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

Page 13 text:

CHRISTMAS 19 3 9 Snickersnivel. “Get up. Didn’t you know that Hans is coming back today? If you will go to his mother’s grave, you will find him,’ the gnome added in a whis¬ per. With that Snickersnivel vanished and Cobbler Barren was left wondering whether he had been dream¬ ing or not. From early morning to late afternoon the cobbler sat at the grave, but no one appeared. Finally a soap bubble burst on his face, provoking a tickling sensation and a series of sneezes, and Snickersnivel fell into his lap. “What are you doing here—” teased Snickersnivel, “seeking your fortune?” Go away, you rascal, ' sang out the astonished and enraged cobbler, who immediately turned on his heels to go home. “Come back, come back, you old fool,” shouted Snickersnivel; “I just saw Hans near the Magic Forest and came to tell you.” So the cobbler returned to where the gnome was, for he wanted Hans more than he wanted not to please the gnome. On and on walked the cobbler, with Snick¬ ersnivel secretly riding in his pocket. Finally they reached the edge of the forest. Here Snickersnivel told the cobbler to follow the path to a tall fir tree standing in the middle of an open space. Then he was to follow the left path to a poplar grove, where he would find Hans asleep on the ground. Snickersnivel then disappeared and the cobbler trudged on his way. Upon arriving at his destination, he looked high and low, but no Hans could he see. Hark! Footsteps! Were they Hans’ footsteps? They grew louder and louder as if someone were approach¬ ing, and then as they died away he heard a voice airily calling out, “Ha! ha! I’ve fooled you again!” “You wretch!” he cried. “You wait until I get hold of you!” But when he perceived that it was only the air at which he was yelling, he felt very foolish. “What shall I do?” he wondered, for the sun had gone down and he would not be able to get out of the forest before dark. After pondering for a few minutes, he began bunching up a great pile of leaves. When he had piled on some brush to keep the leaves from blowing away, he crawled into the pile and endeavored to go to sleep. But sleep would not come. He was afraid. He was afraid of the damp darkness, of the Magic Forest, of the lunging shadows of the swaying trees. They took on all sorts of horrid shapes—huge monsters with large heads and thin, serpentine bodies; gigantic boulders tha seemed to come relentlesslv toward him and that vanish¬ ed when they were about to crush him; fire-eating drag¬ ons; witches at their cauldrons. I he wolf-like howl o ' the wind, the creaking and moaning of the limbs of the trees, the rustling of the leaves—all made his hair stain, on end and caused the shivers to run up and down hi spine. When he finally fell into a restless slumber, it was only to dream of Hans. In his dream, he saw the boy visiting the hut during the day and finding it emptv. Evidently thinking that his father was dead, he went away, saying he would not return. Cobbler Barren awoke with a heavy heart and returned to his lonely hut the next morning. Hans did not come that year, nor the next, nor the next, though the old man waited for him more feverishly each year. However, each year at Christmas, Snicker¬ snivel appeared to pester him. Thus four more years passed, and the cobbler was still living in seclusion, still thinking only of his own needs and wants, still wondering why someone didn’t befriend him. Then came the tenth year since Hans had disappeared. It was Christmas Eve. A grotesque, little figure was hurrying through the village on his way to the cob¬ bler’s hut, but while he was still in the village with its neat, little, gable-roofed cottages, all alight with Christ¬ mas candles and cheer and festivity, the voices of happy children caroling the yuletide songs arrested his atten¬ tion. “Just one peek, thought Snickersnivel. “It would be too bad to go right to Cobbler Barren’s dreary hut and miss all this fun.” But after watching the children receive a shower of gifts and bonbons from a jolly Saint Nick, he decided he must follow the man. From house to house of the poorer folk went this good Saint Nick, shedding cheer with his every visit, for he told the children little stories and patted each one’s head before leaving. At each house were carols, presents, games after Saint Nick had departed, and always hap¬ piness for everyone. “How lovely, thought Snicker¬ snivel; “I wish old Cobbler Barren would stop thinking only of himself and do something like this. Then he would enjoy life and friends, and people would enjoy him. Ho hum! It’s getting pretty late,” sighed the gnome as he followed Saint Nick, this time down a short, wooded path, probably to the old fellow’s home. “I wonder where he lives, thought Snickersnivel. But suddenly he cried to himself, “Look! The man is taking off his mask! Why, I do believe it is—the cobbler!” and then the gnome stopped short, a look of strange de¬ light crossing his face. “Well, of all things!” was all Snickersnivel could utter as he went on. Once the cobbler was home, Snickersnivel called out from the nether parts of the room, “Good even, Cobbler Barren.” “Ah! tis you again, answered the cobbler, benevo¬ lently beaming upon the gnome, “and glad I am to see you. 1 was hoping you’d come.” Then after a pause he added, “And I hope Hans comes too. I have a feel¬ ing he reallv is coming this year. This last year I be¬ gan to see Hans in a new light. After all, he was a dear lad and tried his best to please me. He couldn ' t help it if sometimes his imagination did get the better of him and he forgot all else. What belaborings the poor boy used to get! Oh, 1 do wish I’d been kinder to him. It seems as if I want him more than anything else now. That is what has made me take an interest in the other children in the village, especially the ones who don ' t have the tops, books, and things they want. You see, 1 saw )ou tonight even if ou didn’t realize Seven

Page 12 text:

THE PIONEER There was once a middle-aged cobbler who sat one blustering winter evening before his fire, hunched over the last which held the boot he was working on. To the left of the hearth hung kettles and pans, which but dully reflected the light. Everything was bare, from the heavy, smoked beams, which were not far above his head, to the wide board floor, from which much of the paint had been worn. No curtains were at the windows or around the bedstead, though one faded chintz drapery hung be¬ fore the closet. The table was bare and so were the chair and the two stools, one of which the cobbler was sitting on. The only piece of furniture which had once seen a more luxurious setting was a grandfather’s chair, now dingy, worn, and spotted. “Good evening, Cobbler Barren,” said a voice some¬ where in the room. The cobbler started, having seen no one enter, and looked around anxiously for his visitor. “Good evening, sir, distinctly repeated the voice in his ear. “Come on, show yourself if you’re an honest fel¬ low! If not, I don’t want anything to do with you! Come on; step up!” shouted the cobbler, both anger and fear rising within him. “Ho! ho! he! he! I bet you can’t find me!” chirped the voice again, this time in his other ear. “So you think it’s a game of hide-and-seek! Well, I used to be a match for anyone at that game, too. But I’d like to know who you think you are, fooling with me like this! You deserve to be hanged,” roared the cobbler, who now arose with a grumble, looked behind him, and stamped around the room searching under the chairs and bed and peering behind the closet drapery. But though the flickering shadows cast by the fire start¬ led h im several times, nothing unnatural could he see. “Am I dreaming?” he queried as he sat down to his work again. “But surely 1 did hear a voice.” Just then he looked up, and his jaw dropped as he beheld his tormentor, a misformed, bandy-legged little fellow glee¬ fully dancing on the stool at the right of the hearth, his fat little sides and hunched back shaking with silent laughter. For a few moments neither could draw him¬ self together enough to speak, but finally the cobbler’s anger overcame his awe and so he spoke first. ”So you think it’s funny to interrupt an honest cobbler in his work—and all for no good reason! Come, speak up for yourself. If you—” “Not so fast, not so fast, my good friend,” respond¬ ed the gnome. “I really didn’t mean any harm to you. Besides, you might as well like me, for you’re going to see me often. My name is Snickersnivel.” But the cobbler’s passion was not pacified, and so Snickersnivel, perching himself on the mantelpiece with his feet dang¬ ling, shifted the subject. “You were thinking of your little lost Hans, weren’t you?” “Yes,” returned the cobbler, staring at the fire in a pensive and gloomy mood, “five years ago, just be¬ fore Christmas, when Hans was only eleven years old, he wandered into the Magic Forest and so was lost. At least, that is what the villagers say. The child believed that the magic of the forest lay in the fact that it held a pool which, if one washed therein, would make one very wise. He said that an angel had told this to kirn in a dream and had also said that the people dreaded the forest because they had forgotten what was magic about it. In spite of my pleadings, he went, and I have never seen him since. Nevertheless, I’m not convinced he went to the forest at all. I think he ran away to seek his fortune. He used to say he was going to.” “But why would he run away?” interrupted Snick¬ ersnivel. “Well, Hans was a disobedient boy, and I often had to punish him. He didn’t like it, but it was all for his own good. He was always dreaming and imagining things. Naturally, I used to get provoked because he would never have his mind on his work. If I set him to watch the gruel while I went out to chop some more wood, he would forget to stir it and it would scorch without his even smelling it.” Here the old man shook his head. “Yes, he was a lazy rascal and I guess he got what he deserved when he was lost, if that is what has happened to him. I wouldn ' t want him back if I weren’t getting old and in need of someone. Hans has got to come back. And if he doesn’t come back soon, I’ll—” but the cobbler ground his teeth for the rest of the threat. Then he sig hed. “No one ever thinks of me now. No one ever comes to visit me. Christmas after Christmas goes by, but no one ever takes pity on me or gives me anything. Hans always used to do something, I’ll say that for him anyway. Every Christmas, I look for him to come back. I don’t know why, but I do.” Having finally finished the boot he had been working on, the cobbler looked up, but Snickersnivel had disappeared. So he decided to go to bed. The next morning he was awakened by someone yanking at his hair. “Come on, Old Cray Hairs,” called Six

Page 14 text:

THE PIONEER it,” and the cobbler smiled. “Well, anyway, if Hans does come back, he will find a new father, one that will be kind to him and understand him. You see, I am no longer Cobbler Barren, for my life is no longer barren, but beautiful, full of peace and joy. The people call me ‘The Singing Cobbler’ now because doing things for others has made me so happy that I have to sing while l work. I just can t help it.” “Maybe Hans will come,” echoed the gnome. Then looking around at the gay curtains at the windows and around the bedstead, at the new closet drapery, at the large, colored print on the wall, which represented a Salzbury court scene, and at potted geraniums in the window, he exclaimed, “Why, how cosily you have fixed your room. The warm fire and the cheeriness have made me feel quite frisky. Do have a chase!” “Why, I believe I will,” replied the cobbler, and forthwith the gnome scrambled over the chairs and under the bed while the cobbler did his best to catch him. Round and round they went. Finally the cobbler stopped and sank into a chair. “I give up; you win. You’re a lively, little fellow, I’ll say that much for ye.” The gnome flopped himself down at the cobbler’s feet. “Well, well, so you’ve come to visit me again, “and the cobbler chuckled. “Aren’t you a bit hungry, my little man? I am.” The gnome admitted he was, and when the cobbler had set something on the table, they sat down to eat. Now a very strange thing happened. After the gnome had eaten a little, he began to grow. As he grew bigger and bigger, he lost his hunchback, queer legs, and big ears. Yes, you’ve guessed it. The gnome turned into the lost Hans right before the eyes of the astonished cobbler. The overjoyed old man just couldn’t restrain himself but gathered the boy into his arms, and, hug¬ ging him tight, let the tears roll down his happy face without trying to wipe them away. Father and son thus reunited, the boy told of his adventures, of how he had been imprisoned by a wood dryad in the Magic Forest and of how, after he had pleaded for a long time, he had been allowed to go free in the form of a gnome for a few days near Christmas time. He had not been able to be his own self again until his father offered the gnome, of his own accord, something to eat; which, of course, the cobbler supposedly would never think of doing, being a miserly, selfish old grouch. The cobbler, who had gotten much more happiness in giving than the others in the village had in receiving, now received the greatest gift that could possibly be given him and was, indeed, very joyful and thankful. So they lived happily ever after, “The Singing Cobbler” and the boy Hans. Jean Marstaller AN ASTONISHING VENGEANCE Midnight and the end of the nineteenth century were swiftly approaching Merrivale Castle, the ancestral abode of the rich and powerful house whose name the castle bears. In the magnificent, but lonely, library of the mansion, long recognized as one of England’s land¬ marks, sat one of the most proud figures in the history of Cornwall, Sir Cedric Merrivale, the present master of the menage, his eyes intently fixed upon the dying embers of the crackling fire. The interior of Merrivale Castle was, and still is, one of the most surpassingly brilliant in its adornments. Coffered ceilings inlaid with superbly carved wood and ivory were further em¬ bellished by gold and silver. Indeed, in such surround¬ ings Lord Merrivale could well afford such a complacent manner on this New Year’s Eve. Lord Cedric himself was the typical elegant country gentleman of the period, presenting an appearance which was at all times a dignified one. On this particu¬ lar evening his lordship presented a most striking pic¬ ture, his stately figure surmounted by a crown of pure white. At intervals he puffed slowly on his pipe, and, except for this action, his movements were not percep¬ tible. Obviously some weighty problem must have been monopolizing his thoughts, or probably he was merely meditating on past events, for the end of a century al¬ ways gives rise to memories. Certainly he could not have been recalling the prophecy which one of the most illustrious of his ancestors had made so many years be- lore. Even though he was the last surviving Merrivale and even though this evening was the eve of the twen¬ tieth century, the dawn of which, according to the pre¬ diction, no member of his house would ever see, Lord Cedric was certainly not one to reflect upon a fantastic notion. More likely, he was reviewing the sixty-seven years of the past century which he had lived. Maybe he recollected with pride his meteoric rise to power, which subsequently had carried him to the exalted position of Chancellor of the Exchequer. He was reliving, per¬ haps, the moments of anguish when his ascent was ter¬ minated by his bitter political rival, the Right Honor¬ able Percival Rothscrewge, M. P., and the coveted pre¬ miership was forever denied him. Possibly Lord Cedric may have smiled as he recalled the sweetest triumph of his career, his exposure of Rothscrewge as a traitor to his country. Despite the fact that even following this political coup he never was permitted to attain the port¬ folio of prime minister, the thoughts of his enemy’s dis¬ grace and twenty years’ imprisonment would have been ample to suffice. He must have felt that his work had been well done, and at last the bitterness had passed from his heart. But now Lord Merrivale had concluded his reveries He rose from his large comfortable chair to put another log or two on the fire. The warmth and glow of the rejuvenated flames veritably seemed to send joy and happiness back into the cold and empty loneliness of the castle and to cast out the thoughts of the dismal Percival Rothscrewge. As Sir Cedric seated himself once again to await 1 new year and a new century, our attention, had we been present, would have been drawn towards one of the Eight