Quincy High School - Goldenrod Yearbook (Quincy, MA)

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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.

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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 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