Quincy High School - Goldenrod Yearbook (Quincy, MA)

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THE GOLDEN-ROD 13 Mace’s Mansion Part One. The Spectre The rickety coach drew up to the inn door and stopped with a jerk that threw me from my seat. Grabbing my baggage, I jumped out and entered the inn, which was of the usual type, a low rambling affair, surrounded on two sides by a garden as unkempt as the hair on the head of a school boy. Inside J was met by a dapper clerk and the jovial innkeeper, who showed me to a table, where I made a hearty meal. Later, as I sat by mine host’s roaring fire, sipping my beer and puffing my pipe, an elder- ly gentleman entered the room and drew a chair up to the fire close beside mine. He in- quired for my health, introduced himself as Colonel Samuel Livingston, said he had “fit in the Revolution,” and gave me a great deal of his family history, all in a remarkably short time. Then gradually the conversation drifted to my own affairs and to the trip I had just made. He asked me a great many questions. Among them—“An’ did ye chanct to see that old house nigh the river, ’bout a half mile from the village ?” At my affirmative reply, he proceeded to tell me that the house was a peculiar cue. Most everyone thought it was haunted, and he knew it was. It was called “Mace’s Mansion.” Would I like to hear about it? ’Twas a wierd tale. I assured him that I would be very glad to hear of anything mysterious. The colonel took a slender, clay pipe from above the fireplace, filled it leisurely, and turned to me. “Have ye ever heered of Holebrook Mace?” he queried. “No, sir, T can’t say that I have,” I replied. “Nor of Montgomery Wallace?” “Not he.” “Well, then, I will tell you the story of those illustrious gentlemen.” Settling back in his chair he spoke in his high-pitched, rasping voice. His story ran something like this. Holbrook Mace was a lawyer, one of the meanest of that lofty profession. Wallace was a scientist, such as they went in those days, and made up in the good nature and most of the other good qualities which Mace lacked. However, he had a bad habit of losing his temper and consequently his head. On account of this weakness Mace had been able, by a contemptible stroke of professional strategy, to secure possession of Wallac’e house and belongings. When his anger had cooled Wallace realized how badly he had been beaten, and soon lost all of his kindheartedness in a burning desire for revenge. Upon meeting his enemy at this very inn, he asked that he be given a week’s time to get a few of his personal belongings. Mace consented and Wallace left, hissing at Mace, “Remember, you’ll gain nothing by this accursed trick.” The week passed, and as Wallace did not return, the new owner set out to claim his property. Upon reaching the house Mace rapped loudly and, receiving no answer, stepped in. A deathly silence hung over the place. Mace passed on through the empty rooms and, drawn by some strange power, which he could not ex- plain, he descended the stairs which led to the scientist’s wine-closet. All was quite dark and at first he could see nothing, but presently he could discern the figure of a man alarmingly close at hand. Mace stepped nearer and was about to speak when he detected a line passing from the man’s neck to the cross timber above his head. Ha! ’Twas quite plain. Mace comprehended in an instant and cold sweat came on his brow at the realization of the mournful truth. The blow had been too much for Wallace and so he had chosen this method of ending it all. Was Mace to blame? Well, there was nothing to do but cut the body down and get rid of it. A stroke of his sword and the corpse fell across Mace’s shoulder. How stiff and cold it felt. Mace started up the stairs with his gruesome

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12 THE GOLDEN-ROD of soup descended on the head of another to the accompaniment of saddening wails. I was a bit bewildered by all the strange sights I had seen. I thought I was visiting a High School. I withdrew to the office to question the principal, where 1 found a lit- tle fellow weeping copiously against the door-frame. After school hours 1 saw the strangest sight of all. A little boy about three years old was standing by the post at the bottom of the stairs on the first floor, howling with all his might. The Charge of “Not so fast, not so fast, Not so fast,” thundered Teachers to freshmen For the lunch counter running. Faster up stairs they go, Freshmen are never slow, Especially when time to go, To the lunch counter. Upward they quickly climb, Only to fall in line. “Stop pushing, take your time,” Some one is saying. With noise of lots of feet. Forward they go to eat, Then they sound quick retreat, Hurrying to get a seat. Silently struggling. “What’s the matter, my little man?” I asked. “I want my muvver,” he wailed. This was certainly the last word in juvenile productions. I stood there completely puz- zled until I saw a woman, evidently his mother coming down the stairs. She had been attending the adult sewing classes and her little son had followed her to school. He was not, I was relieved to learn, a mem- ber of the freshmen class. I could not help feeling as I departed that he would probably be admitted in September—to Lilliput. Florence M. Hoagland, T9. the Freshmen Students to right of them, Students to left of them, Students in back of them Pushing and crowding. Kicked at with well aimed feet, They never sound retreat, For they must find a seat, Or they must face defeat. Forward, brave freshmen. Finally they reach the wall, ’Gainst it they heavily fall. The noise sounds through the hall. Then they start eating So fast you can hear them. They fall to with great delight, Gurgling their soups with might. It is a glorious sight. Well done, bold freshmen. Martin Battis, T9. The March Wind The March Wind is a strange fellow. He roves about all streets and corners, and plays pranks on everyone that he meets. At one time he will blow so hard as to cause many an old gentleman to run after his hat. The next minute he will brush roughly against the cart of a fruit vender, and cause that individ- ual to scramble hither and thither in pursuit of his apples and oranges, which roll in all directions. He continues on through the crowded streets of the city, and raises such dust, that it almost blinds the people. He scatters paper which frightens the horses, and causes such confusion, that everyone wishes that he may never have an opportunity to meet this mischievous person again. Morris Mirkin, T9.

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J4 THE GOLDEN-ROD burden, and as he did so, the dead man’s head, striking a beam, was shoved horrifyingly close to Mace's. Upon arriving in the open air he took a closer look at the body. But the setting sun afforded a poor light and the face of the dead man was blackened and contorted beyond rec- ognition. As Mace had no time to waste, he staggered down to the river and unceremoni- ously heaved the body in. Mace tossed on his bed, and. as he lay there all alone in that great, silent house, which had, a few hours before, contained a suicide, he recalled Wallace's words— Remember, you'll gain nothing by this accursed trick.” What did the man mean? What had he to fear from a dead man. anyway? He laughed nervously. He was not superstitous, but, nev- ertheless he felt decidedly ill at ease. The night was cloudy. A storm seemed near at hand. And the silence was broken only by the muttering of distant thunder. The hollow sound of an innocent clock, striking twelve, made Mace jump pitifully. Then as the last stroke died away, the room became faintly lighted by a burning object near the door. Mace raised his head and stared in that direc- tion. Zounds! There stood Wallace, whose dead body he had thrown in the river a short time before! His face and hair glowed with a wondrous yellow light and around his neck was a rope, the end of which he held in his flaming hands! His clothes clung to his body and the drops which fell from them told Mace they were wet. Wallace pointed at Mace. His yellow lips moved, “Mace, this house does not belong to you!” He raised his hand above his head and stepped forward. All this time Mace had been staring fixedly at the spectre. However, this last move proved too much and the terrified Holbrook dashed head over heels down the road to town. A few minutes later he arrived at the inn, where he put up for the night, attired in night cap and gown. Xow to make a long story short, I will sim- ply say that Mace’s adventure had cured him of all desire to dwell in his new abode. Long and earnestly he tried to sell his property, but each one of his prospective buyers, after spend- ing a night at the house, gave one reason or another for not buying it. Thus matters stood upon my arrival at the village. Mace had gone to Europe, leaving his property in charge of the innkeeper, with or- ders to sell whenever possible. The only new- comer to the village was an old man much too poor to buy the mansion. The innkeeper’s luck was consequently poor. And thus ran the colonel's story. What do you think of it? Supernatural? (To be continued.) Norman L. Dodge, T2. Reflections on the Rear End of the School Car We wait in the “Chinks” in the morning. We wait ’til he hollers “Car come!” Then we go walking out yawning And stretching, and saying, “Hi hum.” We think of the school teachers’ faces, When they say, “1.15,” then we groan. We try to forget them, but gracious, If we do there is trouble at home. At 1.15 we’re as happy as crickets, We hop on the fender so gay. But when the conductor says, “Tickets,” The happiness turns to dismay. There’s always a kid in the middle. With everyone crowded around, When they “sap” him it’s just like a riddle, For the culprit cannot be found. We’re glad when we reach “Dog Corner,” For then we have nearly reached home. We don’t stop to think of the dishonor, Of “skipping” without being known. Edward O'Meara, 1919.