Rye Neck High School - Scraps Yearbook (Mamaroneck, NY)

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hearth smoldered slowly into a black ash. . . When Lucy awoke, the grey dawn -was streaking in the window. Before her squatted john, who was rubbing something shiny and metalic with a cloth spotted with gore. See' ing that she had awaked, John cast the rag into the coals,awhere it sizzled with a terrible stench, and placed the cutlass over the fire' place. There was one there now, instead of two. ,, Where is Watson? asked Lucy, rising from her chair. Some horrible light seemedto spring into the eyes of John Brown. r Watson is gone, he said simply, it was the Lord' s will, and he died-fighting for the cause! Oh- a little shrilly, and she sank back into the chair, still and unconscious. Nor was this the. end. It was merely the beginning of those bloody brutal murders of Pottawatomie, in the midst of which Lucy Brown fled, to Watson's old home in Tor' rington, Conn. V In the summer of 1858 john and his folf lowers made a raid into Missouri, captured a number of slaves, and carried them joyfully to Canada and freedom. John Brown never entered Kansas again. j Watson's family sympathized with Lucy, but she had to keep her grievance against John to herself. They respected their father much too deeply to let even the death of one of their own, tho it were of their father's own doing, turn anyone of them against him, and especially would not tolerate Lucy's com' plaints. And so she, rebuked in her grief, concealed her hatred for john, and let it grow there, deep in her heart, whereuit took on the proportions of a monstrousjthing, evil,w searing her own heart. . Trulyljohn relished nothing more than to have God put a scourge into his hands to lash the devil. And with his lash in hand, he struck, but he was blind, and knew not where was the devil, and many of those that were innocent perished. ' A At the Kennedy farm in Virginia, Brown collected, with about twenty of his followers, arms and supplies. Somehow they kept theme selves hidden from the neighbors' curiosity, until Sunday evening, October sixteenth, when- he and his little band sallied forth to assault the foundations of slavery. They marched into the town of I'Iarper's Ferry, seized various government buildings and offi' cials whom they held as hostages. By morn- ing the whole state of Virginia had been aroused. Brown took refuge with the rem' nants of his band and his prisoners in the engine house, where he was forced to sur' render to the U. S. Marines under Coloncl Robert E. Lee on Tuesday morning. Brown sustained a few injuries, but none of which prevented him from being brought to almost immediate trial. Thru the prof ceedngs he bore himself with utmost dignity. Not once did he falter in his testimony, an arrogant, conceited man, who because of his narrowfmindedness had been able to. plan and execute one of the most horrible crimes of history. He was sentened to be hanged on the second of December, 1859. Somehow, Lucy felt she should have ref joiced, but she didn't. john was too much like Watson that she could hold 'out against him at such a time as this. Nevertheless, she still hated him-a jealous' hatred, which none might share. But in spite of all her hate, she pitied him. 'f She went to see him-to enjoy his suffer' ing, as he must have enjoyed hers. He was still theisame: stern, dogmatic, perhaps a lit' tle thinner. But there was a 'difference-sub' tle, but noticeable, as if a different light Shad crept into his eyesfa more knowing, kindlier light, a littlegmoreihuman. ' It was of your own doing, she said cruelly. Maybe it was. But I shall always believe it was God's. I only hope that he believed it also. He? , Why-Watson. I never felt that he blamed me. - She raised her eyebrows, and a little of the sternness fell from her lips. But I meant you-your punishment. He shrugged, and smiled ironicallyj I do not regret it. I am worth incon' Page Thirtyfsix

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JOHN BROWN'S SOUL They sat before the great fireplace, Watson Brown and his wife, Lucy. She bathed her' self in the radience, staring dreamily into the living red breaking thru its soft grey coat of ash in a thousand fascinating eyes. She was completely relaxed in the agefworn armchair, listening with all her heart to the deep tones of her husband, who read aloud under the yellow lamp suspended from the ceiling. LIt was Uncle Tom's Cabin , that new soulfstirring epic of .Harriet Beecher Stowe's, which was to raise a nation in arms, its fac- tions pitted against each other for the prinf eiple of slavery-. The very shadows seemed to listen. Outside, the wind that had her' alded the advent of dying summer had sobbed itself out into a moan, and a growingrchill snapped the Kansas air. Watson read with precision: it was evident that this was not the iirst time he had pe' rused his wellfthumbed copy. Indeed, with' in the three years they had had it, it had asf sumed a'place inferior ony to the family Bible. It was a sort of well, into which each night they steeped their minds to feed that growing hatred for the institution of slavery. Watson Brown was religious. That is, he read the Bible, and believed that which he chose, and left the rest alone. Altho he did 'not question it, he did not accept it wholly, as did his father, that stern New England fanatic, who held his Bible in one hand, and a reddening sword 'in the other. Everything about the two had in it an elef ment of simplicity, almost of destitution. The room was very bare, but it was homelike, and half-way comfortable. Comfort! A It had been a thing unknown in fWatson's child' hood. His father could be kind, divinely tender, to an invalid, and on the other hand as harsh and unswerving to the prodigal. One could see the trace of it in Watsons' face+his Stern, narrow' cleft of a mouth, his expression of purposiveness and obstinacy. Lucy had become desperate at times at this forced, needless indigence of their lives. Her lips had assumed a terseness, almost bitter at times, tho one had but to look into her arf dent eyes to see that for all his obstinacy she would not have her husband otherwise. One night he came home, an ugle gash in his cheek. A bullet-the border ruifiansf' he ex- plained. Border ruffians-those unkempt but well' armed bands from Missouri, profslavery men, fighting for slavery. Bleeding Kansas 4 had begun its death struggle.- XOn that same night-in October, 1855- Watson's father, stern old john Brown, who was then in his fifty-fifth year, arrived in Kansas. In his terse, tense, rude English he informed them that L'God had created him to be the deliverer to slaves the same as Moses had delivered the children of Israel. Kansas was in the grip of a civil war, and in this medley of fanatical, revengeful pas' sions, john Brown, earnest, passionate, ob' stinate, with hiss soul set on one- object, furi' ously struck here and there, and, no matter who- happened in his path, he crushed him ruthlessly, never stepping aside from his ar- rogant, intolerantibelief of what he believcd God had willed. L. One-day the town of Lawrence was at' tacked andburned by profslavery meng john, his eyes blazing, his jaw set harder than- ever, announced: i ' The Lord cries for vengeance. And I and mine are ever ready to heed His will. i 'This' was in May of the year, 1856, when the struggle rose to an even' higher pitch, and no man went about unaccompanied, much less unarmed. Watson, it is the Lord's will that you and I iight for His cause. ' john held out one of the cutlasses to Wat-' son, and he grasped it. ' -lnljlothiiig shall stop me, he said, from accomplishng my father's will, u And the Will of God, added' John. Don7t go, don't! You'll be killed, or you'll kill! , , N , Watson laughed, kissed her, and swept out into the night. Lucy dried her tears, and sat in-:her aged chair, with Uncle Tom's Cabin to console herself. But she flung it from her wth venom, and closed her eyes on the indignant tears that refused to be suppressed. Uncle Tom's Cabin n the -corner of the Page Thirtyfiive

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ce-ivably 'more to -hang than for -any' other purpose. R' s W ' - '- When shereturned home, she was smiling. Not a smile 'of triumph, but of sympathy and understanding. So he-had not been thirikf' ing of himself, but of Watson, of her. She believed, as someone later said: A ' - -- Whatever might -be thought 'of John Brown's' acts, John Brown himself was right. -- - 1 --' f ' - She saw him after that a' great' deal, thru the 'long November month. Even in spite of her resistance, she 'grew to understand' him, to see. into his deep, -rich nature, Tto respect' and pity him. ' f A But did she not haste him-him who had killed her husbandi- - A But had. he done-it? Was it he who: hads: been responsible, or-some great overpowering Principle? Had she not ground her teeth at slavery,' because 'of this very same :Prine cipleg . '. , . . 5 . O God, had' she notbeen a bit tootunjust, too cruel andfnarrowfminded? Had it been ,lQl'm who had- killed Watson, or some great wrong, as wasinow killng Johns? . VI am too poor, she said ,during ,his lasta days, 'fto ' offer-:any consqlationo But 'wille you not pray that God willibe just a little forgiving when He judges me forfsmy' uh' kindness?l' 4 Onnthe ,second day of December, John Brown was hanged. He said googlfbye to his companionsdnfarms, and gave! each a quarter of a dollar, saying he no longer- any use for money, And as he was driven to the gallows, he remarked:-wf1fThis is a beautiful country. I never liadg the 'pleasure of seeing it before. i i l Judson Benjamin l .v.!f.h . K MINSEPERAELESH ' Francis and his adorable wave. Albert and his big feet. Judson and his bloody stories. Mary and her smiles. Adrian and his history. Rushmore and his rattle.. H George F. and his toys. Doris and her travels. Vic'l and. lT'l. S H I Herbert Houghton, lgnl , ' OUR COMPOSER 1- - ' '-The Senior Class is very pleased to 'have among -its members, one who has the ability to compose music and to write the words for it 't-hat 'are most fitting 'to the -occasion. Everyone in the' school knows who composed our school song, Let's Give a Rousing Rah, Rah, Rah for Rye Neck High, Boyisng and everyone in' the Senior Class knows who composed one of our class songs, Our Days with You Rye Neck Are Almost Over , and also the' music for Clemana Parker's ,school songg sothere is little necessity of my telling you that we are proud to have Herbert Houghton in our midst. 'V W my A -K -f 1 p l Albert Langworthy CONIELIBUTEDO EDITORIAL In this article lhwish to point out the true value 'of school' publicationslm T do not 'wish to bewail the trials and troubles of at school paper' editor but to try to set such 'publish' tions' iiistheir true position of influence upon the school itself. ' iwflhe' :general ability of H the' scholars in'a schoolis' most frequently judged hliflfsliilers through its sclioolri paper. Undoubtedly' unbiased 'critic will judge the school by its ability to publish a papericontaining interest: ing and well written articlesfnot merely long accounts offthe' school's successes in fsports. 'Ayjpoint which to me shows that some school ipapers are only tolerated and not really wished for blessings,'is that a very small per cent of the eligiblescholars are contributors. 'Those who are ofteni the most outspoken in their feelings towards school spirit and shirking athleticteams are often the rriyovst backwardjin supporting the editor in his apparently thankless task. Not that those fellows do not wish the paper to bssuccessi ful but that they can 'noti-see the editor to beacaptain of a team 'aswell as the football or baseball captains. l'his spirit'is prevalent and is the common cry of editors. ' ' ' WI- can sympathize with those who iarer-unj able to do anything for their paperli but-,I hold those who are able butdo not as spirit' less crawlers, to speak in the irernacular, and believe that such fellows should be held in Page Thirtyfseven