Quincy High School - Goldenrod Yearbook (Quincy, MA)

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THE GOLDEN-ROD 7 “If you must know, this is the land where everything you mortals call lost is kept. My brothers and I go up to earth and carry away everything lost or likely to be lost that we possibly can. Do you wish to inspect the place?” As he led the way through a dark tun- nel, I heard him mutter, “Lord, what fools these mortals be!” The walls of the tunnel pressed closer and closer around me, till at length I could stand it no longer. Just as I was about to protest, the next step brought me into broad daylight. I turned to look back through the tunnel, but was confronted by a blank wall with a tiny hole in it. “Did I come through that?” I gasped. “Yes. Our gates are constructed so as to admit anything, but I don’t believe a pin could get out.” He led the way across the bare room into another room beyond. As he opened the door, a babel of complaining voices struck my ears, while mischievous-looking gnomes passed in and out. “Mother, I can’t find my watch,” I heard the whining voice of an American boy say. Immediately a gnome jumped up and rushed past me, grinning impishly. “This is our information room. Here we find out about the things lost on earth,” explained my guide. “ ‘I can’t’ is a great little phrase. Once uttered, your grip on your possessions is weakened, and it is much easier to snatch them away. We’re going to give you your pen simply because you said, T don’t see why I can’t’ instead of the usual T can’t.’ While the others are preparing the presentation ex- ercises, I’m going to show you our collec- tions.” He passed into a long corridor. On either side were enormous compartments in which lost articles were stocked. My head reeled as we went by piles of um- brellas, heaps of needles, tons of pins, and stacks of small change. My companion paused at the threshold of a spacious room. In the center was a neat little pile of papers. “This is where we keep lost home-les- sons.” “Why, surely there must be lots more than that; they vanish by the dozen at Quincy High.” “So there are. The room is full of them, but the rest are imaginary and can’t be seen.” I was then led out-of-doors to a large lake teeming with fish. The size of the perch, bass, and trout that kept the water fiecked with foam was astonishing. “This lake is the final abode of the fish- that-got-away.” I noticed one fish which had the ap- pearance and characteristics of a minnow, but the dimensions of a whale. “Who lost that one?” I asked. “You did.” Then and there I privately resolved to keep my next lost fish down to ten inches. Reaching the summit of a gentle slope rising from the lake, I saw a level plain stretching to the horizon, crowded with countless herds of goats. “What are these here for? Why, there aren’t that many on earth.” “Didn’t anyone ever get your goat?” asked the gnome. “People lose ’em all time. See that big herd? Well, they all belong to you.” I stared at my herd of goats till my reverie was broken by the voice of my conductor shouting, as he seized my hand, “Get a move on; we’re two minutes late to the presentation.” The next thing I remember I was standing on a platform before a vast audi- ence of gnomes, while one of their number presented my pen to me. Amid thunder- ous applause, I bowed to the audience. A shrill, insistent cry of “Speech! Speech!” smote my ears like waves beat- ing upon the shore. My heart pounded wildly; my face turned brick-red; my hands grew so large that I couldn’t hide them anywhere; I opened my mouth; not a word could I utter! The faces of the gnomes, grinning diabolically, swam be- fore me.” “She’s losing her self-possession! Let’s grab it!” they shrieked. As they rose en masse to take it away, the horrid vision grew blurred and gradually faded away. I found myself once more on the daven- port, my pen in my hand, gazing at the dancing flames. How did it happen? That, my reader, I leave to you. Dorothy Kinner, ’23.

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THE LAND OF THE LOST It was gone. There was no doubt of that. Search high, search low, my foun- tain pen was nowhere to be found. I could have sworn that it had rolled under the bookcase; yet the flashlight revealed nothing. Exasperated, I dropped onto the davenport before the fire and watched the shadows flicker across the ceiling. Finally, disgusted and perplexed, I mut- tered to myself, “I don’t see why I can’t find it.” “You don’t, eh?” piped a squeaky voice, bubbling with laughter. With a start, I jerked my head in the direction of the sound, and there I saw— well—you probably won’t believe me, be- cause scientists say that they don’t exist outside of fairy tales—but I saw, with my own eyes—a gnome. His wizened little face crinkled into a maze of furrows as he peered at my flab- bergasted countenance through a pair of horn spectacles, perched precariously on a blab of a nose. His hands, peeping from the mysterious depths of his sleeves, seemed to be poised, prepared to swoop down and snatch something away. “Well, who on earth are you?” I gasped. “Oh, I’m not of the earth. Can’t you see my badge of office?” he answered im- patiently, holding a clutching hand beau- tifully worked in gold, which dangled from a long chain about his neck. The fingers of this hand seemed to be ani- mated with the eagerness of a lion watch- ing unsuspecting prey. They so fascinated me that I forgot to answer the gnome, who was waiting expectantly. “Stupid! Don’t you understand yet? Come on, then, and I’ll show you.” So saying, he clambered onto one end of the davenport and slowly waved his wand above his head. The davenport glided forward like a roller coaster, gaining momentum all the time, while the walls receded till I thought I was looking through the wrong end of a telescope. Then, without any warning, the davenport shot over an abyss. There I sat, my eyes bulging from my head, every nerve and muscle tense, watching the hea$of the davenport reluctandy dip down. Then an agonizing pause before we dived into what seemed to be eternity. Down, down we shot. I felt as if my stomach had lagged far, far behind, yet was still connected to me by some tugging elastic band. After ages, a patch of hard earth jumped up to meet us. I took a long breath, shut my eyes, and awaited the inevitable impact, but much to my surprise we floated gently to a resting place. It was not until I had collected my scat- tered senses and the lagging parts of my anatomy that I discovered we were in the shadow of a towering wall. The old man was standing in front of a curious gate. “Hey! you lazy mortal!” he cried with impatience, “come on.” “If you please, sir,” I said as meekly as possible, “where are we and what are we going to do?” At this, the gnome danced up and down with rage, shrieking: “You numb-skull! Why, you ought to have guessed that long ago! What were you doing during our pleasant ride down? You—-you—” Here he paused, inarticulate with fury. I took the safest course and kept quiet. Then he said:

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THE GOLDEN-ROD 8 TUNNELL 17 I “I’ll go.” It was Tom Jackson who spoke these words firmly as he reached for his cap and walked toward the door. Tom and the other members of the Jack- son family were spending the summer in their cottage at Pinecliff, in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado. That evening Tom’s ten-year-old brother, Frank, had fallen off a ledge of rock and broken his leg. There was no doctor nearer than El- dorado, four miles away. The shortest way there was to follow the railroad track. It hugged the sides of the mountains above deep canyons, ran through long, dark tunnels, pierced through the very hearts of massive moun- tains, and crept cautiously over tall, thin trestles, built at dizzy heights over roar- ing mountain streams. “My! I hate to see you go, Tom, but it’s hurting him so badly, and now that you’re sixteen years old, I guess you can take care of yourself,” said Tom’s mother. “Good luck, Tom,” called Mr. Jackson. With his flashlight, Tom picked his way down the hillside to the railroad track and started for Eldorado. There were seven tunnels on the road between Pinecliff and Eldorado; some long, some short, some straight, some crooked, but the one that was considered the most dangerous on the whole railroad was Tunnel 17, the last one before reaching Eldorado. Under ordinary circumstances, Tom would not have gone through the tunnels, for if a person is caught in a tunnel when a fast train comes through, he will prob- ably be sucked under the wheels, and whether the train is fast or slow, he will be suffocated by the smoke. However, Tom had to get a doctor, and get him quickly, and it would take most of the night to get to Eldorado, if he climbed over every mountain through which there was a tunnel. Besides, there was no train until morning, according to the schedule, so Tom felt pretty safe. He walked the first mile and a half using his flashlight most of the way, be- cause the moon had not yet risen. The first tunnel was short and straight. Just as he came out, he heard footsteps far ahead of him, and, as they came nearer, Tom could hear the steady crunch-crunch- crunch of hobnailed boots in the gravel I and cinders between the tracks. Was it a tramp? Was it a train bandit? Was it some wild Mexican? After about five minutes of this nerve-trying suspense, Tom made out the figure of a large man a few feet in front of him. The man said pleasantly, “How d’ y’ do, stranger?” Tom answered, and with a sigh of relief went on. As he came out of the second tunnel, the moon peeked over the crest of a low mountain. It shone through the rarified atmosphere so brightly that the night seemed almost as light as day. A night hawk swooped down not more than five feet in front of Tom, and in the distance a lone coyote let out a most doleful howl. Tom could hear the roaring of the stream in the canyon below him, and once in a while, between the trees, he would get a glimpse of the dashing waters. He was used to these natural sounds, and so they did not bother him. Tom kept on. In about an hour he had gone through the sixth tunnel, and less than a quarter of a mile ahead was 17. As he approached it, he looked at the spot of black darkness that marked the mouth of the treacherous tunnel. He looked up at the mountain towering above him, with the pines on its sides outlined against the rich, dark blue, star-sprinkled sky. Then he thought of his small brother suffering with his broken leg. He must go through the tunnel. He entered and walked along a straight stretch. Then there was a curve for about one hundred yards. Tom had just turned onto a stretch of straight track about two hundred yards in length when Toot-Toot- T’toot! A train was coming! The thoughts that swirled through Tom’s mind were something like this: “’S coming from that way! No, that side! Which? Dunno—maybe—” The echo of the whistle was thrown back and forth from cliff to cliff and mountain to mountain, now on this side, now on that, as if mocking him in his predicament. He knew that if he tried to run out he might trip, fall, and break a limb. Be-