Quincy High School - Goldenrod Yearbook (Quincy, MA)

Page 13 text:

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.

Page 12 text:

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

Page 14 text:

12 THE GOLDEN-ROD TOLD BY THE CAMP-FIRE The wind sighed gently through the pine grove; shadows cast by the fire danced hither and yon, like grotesque forms; above a silvery crescent threw wan, pale beams to earth, and a few stars dotted the cool blue bowl of the sky. In the near-by pine an owl hooted; little woodland animals peered from trees and underbrush, trying to fathom this trespassing. Still no one spoke. So I was back again in my native state! It was in September of 1945 after twenty-five busy, happy, yet slightly home-sick years, and I was once more in Maine, the Pine Tree State. Finding my little home town so changed, I had taken a party of friends and, with an old native as guide, found a place still unchanged,—the northern shore of the Penobscot river. For three happy, blessed days I had forgotten all affairs of business and with my girlhood pals dwelt once more in blissful Arcady. To-night no one seemed conversation- ally inclined. I sat between the two girls with whom I had shared my girlish joys and sorrows. Ah! was it twenty- five years since last we met? In my eyes they were still girls. A sudden, persistent hoot from that owl awakened our guide with a start. He glanced through his bushy eyebrows, then settling comfortably on his blanket said, “I’ve jest been thinkin’ ’bout old times. Us here together has kinder turned back my mind. Ye know, I kin remember when you gals was little tow- headed tods.” Here he stopped with a far-away look in his faded old eyes. “Oh, Mr. Perkins, do tell us something to cheer us up,” I pleaded, for I felt sorely in need of some cheering in- fluence. “Well, what I was thinkin’ of was way back in 1919 when hobble skirts, flivvers, and that wiggly jazz stuff was pop’lar.” The firelight played on his aged face, revealing a jovial smile. “I begun to think o’ getting a second wife an’ o’ course I didn’t want no old hen; in fact, I wanted a chicken. They was planty of ’em in the village so I starts plannin’ a conquest. I gets my eye on a young grass widder, a real chicken, with hair which became blond on very short notice, hobble skirts, three inch heels, an’ a drug store complexion. She shore knew how to mix paints, did that un. Oh, I nigh forgot to mention the crittur’s eyes. They was big an’ innercent, jest the color o’ this here sky to-night,—and oh, how she could wobble ’em.” A gale of laughter now rose from the group about the fire. “A real baby vamp,” came from some one. “We used to have those things back in T9.” “The first fool thing I does is to get one o’ them things invented by Henry Ford for the destruction o’ the human race,” continued old Perkins. “I’d hern say if anything could get a fella a gal, it was a flivver. You know the sayin’, ‘There’s no fool like an old fool.’ Well, that was me all over. Here I was most forty-five, crazy over a widder which was considered young, an’ doin’ every fool thing possible. But as I was sayin’, I bought the Ford. I had rode consid- erable with a fella in his’n an’ I jest knew I could drive without no trouble. “Well, in due time the thing arrived, steered by a man so fat he looked like a elephant in a baby carriage. He got his money and waddled off leavin’ me feelin’ the animal over to see if she is spavined. “Dreamin’ of a sweet pink an’ white face, I cranked the blamed thing, which ain’t no job atall if you know how, which I didn’t. Howsomever, I got it hummin’ an’ still thinkin’ o’ Delicia I jumped to