Vergennes Union High School - Blue and White Yearbook (Vergennes, VT)

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THE BLUE AND WHITE. 15 Cliffords Christmas. The Honorable George H. Mitchell stood at the window of his office, watching the busy crowd surge by. Happy faces they were, most of them, for it was Christmas eve, and the joy of Christmastide shone in bright eyes, and sounded in merry voices. But the Hon. Mitchell was thinking of his great empty house on the finest street of the city, and realizing that he was all alone. No loving wife awaited his home-coming with glad welcome; no happy children would wake the house in the morning witli merry shouts as they gleefully explored their Christmas stockings. As lie gazed, the sights and sounds of the noisy city went out, and he saw the little white farmhouse where, in his boyhood days, he had spent many happy hours with his brothers and sisters. A humble home it was, but blessed with the spirit of love and contentment. From this home he had come to the city, the goal of his dreams, and bent all his energies to the accumulation of wealth. He had realized his ambitions; he was one of the richest men of the city ; but, looking back tonight over those years of toil, he felt that they had been empty years, that he had missed the best of life. “Fifty years,” he murmered, “and my life is empty! empty!” The firm lips almost trembled, and the keen eyes under their shaggy brows held a weary look as he turned to the door and passed out, almost stumbling over a small boy sitting on ilie steps. ‘‘What are you doing here, my boy,” he said, not unkindly, “Why don’t you go home?” The boy looked up quickly, and something in the thin, eager face reminded the man of—what? He groped blindly through the corridors of memory—“Ah, yes ! of little Clifford, the frail darling of the home, who had stayed with them only four short years. But this little lad was clad in thin tatters, and shivered in the keen, wintry air. “Why don’t you go home, my boy?” repeated the Hon. Mitchell, his heart going out strangely to this waif who stirred such tender memories. “I aint got any, mister.” “No home ? Ah, then, you shall go home with me and we will spend Christmas together.” “Really mister? Really honest?” For answer, the Hon. Mitchell lifted him in his arms, and, joining the throng soon leached his own house. Ringing the doorbell, he was admitted by a servant. He passed hastily to the drawing-room where he deposited his burden in a great arm chair before the fire. Bewilder- ed by the warmth and light, the boy gazed wonderingly about the room. “Say, mister !” he broke out, “Do you live here all the time ?” The Hon. Mitchell smiled. “Do you like it?” he asked. “Like it, mister, its heaven !” “What’s your name boy ?” “Clifford.” ihe man started. “How singular!” he muttered under his breath, then aloud, “But your other name? Clifford what?” “1'ain’t got any other; leastwise, I never heard of none.” The Hon. Mitchell regarded him thoughtfully. “Well” he said suddenly, “lets have something to eat,” and, carrying Clifford to the dining room, where dinner was already served, he rang for the housekeeper. “Please lay another plate for my little friend here,” he said and placed Clifford in a chair opposite his own. The waif gazed in ecstasy as he was served with hot roast beef of a delicious brown, potato with steaming gravy, and beautiful white bread spread with golden butter. And the mince pie ! Clifford thought lie had never seen anything so nice before. As he watched the boy eat the man’s depression disappeared ; he felt quite cheerful. It was a pleasure to watch the changing expression of the childish face, and to answer the eager questions. At the end of half an hour they had become fast friends, and the Hon. Mitchell, holding the boy on his lap before the fire told him fairy tales that made his eyes shine with delight; then he told him the Christmas story, to which the child listened with rapt wonder. Lastly he told him how the children hang up their stockings ou Christmas eve and find them filled with toys and sweetmeats in the morning. “And shall I hang up a stocking?” cried Clifford eagerly. With a sudden tide of passionate yearning, the Hon. Mitchell hugged the child to his hungry heart. “Indeed, you shall,” he said earnestly, “tonight, and next Christmas, and the next; for you shall stay with me, and keep the gloom from my home. What do you say, little Clifford? Will you live with me and call me Father?” “Oh !” cried Clifford joyfully, “Can I really? How happy we shall be!” Then they hung up the stocking and Clifford was put into a wonderful, soft, white bed. With a blissful sigh, he closed his eyes as his head touched the downy pillow, and was lost in dreamland.

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14 THE BLUE AND WHITE. a small part of her unusual ability in writing poetry. Since the rising generation will need a new history, Miss Roscoe will travel abroad while preparing it. The whole world will honor Richard Miller when he plants his foot within an inch of the north pole. A vacant position in the Boston Conservatory of Music will be filled by Miss Hoffnagle. All the wealthy ladies of Chicago will wish to purchase their hats of Miss Tatro, a milliner in that city. Bristol will find the secret of perpetual motion, and we will all be glad to know that Miss Porter is stenographer for the President. When we visit Washington we call at the leading dry goods store, which bears the name of Robert Miller Co. Miss Grandy will be a dean in a great western college, and Miss Bristol will be a disappointed creature with all hopes vanished. Stories, Humerous and Otherwise. Metrical Translation from Virgil. The Festive Evening. Now, when the feast is done, and quiet reigns in in the dwelling. They bring out the golden bowls and fill them full to overflowing; Then, through the length of the halls, comes the clanior of many voices, And the lamps from the fretted ceiling, conquer the night with their brightness. The jewelled wine-bowl of Belus, heavy with golden carving, A bowl the descendants of Belus were wont to use at their revels, Dido, to honor the strangers, has brought to its place at the table. Holding the bowl aloft, she speaks in the silence that follows, Grant that this day to the Tyrians, Trojans alike be auspicious. Bacchus, thou giver of gladness, be present, and good mother Juno; And you, my Trojan subjects, rejoicing, throng the assembly.” She speaks, and into the bowl, she pours an ample libatii ai. With the tiiis of her rosy lips she sips from the brimming wine-cup And passes it on with a challenge, to Bitias sitting beside her, Eagerly takes he the bowl, and drinking deeply and freely, Passes it on to the others. The crested Iopas comes forth And plays sweet songs on the lyre; Iopas whom Atlas had taught. He sings of the wandering moon, of the course of the sun through the heavens ; Of whence came the race of men and of beasts, of the rain storm and fires ; He sings of the shining Arcturus, of the stars, of the rain, of the twin-bears, He tells why in winter the sun e’er hastens to touch the blue ocean, And why the nights are so long. The Trojans and Tyrians applaud him. Dido, far into the night, still talks of various subjects And drinks long draughts of love. She asks of Priam and Hector; Of how the son of Aurora had come, what arms he had carried: She asks of the great Diomedes, his horses, and mighty Achilles “Nay, rather, O strangers, disclose the treacherous plot of the Grecians. Tell from the very beginning your labors and wanderings endless, For seven long winters and summers you have roved o’er the face of the waters.” Julia M. Woodman, ’u6.

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1G THE BLUE AND WHITE. An hour later the Hon. Mitchell, having put the last touches on the well-filled stocking, stood by the child’s bed, feeling richer than he had in all his life before. He stooped and kissed the pure brow. “God bless you, little fellow,” he murmured brokenly, “You have brought the Christmas joy home to a lonely man’s heart.” Jennie Harris, ’07. How the Banker Got Even. “Thirteen hundred short, yes thirteen hundred short. Where was the deficiency ?” They had asked themselves, the professor in bookkeeping and his banker, this question a hundred times. They had gone over their books together and separately a dozen times. But the books wouldn’t balance by thirteen hundred dollars. “I tell you what,” finally exclaimed Yonker, the banker, as he finished adding up a long row of figures,” I can’t find the mistake so it’s all up to you. I’ve added those figures up and down and they come out the same way every time.” “Keep still,” exclaimed the professor wratlifully, then, glaring a few seconds at his banker, he resumed his adding. Not a sound could be heard; the banker sat there in his big chair, staring vacantly at the ceiling, wondering how much longer he would have to stay. He imagined he could hear two boys boxing at the gym. and hear a shout as a good blow was landed. He saw one of his friends just receiving a knock out blow then. “There!” shrieked the Professor excitedly, “I’ve got the blame thing. We forgot to credit Gray with that thirteen hundred he borrowed last Thursday. You can go now.” “Wait a moment, let me see that book,' said the banker, now excited, “No, Grey has been credited. Dou’t you see his account in that third column . “Why didn’t you tell me that before?' thundered the Professor. lie frowned, and, with a deep scowl on his brow, set to thinking. The poor trembling banker sat there thinking too, but his thoughts were not on his books. They were far from there. ‘The clock struck four, then half past. The banker thought he would speak, but fearing his own voice he kept his silence. Tile-clock struck five, then the Professor stirred. The banker thought he was going to get up, but no, he was just moving a sleeping member. Then silence reigned again except occasionally a long sigh from the banker and the deep breathing of the thinking Professor. The hands of the clock pointed to half past five. The banker was getting hungry. “Say,” he said in a weak voice, but no Professor stirred or heard. “Say !” a little louder, “Well I'll be hanged if he ain’t asleep. Say, are you going to sleep there all day?” thundered the banker, at least it sounded like thunder to him in that still room. The Professor jumped from his chair as if shot, and, grabbing his book, he fairly shouted, “I've got it.” “Well it’s about time some result was reached. I’m going home and get some supper. I’ll be up early in the morning, and you can tell me then if you find you are right.” The banker left the building and crossed the street to the gym. He could hear muffled sounds and on opening the door he perceived the cause. Arthur Solon, a heavy weight, and Oel Pape were having a round. He watched them a few moments and then started home. He crossed the street, just then remembering that he had left a couple of books on his desk which he must have any way. He turned his steps toward the school, and finding the front door unlocked, he went softly up the stairs. Not wanting to disturb the Professor, if he was working, he crept softly through the open door. The Professor was no longer at his own desk, but over at the banker’s, working at the cash drawer. “I’ll be hanged,” he thought, “I will just see what you are up to now, Mr. Professor.” He slipped into the class room and watched the Professor through the crack in the door. He heard the lock snap as it gave way, and then he saw the Professor fumbling over the papers. The banker gasped. What if the Professor should come across those novels hidden under his papers ! But the Professor’s thoughts were on some-, thing else besides novels, for he quickly closed the drawer, and, as he turned toward him, the banker saw the Professor had his hands full of bills. He went to his private desk where, opening the lower drawer, he carefully tucked the bills away. Then, locking the drawer, he hid the key under an Ancient History, and went out of the room. The banker listened a moment to see if the Professor had really gone; then, creeping to the desk, he quickly unlocked the drawer and, taking out the bills, rapidly trausfered them to his own desk. Muttering to himself that two could play at the same game, he left the room. “The bank’s been robbed ! Every cent’s gone !” That’s what the banker told the Professor the next morn-