Quincy High School - Goldenrod Yearbook (Quincy, MA)

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12 THE GOLDEN-ROD Mischief He was a sight to behold, and yet he stood there, laughing up at me, his big sister, with such an impish innocence in his big blue eyes, that I could not but smile, a little ruefully, perhaps, at the picture he presented. His adorable curly hair was no longer curly, but stringing into his eyes and dripping muddy water down his neck and over his face, and his pug nose, although still beautiful in my eyes, was not a darling, babyish pink- and-white, but muddy black. His eye- brows were caked with mud and his face so much so that it seemed miraculous to me that he could still smile. He had always had a ravishing little dimple in his chin which now was more ravishing than ever, being full of water which had trickled unevenly down his nose and landed in the dimple. His ears stood out like sign- posts leading no one knows where, and he was wriggling from the coldness of the water on his dirty little neck. His Timid beautiful white linen collar which had been so carefully starched and pressed was hanging, rumpled and crumpled, by one thread. The lovely sailor suit was wringing wet and several buttons were minus. One shoe and one sock were gone, and his wet, muddy toes were wrig- gling ecstatically in the cool grass. The other sock had slipped down to his ankle and the shoe was soggy and filled with mud. I was displeased and knew that it would take one-half of my whole after- noon to clean him up and wash out the wet clothes, but still I knew I would yield to that sunny, innocent smile and kiss him. Why, oh why do these child experts say that we should be strict: They never dealt with John and his after-naughti- ness smile. Then the oracle spoke: “Mar- gie, ’oo won't tell mamma, wil ’oo?”— and I kissed him, mud and all. Margaret F. Thompson, J. ’28. Grace Before they started for Arkansas Edith Randall told her cousin Grace Doyle that xsl e did wish she could see a hold-up. “I’ve lived in one place all my life with- out a thing out of the ordinary happen- in’,” she said, “and I’d like to have some- thin’ excitin’ happen before I die. Land sakes, Grace, here I’m fifty years old and in all my life never saw anything more than a mouse to jump at.” Grace Doyle shivered at the thoughts of a holdup. She was small and colorless and timid. A mouse was quite large enough for her to jump at. It was partly because of this timidness that Edith Ran- dall hated to take Grace such a long way from home. “But I couldn’t get anyone else to take the trip with,” said Edith to her neigh- bors, “and it’s not pleasant traveling alone. Besides, Grace has a lovely dis- position, even if she is skeery, and we’ll get along fine. She hasn’t any too much money, either, and as I have more than I know what to do with I thought it would be nice to take her with me on my trip to Arkansas.” Once they had set out on their journey the two cousins found a great deal to talk about, at least Edith Randall did. Her ancestors had been pioneers and she loved to tell how her great-great-grandfather had combatted nine Indians single- handed. Land sakes!” exclaimed Edith, “You afraid of a holdup: Well, you take my purse and I’ll take yours. You trust me and I’ll trust you. All my money is in my purse, Grace, so take good care of it.” That afternoon the cousins noticed a newcomer in the dining car. He was sitting across the aisle and, when Edith accidentally dropped her handkerchief, he picked it up and restored it to her. After they returned to their seats the stranger sought them out. He said his

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of Hotel Ponce de Leon. THE GOLDEN-ROD 11 Walter.” He took out his pen to write a check, but he paused for a moment and chuckled, put his pen and check-book away and thought, “This will be a good lesson for him.” During the week Walter pawned his golf clubs, a suit case, and sold all his possessions except the few clothes he wore. Each day he had visited the hotel to sec if any word had come from his father, but always, “no.” He wondered why he had not heard from his parent. Perhaps the telegrams did not reach him? But there were so many that he must have received one. This thought prevail- ing in his mind, and hunger prevailing in his stomach combined, almost drove him mad. On Sunday of the next week he was sit- ting disconsolately in the park with his eves glued to the ground as though look- ing for something, and was hardly con- scious to the fact that someone had taken a seat beside him. “Whatsamatter, bo?” asked the tawdry looking man who had seated himself next to Walter. “Pm starved.” “I got four bits,” the stranger said, and held a piece of silver before Walter’s eyes. “That’s two bits each,” he said after a lengthy mental calculation. Walter eagerly followed this good Sa- maritan, and was soon enjoying a cup of coffee and dish of beans, as only one who has not eaten for two or three days can delight in masticating victuals. While thus engaged, the stranger heard the other’s story and said, “Why don’t you work your way home? You’ll get home quicker that way than if you hang around here waiting for something to happen.” Walter asked him for his name and address, and then said that he would take his advice. Then began the real education of Wal- ter. He learned to sleep in barns, and like it. He walked from Palm Beach to Jacksonville, sleeping anywhere, chopping wood, and doing odd jobs to earn his meals. He took advantage of a freight train going to Richmond, Va., and rode leisurely in a freight car behind some boxes of crackers, which served for food as well as to hide him. He remained in Richmond just as long as working in a restaurant would permit him to buy a new suit, shoes, hat and procure a shave. He now looked respect- able, and his life in the open had given him a wonderful physique. He hitch- hiked to New York, and arrived there just eight months to a day from the time he had left. How happy he was to arrive home among his traffic cops, elevated trains, subways, and the seething multi- tudes that comprise the world’s largest and greatest “melting pot.” Arthur Lord had begun to feel worried about his son, and had sent a description of him to the Florida State Police, who were of no assistance. He had advertised in the papers to no avail, and was angry with himself for not sending his son the money when he had received the flock of telegrams. Almost every other day he forgot his business for the moment and wondered what had become of his son. It was while he was meditating thus one afternoon, that the office boy glee- fully announced that a man wanted to see him. Mr. Lord Sr., said, “Show him in.” The boy withdrew and in walked Walter. “Son!” cried his father, who was across the room in two bounds and shaking Wal- ter’s hand until their arms were numb. When the young man had told his story Arthur Lord sent the tawdry looking in- dividual of Palm Beach a check for five thousand dollars. Herbert Hambro, J. ’27.

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THE GOLDEN-ROD 13 name was Snyder and he was going to Arkansas to look after some property he had there. He said that his wife had recently died and that he was going to try to drown his sorrow in Arkansas. Edith, being touched by his charm and pathos, told him all about herself, her acquaintances on the train, and about Grace and how timid she was, and how she was expecting a holdup every minute. “O, don’t talk so, Edith,” said Grace. “I guess it would just about kill me to see a real bandit. Do have pity on me and please don’t talk so.” “For my part I’d like to see one,” said Edith, “I’d like to have a thrill for once in my life.” “But you’d lose your money,” suggest- ed Mr. Snyder. “I’d lose Grace’s,” laughed Edith, “She’s keeping my purse for me, that large one she’s holding in her lap. I’m trying to prove to her that there won’t be any holdup by letting her carry my money.” Mr. Snyder laughed and bid the cousins farewell, saying that he guessed he would go into the smoking car for a smoke. Xight came on and Edith and Grace got out their knitting. The other passen- gers were similarly engaged when a voice spoke from the end of the car: “Please hold up your hands, all of you!” Mr. Snyder stood there with a pistol in each hand, and another man whom no- body had noticed before, began a syste- matic search of the victims. He took the money and valuables of all the passengers. Then he came to Edith and Grace. Without protest Edith hand- ed out her brooch, Grace’s watch and purse, and Grace likewise handed out Edith’s well-stuffed wallet. Mr. Snyder then left saying airily, “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. Pleas- ant dreams.” Edith, white and shaken, sat for a long time in silence. Though the others talked she could not. “You’ve had your wish,” Grace whis- pered, “D-did you get a thrill, Edith?” “Well,” Edith said, “I got my thrill and he’s got all my money. We’ll have to join the Old Ladies’ Home when we get to Arkansas.” “No, we won’t.” A faint smile came over Grace’s little colorless face. “Edith, did you notice that I didn’t act very scared?” “I didn’t notice anything.” “Well, I wasn’t so scared as I was tickled. I guess I was so tickled that I couldn’t be scared. Course he got my watch and your brooch, but he didn’t get a mite of money.” “Grace Doyle! What do you mean?” “I mean I took all the money out of both purses and stuffed ’em with paper. The money’s in my suitcase. I took my scissors, made a little slit in the lining, stuffed the money in, and sewed it up before I got up this morning. I didn’t know we’d have any trouble, but I thought it best to be on the safe side.” Ina Wall s, J. ’28. TO A ROSE Have you ever watched a rose grow over the gar- den wall, A rose of red in a deep green bed, so beautiful, tender, and tall? With the soft summer breeze to caress it, While the sun’s rays around it fall, There is not in the world a thing to compare With the rose by the garden wall. Ethel Goodoak, ’29. BEAUTIFUL HANDS Beautiful hands arc those that do Noble deeds, both kind and true, Willing to work, the whole day long Making of life one beautiful song. Beautiful hands arc those that help The hardened snows of life to melt; Noble and white and always true, There is not a thing they cannot do. Dorothy Giles, F. ’29