Red Bank High School - Log Yearbook (Red Bank, NJ)

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TIEE ROUND TABLE 9 the first was the most difficult. For three long and tedious, yet won- derful and thrilling years I travelled the distance of five miles necessary to be traversed, by foot, on horseback, or by carriage. These five miles were not in the dense African jungles nor in the great wild west but just in some of our “honest-to-goodness-country.” In summer the roads were uncom- fortable to pass over because of the clouds of dust, and in the winter, they were impossible to pass over because of gentle impressions, known as ruts. One cold winter morning we started out with hearts as full of courage, as the roads were full of large drifts of snow. We bundled into a carriage for the usual ride. After the first half mile the horse got “warmed-up’ for he dashed along at a delightful rate of speed. I gazed at the scenery to the right of us and, like a laborer who works when the boss isn’t looking, the horse stopped. He wasn’t where he was supposed to be, but down—down —nearly out of sight in a beautiful blanket of snow. We dug him out and returned home. We started out again this time in our yellow cart, a con- traption with but two wheels and a single seat. Oh, yes! My mother would drive and I, the smallest, would occupy the middle of the seat, while my sister would sit on the other side of me. We passed the dangerous points and came within a reasonable distance of the school building. “Almost there,’ I volunteered. Just then one wheel went down into a small hole, the cart tipped, precipitating my sister into a snowbank. We gazed in astonishment! Before the cart could right itself the other wheel sank into another hole, so that the cart tipped the other way, and off went my mother taking reins with her, but leaving me, like the monkey I was generally called, perched on the seat alone. Stay there? Not me. I jumped out. The horse stopped, apparently of his own accord. After we had pulled our- selves together, we scrambled back into the cart and finished our journey. Those five years we experienced— rain and hailstorms, runaways, and everything that could happen to two unfortunate yet fortunate children, for at least we both survived. It is the good who die young. Then we moved to within a “stone’s- throw’’ of the school. This fact alone could have caused us to buy a house in town. We managed to make the nine o’clock here, for five years, with- out an over amount of exertion; but all good things must come to a close, for we became or thought we became too advanced for what the school of- fered, consequently we changed schools. We now must go one and a half- miles to school. But—only four years more to go, and, to leave home at eight-thirty, but—that isn’t so bad after all! Fear made us do our work. My sister made her grade but I, always on the tail-end, am still going on. “Don’t forget that school begins its session at fifteen minutes to nine.” That warning slowly, and, after much difficulty, found its way through the two small passages—the only entrance —into the great amount of brain space beyond. It waited, became fil- tered, and finally understood. Fifteen minutes earlier! Not very much but yet a whole lot. I guess I can do it. It’s not so very bad, for, after all the first hundred years are the hardest. G. G., ’26.

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8 THE HOUND TABLE began to manipulate the key. The buzzer told him that the transmitter was working. He listened for a call. He heard nothing. He listened again and again and then he heard the feeble dots and dashes of a call, S.O.S.— S.O.S., again and again, he heard the feeble call. He asked, “Where are 7 » They answered, “One hundred and forty-five degrees southwest of Marine Island, drifting a little to the westward. May hit rocks or sand-bar along coast. Ben gave the message to one of the Captain’s assistants and then sent back the answer, “Coming at full speed.” Just then, something cracked. A wire band broken somewhere. He grabbed a piece of wire, a pair of pliers, then started for the deck. The cutter lurched back and forth. The waves slapped against the side of the boat. Ben half walked, half fell up- stairs. He finally reached deck. A huge wave struck the cutter with such force that it nearly turned over. The sudden lurch sent Ben headlong across the deck. He tripped over something and fell. His head hit the iron railing along the deck. A pain shot through his head; then all became unknown to him. A huge wave washed over the deck and drenched him, but at the same time the cold water revived him. He managed to get up and make his way to the left side of the cabin. Here, as he thought he would, he found the trouble. The lead-in wire was held by an insulator, and the wire, swinging back and forth, had finally twisted in two. He quickly fixed the break with a piece of wire and then started back to the cabin. The ship was still calling for help. He again sent the answer, “Coming at full speed.” At this time one of the sailors stepped in and told Ben that they were within a few feet of the ship. Ben went on deck with the sailor. The men were busy handling ropes and chains. The swaying of the ship, added to the hard work of lifting the chains, caused the men to stop for a rest every minute or so. But how could they rescue the ship? It was impossible to get close to the ship in distress, as the ocean was too rough. No life-boat could withstand such choppy waters. So how could they rescue the few people on it? “Tow her in,” Ben suggested. “If she’ll stand it. I’m game,” re- plied the Captain. The men set to work at once and after many hard attempts, succeeded in getting a tow-line to the ship. The strong little cutter started off. She advanced slowly but surely. Before long the lights of the station came into view. The people were treated at the station; some, for wounds received by being thrown against the sides of the cabin. Everybody was given some- thing to eat and remained at the sta- tion until after the storm, when another ship came for them. Ben was not forgotten. They all contributed toward a small gold medal for his services. Here my story ends, for there are no words, which can describe the feelings and greetings that mother and father had for their son, who had returned safe and sound, through the storm. Harold Smock. -------------------o------- TRIALS OF SECURING AN EDUCATION We have all encountered difficulties in going to and returning from school. Of all the difficulties coming to me in attending various places of learning

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IO THE ROUND TABLE DULL GOLD Far out on Long Island, two miles from the nearest town, and almost that from any habitation, lies Lake Paradise. Viewing it from the road, one sees nothing but woodland, with tiny roads running through, but if one follow them in—then what a sight! For inside it is not woodland at all, but a clear space of rolling hills, dotted here and there with pine trees. At the foot of one of these hills lies the lake from which the place gets its name— blue and placid, surrounded by tall firs like stern sentinels, so peaceful and lovely that it quite takes one’s breath away. The very wildness of the place enhances its beauty. On the hill overlooking the lake is a little cot- tage—not one of your model summer habitations, but a place as wild and rugged as its surroundings, yet peace- ful and homelike, too, in its own way. As to its occupants— I shall speak of them presently. Many years ago in far off Sweden, a little girl playing at her mother’s knee, raised her big brown eyes to her mother, saying, “Mother, when I grow up I'm going to America and get lots of money; then. I’m going to get a little house in the country and take all the poor little boys and girls I know out there and make them play all day long.’’ “Little foolish one, her mother re- plied, laughing, “run away to your toys and forget such nonsense. But Ruth Larsen had never forgot- ten. Now at the age of twenty-eight, blessed with grace and charm, and happy in the love of an adoring hus- band and little son; she found her dream realized. Every summer she had taken boys and girls out there from the hot, stuffy tenements, and made them play. Now one might see them, walking through the woods, liv- ing under the trees or swimming in the lake. It is about one of these, Doro di Nordo, that this story is written. Ruth (we never called her Mrs.) and I had been friends for two years—that ex- plains my presence at her home. Of our strange meeting I shall merely say that we came face to face one day in the woods, by chance, and a friend- ship sprang up between us that has grown stronger each year. I cannot describe her as I saw her emerging from the trees, clad in knickers, her hair cut short, and her eyes bright from healthful exercise. I can only say that it was as though Peter Pan had come to life. And now—back to Doro. Imagine if you can, a tall, slight boy of fifteen, with the dark olive skin of a true son of Italy, and big black eyes, always with a brooding light in them. One never noted how handsome he was, after being around him much, for of all the dispositions in the world, Doro had the worst. He was sullen and moody, taking every little kindness for granted, but usually thinking every one was bent on harming him. Even Ruth’s cheery smile failed to bring any response, and I have seen her look after him with tears in her eyes, when he had spoken rudely to her, and had run away into the woods. I hated him from the start. His one redeeming feature was his passion for music. He played the flute, never before us, of course, but several times I came upon him in some out-of-the-way spot, play- ing by himself, and with a light in his eyes that I could not understand. I shall never forget the day I ran into him. I had been running down