Quincy High School - Goldenrod Yearbook (Quincy, MA)

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THE GOLDEN-ROD 9 rest of his now useless life in serving his sen- tence. As he turned to go down the hill, he heard in the distance the village clock strike midnight. It was Christmas morning. In his heart there was peace and good-will toward men. IV A few days later, he rode into the prison yard on a tired horse. He was half frozen, hut his eyes glowed as brightly as the fire in the little cottage had burned on Christmas Eve. Two guards lifted him from his saddle. “What’s that lie’s raving about? one asked. “I don’t know. Something about mercy and heaven. Viola Jackson, 1914. Christmas in an Alley Christmas Eve was almost here. That was plainly evident from the Christmas greens, the crowds of shoppers, and especially the familiar figure of Santa Claus standing outside Mason’s, X--------’s largest department store. Tom Kelly, in regulation whiskers, smile, and red coat, was exhibiting a choice collection of toys and en- couraging the artless youngsters to confide both their desires and their addresses to a sym- pathetic ear. The kind parent would then be in- formed that Mason’s had just what Billy want- ed; the firm found this a very effective adver- tisement. That job had been a great stroke of luck for Tom. Good-natured but inclined to be shiftless, be had drifted along for some time without work and without a prospect of any. lie had always had a soft spot in his heart for children and so he was a great success as Santa Claus; even the little ragged ones were not afraid of him. Early, one particularly cold morning when the largest crowds had not yet appeared, Santa Claus, who was looking in the store and wish- ing he was there, was startled by a hoarse voice behind him. lie turned and saw a shapeless bundle which appeared to be a man’s cast off coat from which a grimy face and purple hands emerged. “Well, my little man. what can T do for you?” asked Santa Claus with his habitual, encourag- ing smile and gentle manner. “Say,honest, does youse bring kids what dcy wants?” asked the urchin. “Certainly, if you are a good little boy,” re- plied Santa Claus, using his carefully prepared stock phrases from habit. “What do you want me to bring you?” For answer the boy pointed to the nearby win- dow. A placard announced an unprecedented bargain sale of campers’ outfits. A prominent position was held by various sizes of sleeping bags. “See that little one; that’d be just right for Jim and me. You see Jim ain’t used to the cold like me. Course I don’t mind it but he’s only a little feller.” “Fer the love of Mike, and where do you live then when you’re wanting a sleeping bag?” de- manded Tom, no longer as Santa Claus. “Don’t tell nobody. The cop mightn’t like it. Back in a corner of------alley we’ve got a bar- rel and a big box. It ain’t very cold neither. I sure was in luck to find it. And say,” he rat- tled on, “I’m in the boot blacking business an’ anytime you want yer shoes shined come to me. I’ll do it fer nothin’. Look at that there shine!” and he stuck out one foot. lie had on a ladies’ cloth topped shoe but with the bottom brilliantly polished. “I have to keep ’em that way fer an advertisement. I’ve got to be going now to tend to my business, he added importantly. “But say,” he turned back once more, “I think Jim, he’s such a kid. would like somethin’ kind of Christmasv, like striped candy or one of them white woolly dogs.” And he darted away before Tom Kelly could answer him. “Say, what do you know about that?” asked Tom. “Gee whiz!, it’d be a shame to disappoint that kid, but what can I do, dog-gone it. On Christmas Eve as Tom entered the store he was met by the manager. “Your time’s up.

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THE GOLDEN-ROD 8 The Quality of Mercy Tlie whispering in the court-room ceased. The prisoner leaned eagerly forward. His chum, Tom Arnold, was going to the witness stand. How proud he was of this tall, good-looking man, who had been his friend, ever since their college days in the East. Young and full of ambition, they had come west in search of ad- venture and a fortune. In their wanderings they had met Harry Lane, a young widower, with an eight year old son named Bob. The four of them had settled in this little mining town and lived happily here for four years. Then Tom and Harry had quarreled. How well he remembered the night he had discovered Harry lying dead and how the authorities had found him bending over his friend’s body. Through all the long weeks, while he lay in prison, waiting for his trial, lie had never doubted Tom. Tom, he thought, would prove them both innocent, and they would take Bob with them far away from this place. He started up from his reverv. Tom was answering the attorney’s questions. “Are you acquainted with Arthur Stockton, tin prisoner?” Yes. “Were you living with him at the time of Harry Lane’s murder?” “Yes.” “Tell everything you know about the affair.” “I entered the house about dusk and saw Lane and Stockton struggling in the middle of the room. Before I could interfere, Stockton drew a knife and stabbed Lane.” The prisoner heard no more. One after anoth- er, thoughts flashed like lightning through his mind. His trust in Tom had turned to hatred. Tom, whom he had thought so faithful, had com- mitted this crime and was blaming him. The trial was soon over. The jury sentenced him to life imprisonment. II Several months later. Arthur Stockton es- caped from prison and hid for a long time in the woods. When he next went among people, he wore a long beard, walked in a shuffling man- ner, and kept his slouch hat pulled down over his face. Unknown and unrecognized, he lived in the midst of his former acquaintances. Tom, he learned, had taken Bob and gone away, but no one seemed to know where. When he should find him, he was going to kill him, to make him suffer what he had suffered, when he had been put into prison, falsely accused of killing his friend. Ill It was Christmas Eve. The moon shed its bright rays over the snow covered hill. The stars smiled down at the heavy pines silhout- ted against the white and at the little cottage, nestled in their midst. Outside the window a man stood, his face pressed against the pane, listening intently to what the two occupants were saying. They were seated before the fire, the man holding the boy on his knee. The light from the dancing flames showed to the eavesdropper his face covered with lines, which had never been there in the old days—lines, which told of sleepless nights, of a troubled conscience, and of untold suffering. lie was reading to the boy from a book which he had always loved, Shakes- peare's plays. The words faintly reached the ears of the man at the window. “ ‘The quality of mercy is not strain’d, It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven Upon the place beneath. It is twice blest: It blesseth him that gives and him that takes. ’Tis----’ ” “The quality of mercy—. Arthur Stockton looked at the careworn face of his former friend and at the little boy, the one thing left for him to love. Could he, an escaped convict, hunted by the law, take the place of the man, whom this boy loved, whom everyone honored and respect- ed? He had nothing left in the world. Tom had Bob. His conscience fought a fierce battle with hatred,—and won. Cone was his mad de- sire for revenge; gone his hatred and his bitter- ness. In his soul, there remained a great pity for this man, to whom he was showing mercv. He decided to go back to prison, to spend the

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JO THE GOLDEN-ROD You’re fired, go and get your pay and give up your suit.” he said laconically. “My Christmas present,” muttered Tom to himself. He received ten dollars which was more than he had expected. As he was leaving the store, the sleeping bag with its price tag, nine seventy-five, struck his eye. The ten dol- lars burned in his pocket. “If I was to be such a fool as to spend it on them kids, there’d be just a quarter left for a drink and a smoke.” he mut- tered. He hesitated. “I s’pose them poor little tikes is expecting me.” With sudden decision he turned back to the store. “Hand me out that smallest sleeping bag,” he said................. An hour later Tom Kelly, no longer a Santa Claus, shivering from the cold breeze but with a warm glow at his heart, stood undecided on the street . Not even his quarter which was to make his Christmas celebration was left him. It had gone for a white woolly dog and a candy cane. “Gee, those kids will be down right tickled tomorrow,” he chuckled, “and as for me, I can always break a plate glass window and get arrested, so I’m settled for a while. Margaret Park. 1915. A Mexican Christmas American children will probably pity little Mexicans' when told that Santa Claus is unknown south of the Rio Grande River. Perhaps he might feel lost in a country with no snow, save on the peaks of the volcanoes, and absolutely no chimneys. Their pity, however, may change to envy when they find that throughout Mexico, Christmas is celebrated by a festival which lasts from the sixteenth to the twenty-fifth of Decem- ber. “The Inns” is a festival in commemoration of the wanderings of Joseph and Mary seeking shelter in Bethlehem. Here, on account of the already over-crowded inns, they were forced to take refuge in a stable. The guests assemble at about half-past eight in the evening, and each holds a lighted candle. Two of the smaller children carry between them a miniature stable, containing wax figures of Joseph, Mary, and the Christ-child, wooden cows in the mangers, and often a tiny Mexican burro in the fore-ground. The other children carry hoops hung with bells. The guests, led by the hostess, form a procession and follow the children. Singing songs descriptive of the birth of Christ and holding aloft the lighted candles, the long procession winds slowly through the parlors, out on the balcony and around it nine times over. During all this time no sound is heard except the singing and the whizzing of the rockets, which are sent off from the roof. At the end of the ninth circling, when the door of the parlor is reached, it is found closed. Such a discovery is followed by responsive singing, those on the outside asking admittance, those on the inside, refusing. At length, with a burst of joyful music, the door is thrown open. The children ring the bells, and every one shakes hands with his friends and offers them his good wishes. Then the company troop down to the stone- paved court-yard to break the pinate, a huge, grotesque figure in the form of a clown, an In- dian, or a goose, which is suspended from the balcony and inside which is a stout paper bag filled with nuts and sweetmeats. Each one, in turn, is blindfolded and with a long stick strikes at the pinate three times. It is a difficult feat to hit the figure, for a man standing on the balcony above twitches it out of the way just as the blow is struck. When, at last, somebody hits the pinate and bursts the bag, the dulces fall in a shower on the mat spread below. In a twinkling every child falls on his hands and knees, grabbing with both hands and pushing with both feet. In the parlors, seed candies are passed in quaint little dishes, which are kept as souvenirs by those present. Cake and wine are served, and the evening closes with dancing. This program is repeated each evening until the ninth, Christmas, which is the last and most important of all. On that night the house is decorated with huge scarlet flowers; the patio