Quincy High School - Goldenrod Yearbook (Quincy, MA)

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10 THE GOLDEN-ROD PIES AND PICKANINNIES “Samuel George Washington Stone- wall Jackson Pendleton, yo come heah,” rang out a sharp voice from the region of savory smells. “Cornin’, mammy,” answered another noise from somewhere behind the barn. There was a sound of hasty shuffling and bustling and the scraping of a pie dish against gravel, and from around the corner of the barn came a small black imp of mischief, hastily wiping his face with a baggy sleeve of his father’s cut- me-down coat. His eyes rolled inno- cently at the sight of the row of appetiz- ing pies. Where there had recently been six, strange to say, only five remained. “What yo want, mammy?” he asked, looking straight in the eye of his mammy, who was standing arms akimbo, in the middle of the floor. “Pickaninny,” she asked, accusingly, “where’d yo put dat pie?” Sammy’s heart suddenly felt down where sundry bits of pie had already found their way, but his eyes opened the wider and looked the more innocent. “What pie?” “Oh, yo lil black imp o’mischief, yes, yo lemme catch hoi’ o’ yo and yo’ll get de wore strappin’ yo ever got.” But suddenly the calves of a pair of black little legs were all that were visible of Sammy, who, with a fearful premoni- tion, had bolted thru the open kitchen door. Two minutes later, mammy heard a wild shriek of despair, then the thud of a falling body and a crashing noise very like that of breaking eggs. She went running to the spot and stopped short at the sight of a very bux- om negress, sitting on the gravel path, with hat askew, and a basket—or what has been a basket—of eggs turned topsy turvey, and a black pair of legs, streaked with the yolk of egg, sticking out of it. The negress slowly and painfully raised herself, and wrathfully strode to the basket and lifted Sammy by one ear from the profusion of eggshells and liquid. Then Sammy received a few resound- ing whacks on the seat of his worn out pants and went howling to the back of the barn, where he sought consolation in his secret cave under the barn. When he had gotten his breath he drew forth a much battered pie, covered with cob- webs, from the cave. Breaking off a large piece, he started eating it, nursing his troubles and grievances the while. Just as the last piece was being sent to its doom mammy came stalking round the corner and stood in front of poor Sammy, arms akimbo. “Samuel George Washington Stone- wall Jackson Pendleton, yo go fill dat wood box and den yo march straight to bed.” “Y-yes’m, mammy,” answered the culprit as he chokingly swallowed the last piece of pie, and guiltily rose to do as he was bid. At least he had had his feast. —E. Pyyny, ’22. FURTHER ADVENTURES OF JOHN SILVER “Shiver my timbers! ’Tis a terrible night to be travelling in, but I must get me back to the missus. What time did you say the stage would be here? Umm, yes, I’ll take another glass of ale. Sort of keeps me warm, you know. Ah, and here is the coach itself that goes to Corn- wall. By the powers; I nearly forgot my bags in my haste!” So saying, John Silver hopped towards his luggage and hopped to the coach. There were not many travellers this stormy night, so

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THE GOLDEN-ROD 9 could help me when I was in a hurry.” “Aw, Ma, I don’t know where your old clock is anyway,” was all Tommie dared venture to say. “Well, I think lam ready now. If 1 don’t get home by five o’clock tell Mary to put on the potatoes for supper.” With this parting command Mrs. Jones said goodbye and started down the street. “Whew!” whistled Tommie when his mother had gone, “Can’t Ma talk fast! “I wonder what she told me to tell the kids?” —Winifred Barnes, ’22. CLUBS OR DOUGHNUTS “Well, I do declare! if there ain’t Sister Ida acomin’ up the street. What she wants t’ come on Saturday mornin’ for, I don’t know. But then, I suppose she’s t’ be pitied gallivantin’ ’round so with her everlastin’ Woman’s Club.” The speaker heaved a sigh, cast a hasty glance at her apron, and rolled down her sleeves. “Why, Sister Ida, how do you do? Come right in. You must excuse me— I’m in the midst of my Saturday mornin’ bakin’. Got yours all done?” “Good morning, Jane. No, thank you, I won’t come in and you must re- member, Jane, that with my numerous social duties, it is impossible for me to do cooking of any kind. I came over, Jane, to see if you would get Hiram’s dinner? I’m lunching in town to-day with a prominent member of the Woman’s Club.” “For the land’s sake! You don’t say! You’re gettin’ real stylish now, ain’t you? Hmm. Sure, I’ll be glad to get Hiram’s dinner. Had any news from Joe lately?” “I beg your pardon? Oh, Joseph? Why, yes, we received a letter yesterday. He said that he hoped to be home soon and that he was eager for some of my doughnuts. The poor boy doesn’t under- stand that I would be positively worn out if I were to start to cook. But then, I am sure he will be amply compensated when he learns of my election as presi- dent of the Woman’s Club. I’m really anxious to see the look of pride in his face. It’s foolish in me, of course. Well, good morning, Jane, and thank you.” Jane shook her head and mur- mured, “Poor Joe! And poor Ida too! She’s greatly mistaken in thinking that Joe would rather have her election than her doughnuts.” A week later, a tall young fellow in a soldier’s uniform dashed up the steps and into the house. “Hello there, Mother,” he shouted. “I’m hungry for your doughnuts.” Ida rushed to meet him. “Oh, Jo- seph, Joseph!” she cried, “You’re really home again.” “Yup, I’m home,” the young fellow smiled, “and the first thing I’m going to do is to investigate your pantry. What’s that? You’re President of the Woman’s Club? That’s fine. Say, where do you keep your doughnuts?” He stuck his head out of the pantry with a perplexed air. “Er, really, Joe,” his mother started, ‘I haven’t been—Oh. wait a minute!” And with this, she dashed out of the house, leaving Joe staring after her. A moment later, she was standing in Jane’s doorway, talking excitedly. “What did you say?” Jane asked, puzzled. “Please, Jane, dear Jane, let me have a pan of doughnuts. Please! Joe’s home and he wants them. I’m going to begin to fry some the minute I get home but he wants them now. Oh, thank you, thank you!” Jane stared at the empty doorway and then chuckled softly, “Mmm,” she said, “The Woman’s Club had better look out.” — HazelE. Jackson, ’22.

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THE GOLDEN-ROD 11 Silver was able to think over his past. The good days when he made voyages with England and Capt. Flint, and his last and most exciting adventure when he sailed under the command of Capt. Smalley. Indeed he could never forget faithful Jim, the cabin boy, who listened to his stories with wide eyes, and fought like a man when Silver and his men started a mutiny. And oh! the hunt for Flint’s money when they reached Treasure Island! His disappointment on finding no money played an impor- tant part also in the thoughts of Silver. “Well,” he chuckled, “when Dr. Livesy and the rest found the money and they all got their share, there was no reason why I could not get mine.” He chuck- led again and slapped his knee in full satisfaction. And the cause of it all was a sack of gold beside him. Two weeks before, when Silver was on the ship with Dr. Livesy, Jim and Ben Gunn, the doctor suggested a short tour through the next stopping place. When all were supposed to be off, Silver sneaked back, and knowing just where the gold lay, he went quickly to it and with a heavy sack over his shoulder, he left the ship. “And the missus,” he went on, “won’t she be happy when she learns she is to be ri—ow!” A nut on one of the wheels of the coach had come off and the wheel was follow- ing suit. The result was that Silver found himself on his back, swearing as only the Prince of Pirates could sweai. By some instinct he held the bag of gold in his grip. Muttering oaths under his breath, he hopped out of the stage. The Driver explained that he would have to lead the horses back to the nearest stable and leave the coach to be repaired in the morning. Meantime the wind howled and shrieked. It was snowing and hailing, and the hail hit Silver in the face, half blinding him. It seemed as though he never would reach home if he didn’t mutter and swear, for he did so from the minute the accident occurred until he reached his own door. Nevertheless, his oaths did not seem to improve the weather. As he fought his way home against the blinding storm, he suddenly stumbled and fell over a lifeless heap, landing with his face deep in the snow. His feet struck against something that made a jingling sound like that of money. The only word that would describe the emo- tion of Silver’s heart would be that it jingled also. Without any hesitation he picked up the bags and the night be- ing too dark for him to see whose body it was, he started on his way. This time his mumbled oaths were mingled with evil chuckles of satisfaction. Many months have passed and sum- mer in all its glory is here. It is quiet and peaceful in Cornwall. In a com- fortable armchair on the porch of an old fashioned cottage, on a clifT overlooking the sea, sits Silver, with a contented, dreamy expression on his weatherworn face. As he gazes out on the deep, green waters he sees, gliding along, an old ship which brings back to him pleasant mem- ories of his pirate days. Silver is not alone in this picture, for perched up in a cage, extended from the porch ceiling, sits his blinking parrot. .Silver looks up at the parrot and says, “Ah, Flint, old boy, my pirate days are over but I shall have you to remind me of my former years, and, old scout, your days to come will be happy ones, so dream away, lazy one.” And from the parrot, “Pieces of eight! Pieces of eight!” Rosabell Paris, 1923.