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

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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

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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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12 THE ROUND TABLE against the door for support, and I saw that his face and arms were black- ened from smoke. “What is it, Tom?” I asked anxious- ly He paused a moment for breath, then—“a forest fire, headed for Caan- an Creek. Come quick. We need all the help—we—can get.” I filled a glass with water and held it to his lips. He drank it gratefully, then seizing my hand he ran with me down the road. All the boys were beating feverishly at the brush, unmindful of the blinding smoke, and the terrible heat. Doro was the busiest of all. He was every- where at once. It was a terrible sight —the smoke rolling up in great clouds, the flames licking the trunks of the tall firs. Once in a while one would fall with a crash, and the merciless fire would run on through the dry needles on the ground. Once one of these trees came hurtling down behind me, and only for the quick wit of Doro who snatched me away from danger at just the right moment, I should have been killed. I could not suppress a thought of admiration as I viewed him, his face and hands blackened, and the perspiration rolling down his face in streams. Suddenly I saw him turn and drop the branch he was holding. “You—’’ he cried, (he never would call me Jean) “where is Mrs. Larsen?” In horror I realized that I had left her sleeping under a tree above Caanan Creek. And the fire was rushing head- long in that direction! In terror at the thought of my beloved “Sole Mio” in danger I reeled, and Doro caught me roughly by the shoulder. “Quick!” he said. Between sobs I told him. “You left her there—alone?” he roared, “alone?” “Doro,” I begged, “Doro, don’t look at me like that.” “If she’s hurt—” he began—then looking at me with narrowed eyes— “I’ll kill you!” With that he turned and made a dash headlong into the flames. I had not realized how very near the creek we were, but now I saw the outline of the trees by it, through the smoke, and I knew that once we reached it the fire would be checked. But Ruth—and Doro? In a frenzy of fear I watched, and the next mo- ment a blackened form that I scarcely could recognize as Doro, stumbled out with Ruth in his arms. He laid her on the ground and I turned to him; “Oh Doro, you’re hurt—” He interrupted me with a glance of scorn, “Take care of her and stop talking like a fool. I’m not hurt.” But even as he said it, a shudder ran through his body and he pitched for- ward at my feet. Tom came running, and to him I en- trusted Doro. As for myself I gathered the unconscious form of Sole Mio in my arms and carried her to the bun- galow. She was not much hurt, only hysterical from fright. Immediate rest was all she needed. Luckily there was a powder in the first aid kit, and I gave it to her. She fell asleep, but I did not dare leave her. Ruth’s husband had gone to Patchoque for a doctor and in fear we waited for him to come. Why fear? Because Doro was dying. As yet he had not opened his eyes and I dreaded the moment when Ruth would wake and ask for him. Doro —gold. The doctor came at last, and set about removing the tatters that were once clothes from the little blackened