Spartanburg High School - Spartana Yearbook (Spartanburg, SC)

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The Scribbler 27 est Stewart, who was twenty years old. Their proudest possession was the old mansion, which had been kept intact from the least change since the night George Washington spent there. (Frances Beckwith, ’23). It was an old, dilapidated white house huddled at a great distance from the curving road. Its many dark cypress trees added a touch of gloom. A dark green shutter had slipped reluctantly from one stained window in a tottering fashion. The massive columns and the balustrade of the upper veranda showed many scars of time. The south wing of the mansion held a bird’s nest, with a wisp of straw streaming from the top. A hungry-eyed hawk perched on the top step seemed to be the one live touch in the whole scheme. (Mamie Lou Brown, ’22). To “Irish,” as he came nearer, even the hawk seemed to have the tilt to his head, which was characteristic of all the Stewarts. Why, even the brutes and birds seemed to have absorbed that “stuck-up air of those no-accounts,” Irish thought as the “senseless critter” gazed disdainfully at the wondrous green plaid. Well, it was the only living being which could gaze so at him now, for only yesterday, the green plaid had triumphed over the old grey of the Major; and the Stewarts were driven by “Irish” from their almost sacred “Old Stone Mansion.” But all these facts were soon forgotten as he gazed at the artistic, antique pile before him. His thoughts were dealing not with the dust of the ages, but with “Renovation, Hammers, Paint, Bon Ami, Boarding House, Terms per Day $1.50.” As he wandered from one wing of the house to another and desecrated it with these thoughts in his mind, he heeded not the passage of time until he heard the flutter of the old hawk, as he started homeward for the night. Then he realized that the shadows of the cypress trees were long and that he must follow the old hawk. The sun had ended its day’s journey. The night wind already had begun to blow the fragrance of wild blossoms from the mountains, and night to cast her grey shadows over the brilliant path of the setting sun. (Lillian Patten, ’23).

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26 The Scribbler There was not a home in Marketown that did not feel it. Even those whose occupants were wont to hurl things at each other’s head felt its light touch in their midst—and rejoiced. (Ella Brooks, ’23). The sunlight burnished still brighter the bright red hair of a queer-looking little man coming down the street of Marketown at this early hour. He was a solid, substantial citizen, who had the respect of all his fellow citizens and was proud of it. You could easily tell that by the way he swung his highly ornamental little cane and peered through his two pairs of spectacles at every passerby. He had only one weakness. No, two—a taste for green plaid and a lack of sense of humor. The former he indulged in on incognito trips; the other was with him always. He was “Irish,” the town’s only real estate dealer. He thought not of the beautiful stretches around his home as “meadows pied with daisies trim” or the “violet-embroidered dale”; but as “Lots For Sale.” He thought not of the tumble-down shack as a “Little Grey Home,” but as “House to Rent.” The very spring in his walk spoke of complacency. (Agnes Marsh, ’23). The “Bounce! Bounce!” of his walk as he left town and started into the country seemed to say: At dawn upon a mountain height; At dusk upon the sea; All day long in the bright sunlight; Come, rove the world with me. (Elizabeth Ellerbe, ’22). After several miles of bouncing “Irish” finally reached his goal, the “Old Stone Mansion,” as it was called by all the people who lived in the little village. It was one of the oldest houses in the community. Generation after generation it had been occupied by the Stewarts. They had always been and still were proud people; and in truth they had a right to be. You could always tell a Stewart by the way he held his head. It was innate in them, from the old Major down to his great-grandson, the young-

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28 The Scribbler The nightly shadows now were falling fast; The sunset’s glow was fading in the west; The windmill crimsoned with the dying sun ; The crickets started with their evening song. (Liles Creighton, ’23). The peaceful lake was silent in the eve, As merry stars began to twinkle down Upon the earth serene. Above the pines, On peaks around, the moon began to rise. (Margaret Law, ’22). “Irish” was startled to see that so much time had passed and that he must make the long journey back to Marketown in the darkness. He didn’t like that very much, for his conscience was none too clear about that transaction with the Stewarts on the day before. He looked up above him. Black clouds were sailing ’cross the sky; Half moon was hung so low; Mourning winds went sneaking by; A sound came soft and slow. (Frances Beckwith, ’22). He looked around him quickly to see where it had come from, and discovered that in making a short cut through the forest, he had almost run into a little log cabin. The groan had come from little Abe, a very lively species of a very black cloud. He had heard with trembling his mother’s call, for he dreaded that darkness within the cabin, which seemed to reach out for him in front and clutch at him from the rear. But the call came again; this time in a very decided tone. Little Abe heard it as he shrank down on the doorstep; and “Irish” heard it as he crept closer into the shadow and listened. “Abe, go fetch yourself to bed!” his mammy said. “What you skeered of when Ah done told you dey ain’t no ghosts ?” “Ah ain’t skeered of ghosts what am,” ejaculated little Abe. “Den what am yer skeered of ?”