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

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Page Sixteen The Pioneer The nurse hesitated a moment be¬ fore she spoke, but it seemed hours to Jim. “He—he is still unconscious,” she replied faintly. “I don’t know—I— you—he is just a little worse I think— his heart action isn’t regular—he—I don’t know—” She left quickly and he stood there thinking. What did she mean? Could it be that Jimmy, his own little Jimmy, was going to—? He strove to fight off that word, but it was useless. Was Jimmy going to die? Jimmy, bright, frolicking, little Jimmy, who was al¬ ways into mischief. He forgave all Jimmy’s pranks and prayed so that the Lord would save him. To think of being alone in the world! His wife, Nellie, had died when Jimmy was only six months old. The thought alone of losing his only com¬ fort and joy left him with a dull, ach¬ ing pain in his heart. Absently he went out into the gar¬ den and noticed the flowers in full bloom. That was a strange time to re¬ joice over it but he smiled and smelled of them. Then he passed on to the road where Jimmy was struck, but something drove him away. He met the postman and found a letter from the owner of the auto asking if Jimmy was better. Jim wondered if he was. As he walked on he found some blueber¬ ries and remembering that Jimmy liked them, he picked some and put them in his hat. Then he turned back. In the garden he picked some flow¬ ers and was just getting up when a white figure dashed out the back door. Jim’s hear sank—he knew that Jimmy was go—ing. No—the nurse was smiling. She rushed up and said, “Oh, Mr. Bradley, he opened his eyes a lit¬ tle and his heart is stronger! I am sure he is better.” Quickly Jim walked in and laid the flowers and berries on a chair by his boy. Jimmy’s eyes were closed fast, but they were closed in slumber. Jim caught his breath in a little sigh as he thought how nearly he had lost him. He kissed his forehead and smiling at the nurse, turned to go out, but be¬ fore he reached the door a muffled but contented little voice came from the bed, “Hulloa, Daddy.” FRANCIS B. SHEPARDSON, 1918. BIG BEN. Outside the hotise was a dim, un¬ canny light. All was silent. Then suddenly there came to my ears the sound of a gong clanging in a dis¬ tance. Nearer and nearer it approached until finally, with a burst of noise there came into view the source of this furious clangor—a vehicle not unlike a racing-gig, madly speeding up the street that lies perpendicular to mine along the crest of the hill. As I followed it with my eyes, I -was startled, then I shuddered. For in the gig as it flashed past there seemed to be a white rabbit, pounding the bell with its foot and lashing wildly with the reins its fleet-footed steeds, three bears. It was gone, and something more at home demanded my attention. I looked about me and there, surround

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The Pioneer Page Fifteen “No, Abbie, it is not. They will grow to hate Christmas if each year it means they are to give up their pres¬ ents after they have seen them, to some one else and have none them¬ selves.” “It is more blessed to give than to receive,” quoted Abbie. “Not what we give, but what w r e share, for the gift without the giver is bare.” Cynthia reminded her. “I realize, Abbie, that you wish to teach them to be unselfish, but I am afraid that you have chosen the wrong meth¬ od.” And Cynthia explained to Abbie why the way she had chosen would do more harm than good. Gradually Abbie was brought to real¬ ize and to understand that the plan she had decided upon would not pro¬ mote the children’s generosity but rather lessen it. Finally Abbie said, “Well, Cynthia, perhaps you are right.” Then, after a pause, ■ “but how can we make the children wish to give anything to others?” “It will not be hard, Abbie, for they are not selfish children. I do not think they could enjoy their Christmas if they knew that their next door neigh¬ bors were having no Christmas. I hardly think they would want your dog Billy, for they have one, and Edith, Laura and Ruth both have dolls which the minister’s wife gave them, so you may keep yours.” “I’ll give them my other presents,” offered Edith. “ ’Course we will,” declared Billy stoutly. “Yes, children, and tomorrow we will go to the city and William, you .shall have a bicycle and we will see about getting a pony for Edith.” “Good for you, Aunt Abbie,” cried Billy rapturously. “Come, on. We’ll go over to Perkinses now,” and in a minute more they were all going down the path with happy faces, and their arms w r ere full of Christmas presents for the Perkins children. JANET ROBINSON, ’16. DADDY. The horizon in the east was pink, but there w T as still a cold chill in the air. The grass was covered with dew, and the little town of Athens had a hazy appearance. Off in the farm yard a cock crew and was soon answered by others. The pink haze began to grow brighter and finally the first sun¬ beam made its appearance. It threw a spot of pinkish light on the tops of the trees, and in the east bed room of the “House in the Willows” the light blue wall paper took on the color of the early horseshoe violet, which grad¬ ually gave way to the original color. The dew on the grass began to sparkle and the haze started to clear lazily. It was daylight once more. All this was noticed by the weary eyes of Jim Bradleys. They had taken in everything to the minute, but then he started to dream. He saw little Jimmy playing in the road and he fan¬ cied he heard the horn of that fearful auto, fast on its deadly mission. Jim¬ my didn’t hear, however, and again, as he had the previous afternoon Jim saw him struck, and thrown to the curb un¬ conscious. The heat of the rising sun brought Jim to his senses and he wondered how Jimmy was. He arose and dressed mechanically. His heart beat swiftly as he met the nurse at his door. “How is he?” he asked hoarsely.

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The Pioneer Page Seventeen ing the house on all sides, were fire¬ men. Firemen, big and little, stood around clad in rubber coats and hel¬ mets. I think they had rubber boots on, too, and there were numbers on their coats. Yes, undoubtedly, they were firemen. There was nothing alarming about these firemen. They were simply fire¬ men. But why were they there in front of my house, in back of my house, all around my house? There was no fire. Why should firemen be there? Then I remembered. Yes, there it was; the gong coming back again. As sure as fate, that strangely equipped apparatus was returning. As if drawn by the thread of Destiny, it turned the corner at the top of the hill and was dashing down upon the firemen. What firemen? Where were they? Vanished into the air. How in the w T orld was I alone to cope with such a strange quartette as this? I couldn’t do it. I may have screamed. However, I jumped over the edge, (jiant hands reached out and clutched and held me. Still the bell rang. I kicked furiously and cried out. I awoke on the floor, wrapped in the bed-clothes. Big Ben was telling me it was five o’clock. R. SHEPARDSON ’16. DOWN WITH SLAVERY! Slavery still exists among us. It not only exists, it flourishes even as it did in the South “befo’ de war.” I refer, gentle reader, to the slavery of fashion. But wait, it is not of feminine fash¬ ions, with their fleeting and much dis¬ cussed changes that I am to speak, it is rather of a custom, prevalent among the masculine element of our popula¬ tion, the custom of wearing around the neck a high, white, stiffly-starched linen collar, for no more evident pur¬ pose than that of propping up the chin of the wearer; or, in the case of V-neck collars, the adam’s apple. I, personally of an iconoclastic turn of mind, have always loathed “con¬ traptions,” for such they are indeed; and although driven by the exigencies of my environment to become accli¬ mated to them, have nevertheless wished most heartily for their down¬ fall, which,. I firmly believe, would bring an era of unparalleled prosper¬ ity to this country. I will now set forth my reasons for this belief. At a rough guess, there are about fifty million males in this country, at least ten million of whom are within white-collar zones. At two collars per week, two cents per collar, fifty-two weeks per year, twenty million eight hundred thousand dollars is transfer¬ red from the pockets of our tax payers to those of the bloated laundry trust. Not only this, but at one hour per month per man, thus allowing for times when the collars could wait, one hundred twenty million precious hours are lost, absolutely lost, annually, by going for the collars. On this alone there might be based an argument for the complete extirpation of the vari¬ ety of collar mentioned, but who can calculate the value of the characters, ruined beyond repair every day, and solely by a buttonhole too stiffly starched, or a tie that would not slide.