Somerville High School - Radiator Yearbook (Somerville, MA)

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SOMERVILLE HIGH SCHOOL RADIATOR well for a while until, sad to relate, the old man became insane. He was placed in an asylum but the boys had little money, and that was soon spent, so the old man came home, not better, but worse for his sojourn in the asylum. He seemed wild. He played with knives and hatchets and at last, one night, attacked one of his boys with a saw. The boy awoke and called his brother and with his help imprisoned their father in the attic chamber. “The boys decided that the only safe thing for them to do was to imprison their father in a cage which they set about to build on the rear of the house. This plan was carried out, and soon after the old man died, partly from exposure and part- ly from grief. He was buried in the graveyard which I have mentioned as being further up the road. After this, it is said, the boys were driven from the house by the constant reappearance of their father’s ghost, carrying a saw. The boys have now passed away and the property belongs to the Government.” A half-witted country lad volunteered to show me, on the following day, the cage and the room where the ghost appears. I willingly consented to go. The room, I must say, still holds a rather ghastly appearance, and the cage is still stand- ing. “This will make an excellent subject for an English theme,” I remarked. “Would you like a ‘Ghost story’ better?” queried my country friend. “If you would, leave it to me.” Upon the assurance that I would, he told me to wait until spring and he’d have one for me. “Good!” I remarked, and we parted. The next day I left the “hotel” to go home and I have not seen my friend since. Nevertheless, I’ve heard his story. My uncle, who lives near him and who is a hunter during the fall, visited me last Christmas and told me the tale. It runs like this: “A city fellow, who thought he could hunt, was accompanied one day by my friend of the hotel, who acted as guide. They made an unsuccessf trip at the end of which my friend proposed a moonlight trip to the ‘Wildcat’ barn and there watch lor deer. It was agreed and they set out the following night at 10.30. On the way to the barn' my friend told him the story, not omitting the slightest awful detail, indeed, he added enough to make a fair-sized ghost story iilone. At last they reached the barn and climbing among the rafters selected a place on the roof which gave full view of both the graveyard and the house. “After waiting for a few minutes in the solemn stillness my friend thought he heard a deer and proceeded to instruct the hunter to wait until he should ‘scare ’im out’ and then take a pot shot. The boy then disappeared and the hunter thus left alone on a roof, near a haunted house with nothing but stillness abounding, began to think of the story of the insane man. ‘What if there were such things as ghosts?’ thought he. ‘What if they-------,’ he did not tinish, a deadly moan rose up from the graveyard and up rose a white spectre in the moonlight. He carried a saw and proceeded up the road, past the barn, into- the house, and now the hunter could see him in the attic chamber. “That was too much for the city chap who im- mediately jumped from his perch, landing safely on some hay which was stored in the barn, and ran headlong up the road, not looking to the left or right. He reached a sharp turn in the road and swerved. As he rounded the corner he col- lided squarely with—my uncle. They both were bowled over and arose covered with dust. They looked at each other in amazement and the city man was much relieved upon linding that he had not struck a ghost. They remained there a while and then the would-be hunter, thinking that an | excuse would be expected, began to tell the story. “He had not yet finished, when my friend was seen coining down the road with a gun and a suitcase, through the end of which protruded the ] corner of a sheet.” How the Country Wakes Up in the Morning Marjorie Fogg, 1919 VER on the western edge of the liori- zon, among the silver-lined clouds, the waning moon hangs. A few stars remain in the sky, but the have lost their crystal brightness, and shine drowsily down upon the sleeping world beneath. All is quiet and hushed. Except for the clear brook, deep in the green forest, gurgling merrily over the slippery, mossy stones, everything is still. The night wind has ceased and the leaves hangj motionless on the trees. Even the songbirds are| still asleep in their warm nests in the trees. | Everything seems asleep. Suddenly this silence is broken by the soft thurij of hoofs along the dusty road. It is a farinej with his wagon load of farm produce, intendiiL to sell it in tlie market of the neighboring citi

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10 SOMERVILLE HIGH SCHOOL RADIATOR when it saw Isaac in his ruddy coat, dashed into the house and ran under the stove. Mrs. Thurs- ton looked out to see the cause of its flight. Then she began to laugh! But Isaac evidently did not like to be laughed at for he turned and stalked slowly away. As fate would have it, he walked right into the clean white clothes. His back cov- ered with wet paint hit the garments and left a very evident trail. “Mrs. Thurston saw him and ran to drive him away. But he wouldn’a go away! Round and round , back and forth, he ran under the clothes, until the place looked like a dye yard rather than a yard full of clean clothes. Finally he ran out the gate and into the barn yard, leaving Mrs. Thurston in a state verging on the hysterical. “You would think that was enough mischief for one lamb for one day. But it wasn’t! It was my turn next. “That day I was training a new colt Thurston had bought. As I drove out of the barn in a light buggy, Isaac entered. Never having seen a red lamb the colt bolted out of the yard and down the road at a breakneck pace. The smashed buggy was found five miles down the road. As for my- self, T jumped and luckily landed in some bushes so I wasn’t badly hurt. I wonder I ever lived to tell of it! “Isaac—or the ‘Red Lamb’, as he was usually called—had a bad habit of sneaking into the grain room, and eating out of the barrels. That night partly to teach him a lesson, partly to re- venge myself on him, I put a pan of meal on the grain room floor and left the door open. In sneaked Isaac. He looked at the barrels and found them covered. Then seeing the pan he began to eat from it. In a few moments he coughed, then sneezed, then bleated. Then he tried to do all three at once. All of a sudden things began to happen. Imagine, if you can, a red jumping jack that jumped and turned over and rolled and sneezed and bleated! It was Isaac! I never saw such antics. I sat on the barn steps and rocked with laughter. Then Isaac bolted for the brook. I had mixed red pepper plentifully with the meal. The Legend of the Wildcat Theodore A. Corliss, 1921 IIROUGH one of the many heavily wooded sections of central New Hampshire runs a road which might well be noted for its monotony, the stillness being broken only by the casional twitter of a bird or the howl of a wild limal. The huge trees on either side overhang, heir branches shutting out the sun and lending coolness which has been called by travelers ‘second only to a refrigerator.” It was for this reason that I decided on one hot summer day, to take a stroll down this road and “keep out of the hot sun.” I set of! and traveling about three miles through the dusky forest suddenly stepped out into a clearing on which stands a little red house now falling to decay but once the habitation of a happy family, probably about the time of the Civil War. A spacious barn stands nearby, its roof rising just a bit above the tall trees that abound and serving as an excellent observation post for the hunter of animals which roam on moon- light nights. The house itself is a low building, its roof sloping to the front and rear and enclos- ing about five rooms with all the ground-floor windows “boarded up,” indeed an excellent pre- caution against burglars, should they care to , enter such a house by those means, but should one try the heavy door he would find it swing easily on its hinges, and would stand facing a creaky staircase, a gloomy room with paper and plaster falling, on either side of him. As T approached this building I was curious, and plowing my way through the tall grass, I stood facing the door. When I entered, a large piece of plaster, evidently jarred by my steps, fell from the ceiling and echoed through the empty chambers. I stood still for a moment, seeming to be under the spell of the silent huose and then turned abruptly and retraced my steps to the open air. closing the door very gently for fear of the disturbing, “funny feeling” that haunts the place. Wandering further down the road I came upon another clearing, disclosing a ruined church and gravevard. I had never seen these places before and the question which now filled mv mind was, “Shall I go further or return home?” It was late. T was hungry, so I determined upon the lat- ter and was soon swinging down the road at a mechanical gait, engrossed in my discoveries. That evening, at the hotel, I questioned the pro- prietor. who is also chief clerk and farm hand, and the story he told is something like this: “The little red house is called ‘The Wildcat.’ It seems that, years ago, an old man and his two sons inhabited the dwelling and depended fdr a living upon the fruits of the soil. Things went

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I SOMERVILLE HIGH he horse plods slowly and quietly, as though mindful of the silence, is unwilling to disturb it. The thud, thud of the horse’s hoofs grows fainter and fainter, and soon dies away altogether. Then the silence is felt again. Far away on the edge of the eastern horizon ap- pears a tiny red ball. This ball is slowly moving, and as it moves higher and higher in the heavens, it transforms the dusky, silvery clouds into colors of faint pink and red. The sky loses its grayness and changes to a light blue which gradually be- comes of a darker hue, and soon the whole firma- ment is flooded with the rosy colors of morning. The whole countryside seems to be waiting for the day that is to come. Everything is hushed; waiting, expectantly, hopefully, for the things this coming day will bring. There is a sort of pleasure in uncertainty. To some this day may bring grief and sorrow, to some joy and i leasure. Yet, they are all waiting to see what it will bring, and are preparing for it. Suddenly, there comes from the tree tops, the clear, sweet song of the robin. He is singing from the depths of his soul a cheery “Good morning” to the whole countryside, or perhaps he is singing to his mate in the nest, below, a sweet, tender love song. Perhaps he is telling the people to be happy and joyous, and think only of the bright side of life, and put away the cares and worries until to- morrow. From afar in the heavens, comes the dis- tant call of the crows, winging their way slowly SCHOOL RADIATOR to their nests in the tall tree tops. The sweet morning air stirs the leaves and grasses, and makes them sway to and fro. The swallows are twittering and chattering among the dusty cob- webbed beams of the barns, and signs of life are beginning everywhere throughout the country- side. From all the white, green-blinded houses, a thin gray wisp of smoke curls lazily up to soon van- ish in the air. Curtains are drawn aside, and windows opened to let in the cool, morning breeze. From afar comes the twinkle of the cow-bells, tell- ing of the returning of the herd to the pasture to browse in the green fields all the day. The horses are stamping in their stalls, eager to go out into the open and freedom. The barnyard fowl are strutting about the yard proudly, and the dogs are barking, just for the joy there is in living. The lambs frisk gaily about over the rough rocks and stubble fields, and the bees drone lazily over the bright colored flowers; darting here and there to some bright flower for honey. Morning has come! Over the variegated fields of wild flowers, over the deep, thick forest, and over the village, is the sun, riding across the heavens in his golden chariot, and sending his warm rays to the earth beneath. Up in the top- most branch of the maple tree sits the robin pouring forth in wild ecstasy, his cheery “Good morning” song to all those who wish to listen. Morning has come! HER FIRST DAY Alice Mixasian, 1921 I Under the Winged Victory, A little Freshie stands, The girl, a little child is she. With small and trembling hands, She thinks this is the biggest school In all the many lands. II Her hair is golden, long, and straight. Her face shows great unrest, Her cheeks are wet with anxious tears, She’s lost in the S. H. S., She looks distractedly about In hopes to find her quest. Ill At last a Senior dignified, Comes mincing carefully by; She glances at the poor lost child, And tells her not to cry; She shows her what she’s looking for— Then oil' the Freshman flies!