Quincy High School - Goldenrod Yearbook (Quincy, MA)

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The Gold e n - R o d 3 had not been walking long before Moore be- came quite fatigued and was glad to rest on one of the garden benches. As he sat down he drew from his pocket a small pamphlet and was soon busily pondering over it, while I sat beside him gazing about until my eyes fell upon what seemed to be a small vault in the stone wall. The hinges I noticed were nearly rusted away although the door itself was heavily chained and padlocked. What was such a thing there for ? I refrained from asking Moore the question, for I thought without a doubt it concealed something of importance. So many things, strange and unaccountable, were connected with his life that it was well for me not to disturb him with this matter. We entered the house by a rear door that led into a spacious hall surrounded by a gallery where the walls were adorned with the rarest of paintings, the subjects of which would seem strange to the average person. They were such as, The Vanquished Ghoul, Terror of the Night, The Mystic Way, all symbolic of his character. The statuary that lined the main floor was of marvelous workmanship but of subjects simi- lar to the paintings, ghastly and phantastical. I remained with Moore for the night and in the morning we wrent to his laboratory which occupied the entire floor of one wing of the house. Here he spent his days ponder- ing over musty books that were piled high upon the benches that extended from one end of the laboratory to the other. Retorts, large and small, smoked and fumed on the tables; bottles of acids and chemicals stood ready to be compounded into that wonder- ful mixture which was to form a being un- known to man; cases of bones and skeletons lined the walls. The atmosphere was all but pleasant. It was here he worked day in and day out with perfect confidence that he would some day perfect a figure that would suddenly move, whose heart would throb, and whose brain would control its motions. The second night of my stay I noticed a sudden change for the worse in my friend’s condition. He would speak of nothing at the dinner table that evening and his face I thought looked more wretched than I had ever seen it. It was evident that he wras now on the verge of a breakdown. I had just turned down the light and drawn the curtains about my bed prepared for a well deserved sleep when some one rapped heavily on my chamber door. I found it to l)c Moore’s valet. He w:as so overcome that he could hardly speak, but finally managed to say that Moore was acting qucerly and con- tinually asking for me. I hastened to his room where I found his apparently lifeless form on the bed. A red light burned on the wall beside him, lighting up his countenance in a manner most grue- some. I stood beside him for a moment until his voice came slowly and feebly. I tried to catch the words which seemed to be “The vault! Someone to the vault!” At first I did not quite comprehend the meaning but then it occurred to me that it was that vault in the garden of which I had taken so much notice. I hastened out as I was. It was so dark that I could discern nothing. I groped about until finally my hand struck the cold surface of the door; but is was secure- ly locked. In my haste I had forgotten the keys. Remembering, however, that the hinges were rusted, I grasped the door firmly in my hands and wrenched until it gave a little; one hinge snapped and then the other, and the door fell with a crash to the pavement below. I searched about in the bottom of the vault with my hands un- til I struck something that seemed to be a bundle of notes. I drew it out and hastened into the house. Cautiously I opened Moore’s door expect- ing to find him dead. I was mistaken. He was nearing death to be sure, but a spark of life still smoldered within him. As I entered, he regained sufficient consciousness to mutter a few' unintelligible words, which I inter- preted to mean that I was to read the notes. I undid the cord and placed the papers upon the table. The first began: “Icabod Tyler,

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2 1 b e Golden-Roa members, the juniors and seniors do not seem to have fully grasped the fact that there is still a chance for a few more to be admitted. When one visits the different football fields on which our team has played, the fact is soon realized that Quincy has a better field than ordinary schools for a better team than more than ordinary schools can boast. The Golden-Rod staff has started a cam- paign for a large circulation and is trying to induce all graduates of the High School to take subscriptions. Besides the present school activities our Alumni Notes should be of interest to such subscribers. All help in obtaining subscriptions will be gratefully welcomed by us. THE TERMINATION OF A GRAVE PLUNDERER. (After Edgar Allan Poe) It was a cold day in October with the black clouds hovering oppressively low over the landscape and casting a grim, ghastly appearance over everything, that, mounted on a small black mare, I rode out to meditate upon the many misfortunes that had entered my life. It suddenly occurred to me that in the immediate vicinity in which I was rid- ing a person once my friend spent his lonely career in retirement. He, Aaron Moore, had once been a medical student but now spent his entire time as he thought best, which was in his laboratory, earnestly endeavoring to create a new form of life that would clear up the aged mystery of the missing link. As far as I knew his attempts had met with repeated failure. In the early days of his life he had had a set-back which probably had shattered all his ambitions in the medical profession. He had been caught in the act of grave robbing, purely for medical purposes of course, and in punishment of his crime had spent many days in a cold prison cell. It is no wonder that he shrank from the society of mankind. I decided, as I mused on his pitiful condi- tion, to make a short visit to him that after- noon and do what was in my power to cheer this doleful Aaron Moore. Presently I came within sight of the dwelling, a mansion of cold damp-looking stone with ivy growing here and there. The windows were low and narrow, creating the impression of eyes peering out through the haze which enveloped it. Directly behind the manse was a dank pool surrounded by white birches that cast grotesque shadows on its dusky surface. The combined spectacle was de- pressing, to say the least. I turned my horse to blot from my vision a scene so weird. But no, I had gone so far I could not do otherwise than I had planned. Soon 1 was beneath a portal of Moore’s dwelling and after dismounting I hastened within where I was told my friend lay on a couch in one of the front rooms. I stepped to his door and knocked. A weak voice answered, bidding me enter. Such a sight as I beheld! His face bore a deadly pallor; his cheeks were sunken and colorless; his eyes were faint and expressionless; his thin hands quavered as he extended them to me. Moore’s conversation drifted into the mat- ter of dreams with which he said he had been bothered considerably of late, dreams which pertained to his grave robbing of early days. I begged him to forget it all and to take a stroll with me into the fresh air; and he con- sented. We strolled up and down the nar- row paths of a garden enclosed by a high stone wall, in the numerous niches of which were carved figures of mythical gods. We

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4 7' b e Golden - Rod Lot no. 40, White Pine Cemetery,Case no III, Skeleton no. 5.” What did it all mean? I sat there thinking when his voice came again slowly and feebly, almost in gasps. “Replace them all. I die in peace.” At the close of this he sank back on the pillows. His life had departed from his body. Thus died Aaron Moore. I sawr it now. It was his dying wish to have all the stolen bodies re-interred in their first resting places. They were all in the laboratory, numbered, and these papers were as a key to their names and burial places. I left the papers in the hands of the police who with their untiring efforts have been able to replace all of the bodies with the exception of one or two. As to Aaron Moore, he was buried in the dead of night, by the light of torches, amid the weired chants of a band of men who had helped him in securing the skeletons and to whose secret society he had belonged. Fred’k Franc Johnson. THE PRICE OF TURKEY. “It’s perfectly outrageous!” cried Belle Simmons, scanning the poultry price-list the week before Thanksgiving. “Twenty-eight cents a pound for dressed turkey! Why that would be four-twenty for a fifteen-pound bird! “How much,” asked Mary, “is an undressed •j»» one. “It certainly ought to be less expensive. I think I’ll get one. We must have turkey!” “Now don’t do anything rash,” warned Cousin Helen, who was chaperoning the temporarily orphaned household. “You know, Belle, you get along very well as long as you cling to ordinary rules. It is when you give your fancy full rein that you come to grief. Yes, I know that an old maid schoolma’am doesn’t know much about house- keeping, but— Four months before this Mr. Simmons and his wife had gone to Baltimore. It really seemed to Mrs. Simmons that two girls, aged respectively fifteen and eighteen, although they did not know7 the least thing about cooking, should be able to keep house, with Cousin Helen as chaperon. It was true that Cousin Helen knew absolutely nothing about cooking, that Belle’s experiments usually re- sulted very badly or very well, and that Mary was a haphazard young lady, who cooked very well if she happened to re- member that she had a meal to prepare—but she seldom remembered. However, Mr. and Mrs. Simmons had promised to return the night before Thanksgiving,. “I’m not going to pay twenty-eight cents a pound for turkey,” said Mary. “It is too much. Besides, I promised not to be extrav- agant. Let’s take a car this afternoon,” said she, cook-book open before her, “and seek our bird in his natural haunts.” So the girls and Cousin Helen set forth. Farmer White was sorry, but he had sold the only bird he had succeeded in raising. Farm- er Johnson was likewise grieved. So wrere several other poultry-raisers. Benjamin Pratt said he didn’t know; that he had had a few' turkeys; that perhaps there was one or two left. “Well, can’t you find out?” demanded Cousin Helen, tired of the quest. “Well, mebbe I could, mebbe I couldn't. Nowr there’s Daniel Boone. If I could man- age to catch him or Marthy Washington, I’d sell either of ’em for two dollars.” “Perhaps you can let us know' by Tuesday,” returned Belle overjoyed at the new turn of affairs. “I will,” promised Benjamin Pratt. “But if I don’t you’d better not wait; catching Marthy is work for a day.” “This trip has cost us ninety cents,” said Belle, “but w7e shall have saved money if we get ‘Martha’.”