Reading Memorial High School - Pioneer Yearbook (Reading, MA)

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THE PIONEER. 3 Pyncheon. Hawthorne leaves us for such a long time in suspense before we know whether the Judge is dead or not. The story of sweet Alice Pyncheon was very sad. Maule was cruel to hold her by his power. Wherever she was, if he said “Alice, dance,” she would immediately dance a jig. It finally killed her and no man was more miserable than Maule on the day of her funeral. He only meant to humble her not to kill her and she was dead. But before we leave them all let us look at the House of Seven Gables on the night of the return of Hepzibah and Clifford. The sun is setting and lights up the old house making it look really beautiful. Holgrave and Phoebe are talking together and very happy, for Phoebe has given him hand and heart. What a different scene in the parlor! The Judge sits in a chair, his stern, hard features even more stern and hard in death. They soon hear a noise as if a door was opening, and before Holgrave can open it Clifford and Hepzibah walk in, “ Thank God, my brother, we are at home,” says Hepzibah and they all truly rejoice in that happy reunion. Now we reluctantly leave them, having much enjoyed their short acquaintance. I see no real harm in reading such a story as this except to a nervous and easily excitable person. Hawthorne excels in his descriptions of persons and scenes. His adjectives are very well chosen and his English of the smoothest and best. I became so much interested that I could hardly leave it. Any one who has not read it ought to, for it is a standard work. I think Hawthorne’s chief idea in writing was to show that the wrong doing of one generation lives in all successive ones. Nowhere else is to be found t such moral power combined with an aitistic finish so perfect. His province was narrow, but wdthin it he was master. Cashier — “Do you know when double entry was first used?” Book-keeper—“Yes; when the animals entered the ark two by two.” Caller—“Doesn’t it worry you to think of your daughter on the ocean ?” Old lady—“Lands sakes, no. She can swim.” A RAINY MORNING IN THE ATTIC. Many days of my summer vacation, spent at my grandmother’s in an old country farm house are remembered with great pleasure, but I recall one which I enjoyed more than all others. A pouring rain prevented a picnic which I had been anticipating with great pleasure, therefore I fear I was rather stormy as well as the day. After w r andering aimlessly through all the rooms of the house seeking comfort, I went to the attic for consolation as was my custom at home. I thought I had come to a very interesting place as I stood on the top stair and looked around me. Such a collection of antique furniture I had never seen before. There was the old spinning wheel which had spun my grandmother’s wedding dress, some beautiful brass andirons which are held sacred because George Washington sat be¬ fore them when he spent the night with my great grandfather during the revolution. I went and sat down in an old fashioned chair having the most beautiful tidy that I ever saw, a perfect cobweb. Opposite me le aning against the great old-fash¬ ioned chimney was a rusty old gun, which, though not the “the sword of Bunker Hill,” was the gun which my great grandfather used so valiantly in that battle. Right beside me was an old chest of drawers, one of which was open a little way showing a package of old letters. I eagerly seized these for I am very fond of read¬ ing such literature. The first I opened was writ¬ ten to my mother by one of her harum-scarum schoolmates. It read as follows :— June 17th, 1827. “Dear Maud,— In my last letter I told you that mother was going away and her maiden aunt was coming to keep house for us. Well, mother left us early this moruing and Aunt Martha soon appeared carrying a great carpet bag and green umbrella. I saw her coming up the street, so went to receive her with due ceremony. She had just reached the gate as I opened the door, and these were her first words of welcome : ‘ Don’t stand there let¬ ting the flies in, I’m not so weak that I can’t open the door ! Probably you have left the milk boiling over on the stove and the bread burning

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2 THE PIONEER. We cordially invite every member of the High School to contribute to the columns of the Pioneer. Not one of us can afford to lose the opportunity for improvement which this will give ; and we are sure that no better chance can be found for laying the foundation of a journalistic career. Is not the abilit} 7 to write well as much of an accomplishment as the ability to read Latin and Greek? Should a student neglect anything so important as this? We trust that those who are endeavoring to make the most of their course of study will give the matter attention. THE HOUSE OF SEVEN GABLES. This interesting story, written by Hawthorne while residing at Lenox, was given to the world in 1851. The scene is laid in Salem where are now many houses which claim to be the original “ House of Seven Gables.” This edifice was situated on Pyncheon Street. The whole outside was ornamented with quaint figures and the seven gables, pointing toward the sky gave it a proud, imposing air. The main entrance was between the front gables and was very wide. When the great house was built, at the appointed time, friends gathered from far and near for a sort of consecration. Alas! thus early in its history death crossed the threshold, for Judge Pyncheon at this gathering was found dead in his study. Some of the characters are very interesting, they are so strange. Let us look at Hepzibah on that eventful morning preparing her toilet before entering her shop. Hepzibah Pyncheon was, in every sense of the word, an old maid. She was tall and thin and always had a scowl on her forehead which seemed to those who did not really know her, as a bad omen. Before emerging from her room she makes a very careful toilet. Ah ! poor soul, she thinks she can make herself look better, but no amount of fine clothing can ever make Hepzibah look beautiful. Often one can hear a deep sigh escape as she moves to and fro. She opens and closes every drawer in her tall, old- fashioned bureau; she looks at the back of her dress to see that every fold is smooth and now, after kneeling beside the bed to ask Divine help for the day, we think she is ready. Why does she not leave her room, then? One thing more must be done ! Soon we see her turning a key in the small lock of a secret drawer. She takes out the small miniature of a young man. Who can it be? We have never seen the original, but if we had, we could not forget those lovely eyes and the firm, delicate mouth. Did Hepzibah ever have a lover? But no matter, let her indulge in this one pleasure of her life. She gazes at it long and tenderly and then carefully returns it to its place, and now Hepzibah Pyncheon crosses the threshold looking stern and harsh. But perhaps she does not feel so, poor soul, she has had a hard life shutting herself from the world, and now, in her old age, she realizes that she is poor and must earn a living. So she has fitted up a room for a shop in one corner of the spacious mansion. She has for sale many things to please and delight a child. She takes her place behind the counter trembling and eagerly awaiting the first customer. We leave her there with our best wishes, poor old soul. Phoebe was a lovely girl. She could hardly be called beautiful yet she was very interesting, like a child, yet womanly in appearance. Her brown hair which curled in pretty ringlets shaded her face tanned by the sun, while a ruddy, healthful glow showed she loved the air. Haw¬ thorne calls her half dozen freckles “ friendly remembrances of the April sun and breeze.” “ She was graceful as a bird ” and carried sun¬ shine wherever she went. The next morning after her arrival she helped get breakfast, for Phoebe had great tact and could be useful any¬ where. She stepped about quickly, humming some tune, making everyone feel lively and happy. She was the bright spot in poor Ilepzibah’s life. At first I had no patience with Clifford, who could only admire the beautiful, but when I saw how he had been wronged my heart warmed to defend and help him. Phoebe was a great com¬ fort to him. I was very much interested in the chapter telling about the death of Judge

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4 TJIE PIONEER. in the oven. Such giddy girls as they have now- days I never saw !’ ‘ Don’t throw all the dishes on the floor,’ was her parting remark as I was leaving her to take care of herself. ‘ That is where we keep them,’ I replied as I sla mmed the door behind me. I felt a little provoked, so when Aunt Martha appeared in the kitchen I tried to return some of the compliments I had received. ‘Do you know how to make bread?’ I asked innocently, because if you do not 1 will send down to the bakery and get some. Now there is only one saucier question in the English lan¬ guage that I could have asked her, and that is, ‘Do you know the Ten Commandments?’ I received a very piercing look from her black eyes as she informed me ‘ that children should be seen and not heard.’ As I am nearly eighteen I didn’t particularly relish that remark. With scenes like these the morning passed away, and at dinner time I set the table as usual, but Aunt Martha, with the air of a martyr who was being burned at stake, pulled the table cloth on straight, set the sugar bowl, cream pitcher and spoon stand in a straight line aud exactly so far apart. Then she changed all the dishes so that each plate or knife or fork was at the right angle until each piece of crockery looked as if it had been fastened down with glue. The afternoon was quite uneventful, I have been knitting after the custom of the ancients. Supper was a repetition of dinner. But the crowning act of the day was that just before I came up stairs in the evening she read very impressively two little verses and then gave them to me to learn. They may have been taken from Shakespeare or Milton, but 1 think they sound rather more like Burns. They were as follows : “Come when you’re culled, Do as you’re bid, Shut the door after you, And you’ll never be chid. “Speak when you’re spoken to, Hold up your head, Turn out your toes, And go smiling to bed.” don’t know, but it is nine o’clock and I must go ‘ smiling to bed.’ Yours truly, Carol Martin.” I had just finished reading this when I was summoned to dinner; then, as it cleared off very pleasantly in the afternoon we had the expected picnic, but I think I enjoyed the morning the most. iiow I am going to bear these two weeks I IN MEMORIAM-1891. Sweet Gear, you come with a song and a smile, Line a thought that is yet untold; But strings will tremble and echo awhile That were swept by the hands of the old. We know how yotir newness and tender charm Like a red, red rose may unfold; But oh, for the scent of those petals warm Which drifted away with the old! You will bring true hearts to our door, sweet Year. So think not that ours are cold; But there is no friend like the old, sweet Year, There is no friend like the old! Virginia Woodward Cloud. MY EXPERIENCE IN ARIZONA. Like many other young men, when I became of age, I was seized with a violent attack of “ Western fever.” I must leave home and journey through the great West, to return, as I thought, a wealthy man. What business I was to enter I knew not. I had a vague idea that the “Almighty Dollar” was to be found as plentiful as boulders are in the New Hampshire pastures. Mv friends urged me to go, thinking that, with my usual obstinacy, I would act in opposi¬ tion to their pretended wishes and remain at home. Contrary to their expectations, my resolve to depart was not shaken in the least. On the tenth day of August, 1881, a party of us started for Arizona, where we expected to obtain employment of some kind. No thoughts of possible dangers entered our minds, for we were young, and the fires of hope and ambition burned brightly within us. We reached St. Louis without any serious mis¬ haps, and continued on our way with great rejoicing. The next stopping place of importance was