of these flashing smiles that he greeted Jim Richardson as he seated himself in a chair directly opposite. I say, Jim, who is that stunning blonde over on the divan with Natalie?” Jim shot a glance in the direction of the divan. “Oh, that’s Jcanie Patterson. She’s to sing tonight I believe. Not of much consequence socially but has a good voice.” At this moment Jeanic began to sing, and the as- sembly with one accord ceased their chatter to listen breathlessly. “Jove! what a voice,” murmured Bruce Sydney under his breath. Dancing followed later in the evening and Jeanie was whirling merrily around the floor with a rather sophisticated young blonde when she felt a light touch on her shoulder, and she found herself surrendered from the arms of her partner to those of a tall, prepossessing young giant with a most captivating smile. She tilted her head saucily and looked at him. “I think you’re rather presuming, aren’t you, to carry me off like this? I don’t even know your name.” ” I hat’s easily remedied. Miss Patter- son, I’d like to present Bruce Sydney. At your service.” All this was said so courteously and with such irresistablc good nature that Jeanic found it impossible to be angry with him. I hey danced together several times after that, and Jcanie found herself liking him more and more as the evening wore on. After the dancing came games, and, of course, the inevitable mistletoe, which latter Jeanie had artfully escaped. But even on the night before Christmas people begin to get tired when the “wee sma’ hours o’ morn creep round, and thus Jeanic found it. At last people began to go. She was rising from her chair when Bruce suddenly appeared as though by proxy. “I’m going to see you home.” Jcanie smiled. “I’m too tired to object. Even if I wanted to.” Bruce did not deign to answer this last remark, but picked up her wrap and held it for her. She looked up to thank him. As she did so she felt a hand under her chin, her head was tilted forcibly back, and before she knew it she had been kissed. She wrenched away quickly. “How dare you,” she blazed. For answer, Bruce pointed laughingly to the mistletoe hanging directly above her head. She blushed furiously, and during the ride home silence reigned. • About a month later, around ten o’clock in the morning, a hatlcss figure ran up the steps of the Richardson mansion, rang the bell furiously, rushed past the astonished maid and into the living room. Seeing no one in sight he called, “Jim, oh Jim! In a few seconds Jim appeared clad in a bathrobe and slippers. He blinked a few times as though to assure himself that he was really seeing straight. “Bruce Syd- ney! Of all persons, what brings you here at this unearthly hour in the morning? Bruce dismissed all preliminaries with a wave of the hand. “Jim, I’d like to talk with you privately for about ten minutes. May I?” Wondering, Jim led the way to his study. Once or twice he glanced at Bruce’s face and what lie saw there did not reas- sure him, for Bruce looked as though he had not slept for a week. He was not kept in suspense long, for as soon as they were fairly seated, Bruce burst out with, “Jim, where is Jeanie Patterson? Jim stared at him uncomprehendingly. Why, surely you’ve heard. She sailed for Europe last week.