Quincy High School - Goldenrod Yearbook (Quincy, MA)

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6 THE GOLDEN-ROD The old Grandfather’s clock struck with its silvery chime ten times. “Ten o’clock! and those people will be back in half an hour! There’s barely time to get supper.” Trude was half way to the kitchen by this time. Payne followed her and urged, “Let me do something. I used to cook things at college and it was great fun.” Trude laughed but assured him that coffee and some biscuits would be the only hot articles, lie looked so disappointed that she relented and investing him in an enormous apron set him to work grinding coffee and slicing cold ham. Still clad in his apron, Payne was removing the biscuits from the oven when the sleighing party suddenly trooped in, bringing with them a wave of cold, crisp air. In spite of the mirth at his expense Payne was quite at his ease and ordered, “Sit right down. We’re all ready for you. The train won’t wait for us, you know,” for the others were inclined to loiter about the fireplace. After supper Trude went upstairs with the girls and did all she could to help them get their things together. Nevertheless, they were rather late and rushed down after the third sum- mons from Bessie’s mother and the boys with hasty “goodbyes. Trude slipped on a coat and stood in the door- way watching them get into the sleigh. Just then, Payne left the excited group and came quickly toward Trude. He held out both hands and she put hers into them. “I’m glad we met again as we did,” he said. “You and your father have given me the finest holiday—but particularly you. This evening was the best of all. I hope I’ll see you again. I will see you again. I’ll write. Goodbye— Trude.” The sleigh had started and he had to dash after it and get in as best he could. Trude watched them out of sight and then slowly closed the heavy door. Miss Trude Emery still lives in the large, white farmhouse. She and her widowed sister keep house and run the farm. In such an active life there are few moments for idle dream- ing but once in a while Miss Emery—sweetly middle aged—sits down in the old kitchen rocker and folds her hands. She has passed the mile- stone of life that is marked “Fifty” and her hair is white but there are few things she has forgotten. As she sits there all alone on a late winter afternoon, particularly if the snow is falling or she hears the sleigh bells ring, she thinks of a ribbon-tied package of yellow letters locked in the antique secretary and she seems to see before her, as if he were really there, the lover of her youth who never came back. Priscilla Robinson, ’13. The Woman-Hater The great stadium flashed red and blue in the sparkling sunshine of a brisk November morn- ing. A biting breeze played amidst the flutter- ing banners and imprinted rosy kisses on the cheeks of laughing maidens and excited youths. All was a scene of tense excitement, the first half of the game had just ended with the thrilling score of six to five in favor of the visiting team. The hero of the game thus far had been Bob Whiting, the husky quarter-back of the home team. But for his brilliant passing, a fumble on the other side, his forty yard dash, and a touch-down, the score would still be six to zero and the chances of the home team much slimmer. Bob Whiting was a manly fellow with broad shoulders, comely features, and a magnetic per- sonality, the idol of men and the hero of girls— an avowed woman hater and consequently more than worshipped by them. He stood, now, at the far end of the glistening field, surrounded

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THE GOLDEN-ROD 5 After a few moments of general conversation on their journey, Trude showed the newcomers their rooms. Knowing that they were hungry, she went down to the kitchen and with the help of the hired girl quickly served the supper. She was delighted with her guests and felt sure that they would enjoy themselves. Strange that—but here her reflections were cut short by the sound of steps on the stairs; and so she rang the big din- ner bell. That meal was of the merriest. Farmer Em- ery possessed a good deal of native wit and kept the young people laughing. Afterward he and his daughter were urged to join in some games Tom had planned for the evening and they proved themselves as enthusiastic and clever as the rest. Sunday passed with snowshoeing, a sleigh ride and, in the evening, the singing of Christmas carols. The young people had splendid voices and Trude, who was extremely fond of music, thoroughly enjoyed it. Monday morning, Trude and Janie were up betimes and had the Christmas dinner well under way by breakfast time. After breakfast the guests went off for some tobogganing, leaving Trude to devote her whole mind to the turkey. What a wonderful bird that turkey was and what appetites in proportion did the coasters bring back with them! Sueli justice was done to that dinner that it was not until late afternoon that the energetic Bessie was ready for something new. She proposed a sleigh ride to take all the evening. The moon would be full and visible for several hours. They could return about half past ten. have a light supper, and catch their train which left for Boston at midnight. The others liked her idea and hurried away to put on all the warm garments they possessed. When they came back, the visitors urged Trude to come with them. However, she knew that the capacity of the sleigh was already overestimated and so declined. Much was said about her re- maining alone but in the flurry occasioned by the departure, Trude slipped away to the kitchen. She did long to go with the rest. John Payne had offered her his seat but, of course, she could not allow that. Suddenly she was roused by footsteps in the dining room and, jumping up, found herself face to face with the young man who had been in her thoughts but a moment be- fore. “I couldn't let you stay here all alone,” he said in his big pleasant way. “Come in by the open fire and we’ll have a good time together this evening.” He saw the comfortable rocker and carried it into the dining room for her. It was good to be sitting here in front of the cheery blaze with this entertaining young man. He talked well and Trude liked to watch the va- rying expressions of his face, lighted only by the flames. He had not changed much, for she had recognized him immediately. She had meant not to bother him with it but in a pause she found herself telling him that they had met be- fore. “Is that so?” he asked, frankly surprised. “I must confess I don’t remember you at all.” Then she told him how, when she went over to the high school in Fielding, he had been in the graduating class. A friend among the older girls had introduced them to one another at a dance near the end of the year and they had had a waltz together. She did not tell him of the hero worship of the strange little girl for the big senior who was gaining honors in Latin. Greek, and Mathematics; nor how she had lis- tened with bated breath when he had won the debate Fielding had held with another school; nor even how she had been rendered speechless by the honor of dancing with him. None of this did she disclose. As she mentioned the place of their meeting, however, Payne, who had been listening with interest, said eagerly, “Indeed. I remember you now. You had on a pretty blue dress and your hair was in a long, yellow braid down your back!” They both laughed. A lively conversation ensued, concerning their high school days. Then Payne told about the removal of his family to Boston in order that he might attend Harvard. He touched on his college life and what he was doing in the business world at present. “But you, Miss Emery, did you finish the course at Fielding?” “No. You see the next year Mother died and I had to stay at home and keep house for Father.” “I understand.” he said, and the deep voice was remarkably gentle.

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THE GOLDEN-ROD 7 by his comrades, to whom he was giving words of hope and encouragement. The stadium buzzed with suppressed excite- ment as the teams took their positions for the last struggle. Rows of ardent rooters leaned forward with rigid muscles, watching every move of the game. The whistle blew and the two forces rushed together, like hostile armies upon a field of battle. For what seemed hours to the spectators, the two teams swayed back and forth, neither making much headway. The min- utes were flying. There were but four more left and the score was still unchanged. Rob Whiting pulled himself together. “This must end,” he thought and with a firm resolu- tion to win or die in the attempt, he took his po- sition in line. Just then feeling his eyes drawn by some magnetic influence to the grand stand close at hand, lie gazed into a pair of deep brown eyes, in which admiration and scorn were min- gled. The owner leaned far over the railing and with hands clasped tightly before her. stared breathlessly at the big fellow, whom she secret- ly hoped and felt would win the game. He, meanwhile, for one long second looked into the eyes before him,—the eyes of a girl and a pretty girl, whom, by the red roses at her belt and the red banner in her hand, he knew for a sympa- thizer. He had never done such a thing before and the sensation was rather pleasant. But that one second was a second too much. The signals had been given and he had not heard. lie felt the ball passed into his hands but still seemed dazed. Then a sickening feeling surged over him, he had not the slightest idea what to do or where to go. But remembering the look in those brown eyes, he made a wild dash through an opening he saw and rushed madly on. Suddenly a blue figure leaped before him, and held him in a cruel grip. With a fierce jerk, however, he freed himself and dashed on. The spectators were tense with excitement. Not a sound could be heard but the mad rushing of the boys. , Bob sped on for what seemed ages to him, then something twined around his legs with cruel strength. He staggered and fell. A mad cry rose into the air—a cry of rage and disappoint- ment. Bob lay motionless for a moment, a dull pain throbbing within him. The game was lost, be- cause of him. Because he, the renowned woman hater, had gazed at a girl for one short second. He hated himself, he hated her and the world in general. If he only could die. Suddenly a hand grasped him by the shoulder and pulled him up. “Come on. Bob. Don’t give up yet. There are two more minutes.” Bob straightened up. The game was not over yet. lie still had a chance to redeem himself. Conscious of but this one thought he took his place. Not, however, without casting a glance of scorn at a little brown figure leaning far over the railing. “I will win!” he cried to himself. The whistle blew. The signals were given and the ball again passed into his hands. He felt himself pushed by his comrades through a struggling mass, he himself fighting this way and that; first an open place, then a mass of blue, now he was down. A cry again rose into the air.—a cry of joy not rage,— mad delight, not disappointment. Bob heard nothing but this cry. A cry from the enemy, he thought, at his defeat. With this ringing in his cars and a pair of brown eyes gazing into his, he fell into a stupor, in which he lay for many hours. • As the first waves of consciousness swept over him, he showed no signs of life, for indeed he had no desire to live. But when he heard the words of his friend, “Some water, boys, he’s coming to,” a sickening knowledge of the whole thing swept over him, and he groaned aloud. “Oh, come on. Cheer up. Gee! if I was the hero of hundreds of people, I wouldn’t lie around groaning!” cried his comrade jovially. “What?” cried Bob, “I. a hero? A fool, you mean.” “A fool nothing. Didn’t you just win a game which we have fought for for years? Some peo- ple don’t know when they’re well off.” “I won the game,” Bob repeated dreamily. “Oh”-----he added and turned over to dream of brown eyes and curly hair. Katherine P. Reed, ’ll.