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

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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

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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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THE ROUND TABLE 11 the hill to the lake just as he was com- ing up, and in my haste I knocked him back against a tree. Of course I apologized, I was really sorry, but he did not let me finish—he had me by the shoulders and was shaking me vici- ously, and his eyes were blazing. “You —you,” he gasped, “you tried to knock me down. I’ll show you—I”!! ft “Doro,” I begged, “Ruth sent me down to—” He gave a start, and his arms drop- ped limply to his side. “Go,” he interrupted, “Go back to her.” He turned from me and ran into the woods. Frightened and shaken, I turned back and sought out Ruth. I found her sitting by the door, a book in her hand, and I slipped down beside her and buried my head in her lap. I did not cry—I was too scared for tears, but I shook like a leaf. “Platt, what is it?” she asked anxi- ously, putting her arms about me. “Doro, again, sole mio,” I replied, “I hate him.” I told her what had hap- pened. When I had finished she look- ed at me and smiled, “But he didn’t harm you, and he won’t either. It’s just that he sees you dislike him. He is not bad at heart.” “But he’s so rude to you—” She laughed. “Yes, because he’s trying to hide his real feeling. His life, you know, has not been happy. Lis- ten—” She laid her hand on my arm. From the woods came the sweet notes of a flute. “A boy who can play like that can not be thoroughly bad,” she said. “But Ruth, he never shows the slightest bit of gratitude.” “Watch, Platt,” she replied, “and I will show you something.” From a box she took an old ring, dirty and worn with age. “You see this? It is dull, isn’t it? Now watch.” With her handkerchief she rubbed the little band and in a few minutes it lay in her hand, bright and gleaming. “That,” she said, “is like Doro— dull gold. Some day something will rub away the dull, and we shall see the pure metal beneath. Now bring me my guitar. You’re cross, today, Platt, and perhaps a song will cheer you up. What shall it be? ‘Sole mio’ all right.” Ten minutes later I had forgotten Doro ever existed. It was a hot, murky day. The clouds hung low, but there was no sign of rain, and every where was heat and dust. Several of the boys went swimming, but Ruth and I preferred a shady nook. We found one, a ways from the bungalow, and sat down be- neath it. The heat was terrible, we could not escape it. Poor Ruth! She had been working hard all morning, and was so tired. “Sit down. Sole Mio,” I said, “and I will fan you.” “But you’ll get hot and tired—” “No, I won’t. You’ve been working since six o’clock, and I haven’t done a thing.” She was too tired to argue, and as I fanned her gently, her eyes closed, and soon she was fast asleep. I sat by her side for some time, but sudden- ly remembering a book I had left at the bungalow, I decided to go back and read. I went quietly, leaving her asleep in the shade of the tree. I don’t know how long I read, but I was far into the story when Tom came running in, breathless. He leaned