Quincy High School - Goldenrod Yearbook (Quincy, MA)

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by herself and sits under the pepal tree, then and only then will I worship the stone goddess myself. To this the Brahmin moaned and dazedly be- gan to implore me not to do it in terror of my life. I picked up the huge image and staggering to the well’s edge watched her sink with a terrific splash. I was covered with red ochre and oil but triumphant and, I guess, more daring than before, for I said to the Brahmin; Goodbye until next week. I hopped lightly into my trap and started home whistling contentedly. You won’t be alive next week! A week later I set out again to visit the pepal tree. While still a great distance away, I saw an even greater throng of Hindus assembled. A way was opened at my approach and the triumphant face of the Brahmin priest with a grin not unmingled with contempt appeared. Sahib, he said, now you too must fall down and worship Durga. I was at loss for word or action when my eye fell on a Bhisthi Mohammedan water carrier, who hated the Hindus because they were idolators. He was almost in hysterics. I suspected that he might know something that would prove the sham of the priest. The Bhisthi, only too glad to furnish something that would bring ridicule to the Hindus and the Brahmin priest said: Last night these men were frantic because they knew you were coming today and Dur- ga was as deep in the well as before. One of the men found out that my boy could swim and dive, so he paid him eight annas (twelve cents) to dive for Durga. He tied a rope around Durga’s neck and they hauled her up. The chagrinned and dejected Brahmin priest hurriedly disappeared in- to the arms of the crowd.

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DURGA THE WONDERFUL An Experience of my grandfather, a Baptist Missionary in India Samuel Evans S I jogged along the Grand Trunk road in my trap. I saw in the distance, a great throng of Hindus congregated under a pepal tree. In their midst was a newly carved statue of Durga, which was being worshipped by the people. I stopped my horse and hailed the haughty Brahmin priest. “What is this great “puja” (worship) V “It is nothing the Sahib-dog would understand, but this I will tell you; the people of the village have suffered greatly from cholera for two years and since there is no temple to Durga here, they have had an image made so that at her pleasure Durga will remove the curse. I am here to invoke the spirit of the goddess and after this puja, Durga will dwell in the idol,” the surly Brahmin replied. “That’s all stuff and nonsense; how can a god be in a stone?” “We know it is a stone, for the man that carved it is in our midst, but you do not realize that all Hindus have progressed further in religion than white men ?” The ceremony began, drums sent forth that weird, throbbing challenge; dancers took their places, and as the ceremony progressed, leaped wildly, uttering wild heart-rending shrieks like frenzied devils. Faster and faster, wilder and wilder, louder and louder, until at last wearied, panting, and breathless the dancers dropped, and a ceremony of prayers began. A goat was killed as a sacrifice and its blood, still warm, sprinkled over the idol, and the people fell down and worshipped it rubbing oil and red ochre over its body. “Does the spirit of Durga dwell in the idol yet?” I put the question to the Brahmin priest, at the end of the ceremony. “Yes!” came the emphatic reply. “How would it be, “I said, “if I should give that greasy, slimy Durga a slap?” The priest, when he had recovered his voice, answered even as he paled at the thought. “Don’t do it, you’ll drop dead.” I ambled over as calmly as I could and to the horror of the worshipping people, gave the idol a terrific slap—nothing happened! “You’ll die to- night,” the disgusted Brahmin muttered. There was a deep well nearby and to show further the sham of the priests, I said, “If I drop Durga into the well, and she flies out of the well

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AUTUMN SONG Hurrah, it is autumn! The wind is about, The rollicking, frolicking breezes are out, And all of the leaves, when the North Wind heaves. Go sailing to Kalamazoo! Hurrah, it is autumn! The bonfires glow, The blushing and flushing red apples must grow Till they hang on the trees like lazy old bees. Just ready to drop to the ground. Hurrah, it is autumn! Deep blue is the sky, The hurrying, scurrying squirrels frisk by. And all is a rush, with no time to hush, Till winter comes stealth’ly to stay. But oh, and hurrah! It is autumn to-day, The airiest, merriest season, I say! And life is just fine—no reason to whine— Be happy! It’s autumn—hurrah! Margaret Higginbotham.