Scarborough High School - Four Corners Yearbook (Scarborough, ME)

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FOUR CORNERS 9 young English officer, whose face was a picture of excitement, anxiety, and pain. Opposite the little gray roadster, the car stopped, and leaning over the side of the car, the officer shouted, “A French hospital has been shelled, many are wounded, and I am after some Red Cross nurses, but I can’t find anyone at the Headquarters. What shall I do ?” Mary’s courage and tact arose to meet the occasion. She explained that all the nurses were at the station and gladly pointed out the way to him. But the officer, observing the condition of the car, invited her to ride back with him. When she had climbed into the car, she noticed that his right arm had been hurriedly bandaged and that his head was badly cut. In reply to her questioning look, he told her that he had been slightly wounded. Mary’s heart swelled with pride and pity when she thought of this brave young officer who had come all these miles driving the car with his arm lying helpless at his side. It was the work of only a few minutes for the skilled hands to bandage the wounded head, to apply splints to the broken and badly bruised ami. Then, pushing aside the protests of the officer, whose name was Lucien Dale, she took her seat at the wheel, and the car was soon on its way. In less time than I can tell, the car was speed¬ ing back over the road to the hospital, followed by a carload of nurses and supplies. During the two weary months which followed, it was Mary’s kind and patient hand that nursed Lucien back to life, for a terrible, slow and almost fatal fever followed the accident. It was Mary who administered to the wants and comforts of the soldiers. It was Mary who smoothed the death pillow and closed the eyes of many a brave young soldier. It was she who wrote back home to break the sad or good news to the mother. It was she who cheered the tired, overworked nurses and doctors, but what Lucien considers her great¬ est work was the restoring him back to life. Is it any wonder that Lucien Dale boasts that he is the proudest and happiest man alive, since he claims Mary as his own private nurse? Ruth Lincoln, T8.

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8 FOUR CORNERS yjixUmxxf. A LITTLE GRAY ROADSTER. On a deserted, muddy, country road, two miles from any buildings, was a small, gray roadster, sunk a foot or more in the soft mud. The car was covered with clay, which had dried and given the car a rather spotted effect. At the wheel sat a young girl clothed in a khaki cloak and cap. At a closer examination, one might see the locks of curly coal black hair which strayed from under the tight fitting band of the cap, and blew against her flushed and rosy cheeks. From dark eyelashes shone two bright eyes which appeared black, as one looked into their almost fathomless depth. From between fresh red lips shone two rows of even teeth. It was a beautiful face of a young girl, and every line of the face showed determination, courage, and a strong will power. But at present the whole face portrayed a picture of perplexity. For Mary Winthrop was a Red Cross nurse, ‘‘somewhere in France,” and was on her way to administer to the comfort of a trainload of American soldiers who were on their way to the front. Now every¬ thing seemed lost. She had driven her car too near the mud-soaked section of the road. The wheels had slipped in the wet clay; her car was thrown into the midst of the mud, where it seemed willing to remain from that time on, in spite of Mary’s many but futile attempts to release it. Discouraged, tired and muddy, she sank back on the seat of her car, threw her gloves on the empty seat beside her, cov¬ ered her eyes with her small hands, and tried to think of some means of freeing her car from the irresisting clutch of the wet clay. She would be too late if she walked to the station, five miles dis¬ tant. The houses for miles around had been deserted since the out¬ break of the war, so it was useless to go after help, and she certainly could not stay there. The only thing left to do was to walk three miles back to headquarters. She had almost made up her mind to do it, when the welcome sound of an automobile horn met her atten¬ tive ears. With an excited jump, she distinguished a large black touring car coming down the road at a breakneck pace, swaying first to one side of the road, then to the other. At the wheel sat a

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10 FOUR CORNERS THE WRECK OF THE MARY ANN. The fishermen of Baldwin Cove were very superstitious people. They did not believe that the land was a very safe place to live on, so for this reason they lived in old boats drawn up on the beach. Sitting in the door of one of these strange dwellings was an old man. He had in his hand a small boat, which he was making out of a block of wood. Beside him was a boy of twelve, who was watching the construction of the boat with eager interest. “Isn’t it most done now, Uncle Obed?” he asked. “Yes, Jack, it’s all done,” Uncle Obed replied, as he looked closely at the keel. “Good,” said Jack heartily, “what shall we call it?” “Well,” said the old man, handing it to Jack, “I think we’ll call it the Mary Ann.” “Isn’t that the name of the old wreck over there on the rocks?” inquired the boy further. “It is, as sure as my name is Obediah Perkins,” was the reply. “Say, Uncle, tell me about that, won’t you?” Jack asked, and as he saw the old man begin to shake his head he added, “Please.” “Well, I don’t care, all right,” assented the “Cap’n,” as he was called. “Way back about ten years ago, the Mary Ann was the fastest sailor in these parts. She always was the first into port with her load of fish, and always the first back to the fishing grounds. “One day, after all the other schooners had took up anchor and started toward home, the Mary Ann stayed for a little while, as she had just found a good place. “About an hour after the others had left, dark clouds began to show in the nor’east. When the cap’n saw these he started back home as fast as canvas would take him. When about half way back the squall struck them. They had to take down all sails or the vessel would have capsized. All that night and the next day the storm raged. Just as the storm was letting up, a large piece of driftwood rammed her, broadside on, making a hole one foot wide in the bow. “The men thought all was up, but the cap’n with the help of the mate nailed a piece of canvas over the hole and piled the fish against