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

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8 VERGENNES HIGH SCHOOL --------“Charles. I met that Mr. Roberts. the wonderful bridge player, today! He’s darling, and looks just like a count!’’ -----“Do you suppose he'll help you any?” -----—“Think of it, lie’s going to help me. and—I’ve invited him to dinner !” -----“Oh------------” Came college. Charles, now “Van.” was easily the most popular boy on the campus. He drove, he swam, he rode, he danced, he paddled, he played polo, was enthusiastic about golf, and was class president. Then came the Annual Masquerade Ball. Of course Charles invited Sibyl. --------“Charles. I want you to introduce me as your cousin. Don’t tell anyone that I’m your mother. Will you. Charles? Please!” He looked down at her. Sibyl dressed in a flowing red chiffon dress with velvet hearts scattered here and there, her tiny, high-heeled, red velvet slippers, her striking crown of rubies and red silk mask—she was undeniably a “Queen of Hearts.” There was a hurt look in Charles’ eyes but he said. “If you want me to—Sibyl.” Charles, gayly dressed as a highwayman. danced with Jerry, with June, with Hildegarde; he danced with gypsies, with ballet-dancers, with Turkish girls, but always with that hurt look in his eyes. It was three weeks after that when Charles’ dreams were completely shattered. On coming back from golf he found two letters awaiting him. On reading them his dark face became white with pain. Sibyl’s letter—hap-py-go-lucky. Dad’s—sympathetic. Over and over again the words echoed in his ears, “A divorce! Must choose Between Dad and Sibyl.” Bitter thoughts—Life, life was just a game, a game of hearts. Everyone must play his own hand. Plearts were trump. Look at Sibyl, daring, sophisticated. an expert at the game. Sibyl, always ‘posing.’ Sibyl, lazy, stretched on the couch in her bright orange pajamas. her dark head against a colorful pillow. Sibyl, smart in black and white, alert, laughing and interested, on the golf course. Sibyl, dressed in a pale evening gown, lovely, fun-loving and strangely wistful, at a ball. And Dad! Charles’ voice broke as be said, “You’re a trump. Dad!” He had made his choice. Slowly the curtains .closed, hiding Charles Van Wayne, the popular Broadway hero, from view. Silence. The spell-bound audience relaxed its tenseness and drew a breath of satisfaction. The play, “Realism.” had made a hit! A QUEER BOXING MATCH Wilma Wood, ’31 Come with me to one of the foothills of the Green Mountains. The time—noon in late November. The scene—a clearing in which a man and a boy. sitting side by side, are eating their noonday lunch. Nearby is a pile of wood which tells us that they are choppers. They finish their eating and are resting and smoking when we hear the boy say, “I’d like to know what that ’ere dog be barking about. He hasn’t stopped since ’round ten o’clock this morning, accordin’ to my hearing.” “Let’s go and see. Joe.” answers the man, whom we take to be the boy’s father. So the two walk in the direction from which they hear the dog’s barks. After they have walked about eighty rods they see the dog and also see what has caused all the noise. The

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BLUE AND WHITE 7 Mrs. Van Sweldt looked surprised. “This,” she said, regarding the dog disgustedly at arm’s length, “is Flossie.” THE CHIPMUNK WITHOUT A TAIL I saw him near the house one day— This chipmunk without a tail; This is a pun in an obvious way, Now you can follow the trail. But how in the world could he lose his plume? Perhaps he was caught in a trap; Perhaps he fought, then started to fume, And escaped with it there in the gap. Or maybe a man with naught to do Took only a souvenir And let him live, ’though I’m sure he knew He’d been cruel. The poor little dear! And those who guessed the sad mishap, And guessed his cause to wail, Felt sorry for the little chap— The chipmunk without a tail. Lois Bristol, ’32 DEER HUNTING I sit here in my seat today And picture the woods so far away. 1 picture the men all hunting for deer, 1 picture the day; it is nice and clear; But the prettiest picture I can see Is the mother deer and her baby, Afraid to venture out in the clear I’or fear some hunter is waiting near. 1 he little one seems so happy and free, But mother knows there will danger he— If the hunter sees so much as her head He’s sure to shoot. What a terrible dread! I wonder, dear men, what picture I’d see If you were the deer all ready to flee, And they were the men behind some tree. All ready to shoot the minute they’d see The least little bit of your body. Agnes McDurfee, ’34 ON THE SLOPE OF A MOUNTAIN GLADE On the slope of a mountain glade. Where the trees arch high above, 1 love to pause and hear the wind Sigh out its song of love. On the crest of a ridge of rock, That marks the height of a peak 1 stand and watch the world of men, And the view is barren and bleak. But the woods are cool and still, And you know no other’s woe. Shall human mind and human hand Be the force which bids them go? Roger Wendell, ’31 REALISM Mary Bourget. '33 It was a queer room, all green and black with a dash of orange now and then. The walls were broken swirls of orange and green against a black background, with no pictures. There were green velvet draperies, strangeshaped painted furniture and dimly lighted lamps. It was like some modernistic stage setting. Charles Van Wayne—a young Apollo—tall, slender and graceful, with dark hair and eyes, sat on the low couch before the fireplace. His dark eyes, intent on watching the flames, were thoughtful. Red flames, blue flames, yellow flames—all jumping. circling and changing, lie looked around. This strange gorgeousness was Sibyl’s sitting-room ! ‘Mother!’ Charles gave a hitter laugh, then— “Charles!” Jumping up quickly and holding out both hands, he drew Sibyl, a tiny, dark-haired, dark-eyed person, dressed in bright orange pajamas, to the couch. Tea and talk. Vivid talk from Sibyl, half-hearted from Charles.

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BLUE AND WHITE 9 animal had dug and dug in the snow that had packed in between the branches of an immense fallen tree until he had uncovered the den of an old bear, who had thought he was safe until spring. The man takes the axe and tries to kill the bear, who is getting the best of poor Fido. As he approaches him to strike, the bear knocks the axe away about four feet. He gets the axe and tries again, but every time the bear knocks the axe from his hand. The struggle between dog and man and the bear goes on until the man sees that he is not going to be able to kill old Bruin with an axe. He sends the boy home and keeps watch of the dog and the bear, who seem to have declared an armistice. After a long half hour the boy returns on horseback, bringing a rifle and ammunition. Of course the story is soon ended now, but we are convinced that a bear is a good boxing opponent. OUTSIDE THE LINE OF DUTY It was a dark, rainy day in the valley of the Wild Moose. The rain descended in torrents and rolled in streams from the already saturated land. For the valley was in the grip of one of the worst floods that its history had ever known. The Wild Moose, ordinarily a tranquil stream which meandered through its fertile valley on its way to the sea, was now a roaring torrent, sweeping wildly over the rolling acres which had once been the pride of the peaceful farmers who dwelt by its banks. The railroad, upon which the little town of Malton depended for its communication with the outside world, was perilously near destruction as the waters swept about its embankments, and fifty isolated survivors of the wrecked town gazed anxiously along its stretching steel tracks for the help that might never come. In the railroad terminal of Clinton, thirty miles away, a wearied train dispatcher addressed the gathering of firemen and engineers who had crowded into his office: “The water is high, the tracks may be gone, but they are waiting for you down there. No one will be ordered to go. but volunteers will please step forward.” It can be said to the credit of them all that there was not one among them who would not willingly have given his life if it was necessary, but in justice to their families, wives and children who were dependent upon them they could not go. Nevertheless, six men stepped forward, and the dispatcher indicated two of them by a nod of his head. Without a word they turned on their heels and left the room. Ten minutes later a freight engine, with a box car attached, pulled out of the terminal. The engine puffed slowly along the tracks and safely felt its way over twenty-five miles of treacherous embankment before entering the hardest hit district of the valley. In some places the water was over the tracks, but still the small engine crept on. Finally they reached the last bend and slowly rounded it. There, dimly seen through the driving rain, were the refugees, huddled upon the station platform. The whistle of the engine burst forth in a shrill shriek of triumph. Then, upon the very brink of success, there was a grinding of metal, a burst of escaping steam, and the waters closed over their victims. Today, in a small town in a western state, there is a small shaft of marble, erected “to perpetuate the memory of the heroic sacrifice of James Franklin and William Smith, killed in courageous performance outside the line of duty.” Robert W. Larrow, ’32