Quincy High School - Goldenrod Yearbook (Quincy, MA)

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THE GOLDEN-ROD 5 it, today, for our brilliant hopes of seeing that hand, for it doesn’t look like clearing up.” ' “We might as well go back to the hole then, before we fall down there,” advised Marshall, pointing to the bottom of the chasm. They went back to the aperture, and decided that the best thing to do was to sleep. It was surprising to see how long they slept, for it was at least three o’clock before they awoke, and then upon looking out, and muttering something about the fog, they only turned over, and again dozed off to sleep When they finally did get up, it was about six o’clock. Of course the first thing they did was to see if the fog was gone. It was gone, but it was now dark and so it did not make much differ- ence. However, they suspected that the moot} was out, but they could not see it, as the huge white clouds obstructed its view. So taking a little of their remaining food, they sat down on the shelf, where they could dimly see the clouds sail slowly by. “How about our rope on the cliff?” sudden- ly asked Donald, “We forgot all about it.” “Oh, yes,” replied Marshall. “Let’s get it now.” Again they move along the narrow stone shelf, but what is their dismay when after walking back and forth several times, they are unable to find the least trace of their precious rope. “What’s going to become of us?” Marshall asked weakly. “We’re in for it, now, all right,” said Don- ald, “we can’t ever get up this cliff without the rope.” “But I’d like to know what became of the rope,” muttered Marshall. “I don’t know,” Donald replied, “unless someone took it so that we would be kept prisoners here, and probably starve to death.” “At any rate,” Donald went on, “I’d like to meet whoever took that rope.” Could there have been two boys more fright- ened than Donald and Marshall, when out from the depths of nowhere came this thun- derous response? “The time may come when you will, so be on your guard.” What could they do now but hug them- selves with fright and return to their seat on the shelf. What with looking for the moon and repeatedly penetrating the darkness, try- ing to discover the owner of the voice which had bellowed at them, quite a large amount of work lay in store for them. Unknowingly they began to have forbod- ings. How long could this last ? Would they have to remain prisoners on this shelf facing unknown dangers and starvation, until their bodies could no longer stand the strain? No, this could not happen. Surely their Father would not forget them ? This last thought put new life into them, and it is well that it did, for they were yet to have many trying experi- ences. Just then something happened. The moon, which had been hiding in back of the clouds, suddenly appeared, and a flood of light brigh- tened the earth. “Hurrah, the hand! The hand!” exclaimed Donald, as a still brighter light, in the shape of a hand, burst forth a dazzling silver glow. “Where? where?” demanded Marshall hys- terically, “I don’t see it.” No wonder Marshall didn’t see it. The cloud which was then pass- ing over the moon was broken in places, and the moon shone only when one of the spaces was between it and the earth. “It’s gone; no, there it is,” shouted Donald,. “See it, Marshall?” “Yes, I do. No—Yes,” said Marshall, now excited beyond control. Just then he did a very rash and foolish thing. Picking up a stone, he aimed and threw it straight for the hand, before Donald could prevent. It went true to its mark, hitting the hand in the center. Suddenly a tremendous clanging noise startled them. What was happening, they did not know, but they would soon learn. Of one thing they were sure; the clanging noise was caused by the stone hitting the hand. The suspense was broken by Donald, who

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4 THE GOLDEN-ROD Rod is to be reserved expressly for your con- tributions. See that a respectable amount of your work adorns the pages of the Golden Rod when your special edition appears. Notice is especially drawn to the narration entitled “The Story Told by a Desk.” The work is the result of the combined effort of the pupils in Miss Brant's division, H2A. Therefore, the writing shows different styles which may be of interest to the readers. The following pupils have contributed: Ebba Xarsten, Lempi Seppala, Amy Blom- quist, Hannah Rosenburg, Anna Haugh, Elizabeth Millen. The Missing Link (Continued) They were up bright and early on the mor- row, and little the worse for the terrible dreams and visions which had been theirs that night. In fact, if one had been watching them while they were preparing their breakfast, he would not have seen the least trace of fear on their faces, but instead would have found them more joyful and expectant than ever. But whether they were joyful because they would soon have their breakfast, or because they were now hopeful that they could solve the problem about the mysterious hand, I can- not tell. Donald was the first to break the short period of silence which ensued after they had eaten sparingly of their small amount of food. “Marshall.” said he, “we had better be going out now, and see what we can find out about that hand. I’m sure I can’t bear the suspense much long—.” “Come on then,” interrupted Marshall, whose one great fault was that of sometimes having an utter disregard for the feelings of others, especially when he thought he knew what they intended to say. “But look at that grey wall in front of us. I didn’t notice that before,” gasped the aston- ished Donald. “It wasn’t there before, for we came in, didn’t we?” “Where did it come from?” Marshall man- aged to gasp. “That’s for us to find out,’’ said Donald, gradually regaining his coolness. “I know what to do. We’ll crawl slowly towards it, and then make some sort of plan.” So slowly and cautiously they advanced on their hands and knees. Nearer and nearer they came to the wall, until at last they thought they ought to have touched it, but they did not; instead their hands groped along the un- even stone floor, their outstretched fingers meeting no barriers. “That’s funny,” laughed Donald, “we must have gone right through that wall. How—.” But Donald never finished that sentence. A groan from Marshall brought him to a sense of their real danger. “What is it, Marshall?” asked Donald. “What’s the matter?” “Oo, what an escape I had,” groaned Mar- shall. “I was crawling slowly along, when my hands left the floor, and I felt nothing but empty space. I drew back in alarm, for I guessed that I was on the brink of the shelf, on which we landed.” “You sure did have a narrow escape,” ad- mitted Donald, “but how about that wall that we saw?” “I’ve got it! I’ve got it! exclaimed Mar- shall. “The wall was nothing but a mass of fog. Don’t you see how foggy it is out here?” “That’s right,” admitted Donald: “No won- der we took this fog for a wall. Look how thick it is; you can cut it with a knife.” “But,” he continued regretfully, that ends

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6 THE GOLDEN-ROD shouted frantically, Marshall. Marshall, the shelf is sinking, I can feel it go down. What’ll become of us?” Donald was right. The shelf was slowly but surely being drawn down, with the two frightened boys standing on it. Did the owner of the thunderous words which they heard, have anything to do with this? Time alone would tell. John Preti, T9. A Story Told by a Writing Desk Introduction One day as I was exploring the attic, I dis- covered in a corner, an old, worn, and battered desk. Its aspect was very interesting, and I could not help wondering about its life his- tory for I knew it must have an interesting one. The old desk must have read my thoughts, because it said. “Ah! you are wondering about my history. If you would like to listen to me, I will relate it to you.” I was delighted with the plan, so I thanked the desk and consented to come and listen a little while every day. The following story will give an account of the old desk’s history, as it was told to me. I was made in the year 1862 by a large fur- niture company in New York. I am, as you sec, an old fashioned Adams’ desk made of mahogany, with a bookcase above and a chest of drawers beneath. At one time you might have seen books of rare and beautiful bindings behind the leaded glass doors of the book case, but now only papers are stored where these once priceless books were kept. Beneath the bookcase is the main part of me. My front cover may be let down to form a rest to write on. This, when open, reveals many pigeon holes where papers and letters are kept. One of the three spacious drawers that form the lower part of me is di- vided into oblong shaped boxes. In these Mr. Warren, my owner, used to keep his valuable papers. There are a great many scratches on my surface made by the children of the War- ren family, so that from my present condition you can hardly imagine what a beautiful piece of furniture I was, when new. But, as people have to grow old and of little use, so it is with furniture. I am now good only as a place in which to store these old books and papers. One day. I was placed in a large wooden crate, on which was printed the name of one of the largest furniture stores of Boston. At last I was to see the world. I was put in an express wagon and taken to a large railroad station. In three weeks I reached Boston. Never before had I seen such a bustle and hurry as I did when I arrived there. Another express wagon came for me and without much cere- mony I was taken to the store. Here I met many new friends, but, a writ- ing desk or any piece of furniture from the time it is made in the factory until it is chopped into fire wood is always making friends and then losing them. Well, as I said, I made many friends in the store and heard stories of their lives, some of them sorrowful and others glad. One of my new chums, a beautiful slender, bamboo chair, told me that he was made in South America and on the way north, the ship on which he was aboard was held up by a southern ship and detained for two months before a northern ship rescued it. The chair, with some of his brothers, was injured, one of his legs being broken by the rough handling of the southern soldiers. He was, however, mended and polished over until the wound could not be noticed. When a wooden picture frame of beautiful Swiss handiwork heard the chair’s story, she told us of the picturesque Swiss mountains and of the life of the one who had made her. She said that she became very homesick and