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

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YERGENNES HIGH SCHOOL CY’S COW BESS Edward Ryan. ’35 I had the pleasure of paying “Uncle Cy” a visit last summer. Cy was the typical New England farmer. Bright eyes peered over ancient spectacles, while a little white beard waggled with his every word. He showed me the farm with great pride accompanied by explanatory words and shrill cackles. Finally he showed me his cow Bess. The cow had sad eyes somewhat resembling those of a hound. One could ponder for hours gazing into those eyes. One had inspirations. One made resolutions. Another feature was the movement of Bess’s ponderous jaw. One moment it was closed. Then suddenly it would drop, veering slightly to the left, gradually rising. With one motion its course was altered and the jaw would return to the former position only to repeat the exercise. It was amazing that it didn’t tire. However Bess was a super-animal. I stepped nearer to watch the process better when a foot shot out with great speed and power, narrowly missing me. “Right spirited critter, hey boy?’’ queried Cy with a cackle. I had to admit that she was, while retreating to a safer distance. Then Cy narrated a bit of history about his cow Bess. Our assistant editor in his own characteristic way, tries his skill at stories “Wal, it’s like this. When she was a young ’un she was uncommon spry. She ’ud allays go chasing off a jumping over fences and the like. We sure had a hard time to hold ’er down, boy—we sure did. We usta put a lot of weights and things on her, but it didn’t do no good. No sir-eee. It didn’t do no good. She was right handy at slippin’ ’em off. Once she was gone fer tew whole weeks. We found her ten miles off on an island in the middle of a lake. She had swam out and was chewin’ grass just as contented as could he. Wal. a vet came and looked her over when he heard how remarkable she was. He made a bet of $500 that she would live to be twenty years old. I tuk him up. but I wanted that $500 pretty bad, so fer the last few months I’ve been kinda slippin’ up on her care. She’s eighteen now and I think she’s jest as spry as ever. Heh, heh. I guess I’m gonna lose my bet. Wal look there, will ya!” I looked—and saw Bess gasping her last breath. A few minutes later a beautiful life was gone forever. The ill treatment had finally taken effect. Bess was no more. All Cy said was— “Heh, heh! Gosh durn it all—the critter jest earned $500 in one minute!” of animal lore. You have the result. —Editor’s note. OUR NEW PUP Edward Ryan, ’35 I was enjoying my favorite pastime reading the latest “Sport Story Magazine” and gnawing on some candy with quiet and peace throughout the house. A bark, probably meant to make me jump to the ceiling, interrupted me. Being rather irritated, I looked for the cause of my interruption. After some minutes of searching I espied an object greatly resembling the bottom of a dry mop, the only difference being that the dog—for upon closer examination I discovered that it was a dog—had white fur. After a few more ferocious growls he decided I would pass in the dark and began biting my hands and tearing the magazine—the precious magazine that had set me back exactly fifteen cents. Needless to say we became enemies. To make matters worse I was elected to take care of him.

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7 BLUE AND WHITE SIDEWALKS OF NEW YORK Earl German, ’33 It is that grey, gloomy hour just before darkness comes in the evening. In ten minutes the street lights will snap on. The narrow, dirty East Side street looks sinister and foreboding. There is no sign of life anywhere except the shrill twitter of sparrows, quarreling in the gutters. Suddenly a man steps out of a doorway, looks nervously up and down the street, hesitates a moment, then starts rapidly down the sidewalk. He has not gone fifty feet when around a corner two blocks behind him a long, open car swings into the street at a dangerous speed. The hurrying man hears it. glances quickly over his shoulder at the approaching car, then starts running down the sidewalk, glancing here and there as though looking for a place to hide, to crawl into, to escape. The car lurches toward him; he gives a hoarse scream. There comes a staccato of shots. The man crumples, falls forward on his face, and lies still in a grotesque heap. With a roar the car picks up speed and disappears down the street. Five minutes later. There is a noisy crowd in the street now. The police have just arrived. An ambulance, for which there is no need, rounds a corner and draws up to the curb, siren screaming. Joe Conzelli, killer and right-hand man of Spike Moran, East Side beer baron, has gone to join his ancestors. Fifteen minutes later. The street is quiet again. Once more the sparrows, fighting over a bit of refuse, are the only sign of life. Only another gang killing, an every day occurrence here in New York. One man killed; a little news for the papers; nothing more. MY TIN SOLDIER I found a wee tin soldier A-sitting on a shelf; Amid my books and papers He stood there by himself. His uniform was scarlet, II is musket straight and true; His eyes were understanding, Tho’ he was far from new. I took my wee tin soldier Along to school with me; Upon my desk I set him, Where I could plainly see. And when there came a lesson 1 knew I could not do, I’d look at my tin soldier, Standing straight and true. • He’d give me inspiration For work and for my play— I’ve kept my wee tin soldier f rom then until this day. Faith Kenyon, ’36.

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BLLE AXD WHITE 9 I have mentioned before that he was a white clog with fluffy hair. This hair became less white very rapidly. In a few days I had to give him a bath. Being delicate and high-pedigreed he would have to receive the proper kind of a bath. I was to seek information on the care of dogs in order to give said bath properly. It was some time before I ascertained the breed and determined the proper method. The bath was a night-mare. I believe he hated to take it almost as much as I hated to give it. From the first he was a job to handle. I had him well cleaned except for his ears and two feet when he managed to slip under my arm and away. Then and there I got my own idea of a merry-go-round. We circled the kitchen table until I was so dizzy I could have sworn 1 was chasing at least five or six dogs. One time I got the milk pitcher on my head and another a dish of chocolate pudding. Finally I baffled him by staying under the table until I saw a chance to get him. I took the chance and got one leg and a bump the size of an egg. When I finished his bath he looked like a wet rag instead of a dry mop. it went on like this for days. I was becoming a nervous wreck. Finally I decided either he would leave or I would. He left. This was one of my life’s few horrible experiences. I only hope that if God has created things worse than a high-toned pup he will keep them out of my life. TREES It was a late October afternoon as ----- and I sat in a rustic chair formed by a crooked limb of a tree by the lake shore. The sun was about to set and the whole mountain on the opposite shore seemed aflame as the colors of the frost-tinted trees were thrown back across the still, blue-green waters of old Champlain. “Aren’t those beautiful colors just a picture unpaintable?” — exclaimed. “It seems I’ve never seen the foliage as beautiful as it is this fall, the golden-yellow of the birch, the red of the hard maples, and every now and then a DOWN AMONG THE Down among the beech trees, North of a rocky hill, A shaded path I follow When all the world is still. The home of little chipmunks Is at the journey’s end; The woodland gives me welcome; My footsteps onward trend. sprinkling of green; the faithful old evergreens surely make themselves stand out with their perpetual green coats.” That was the last time ------- and I enjoyed the trees’ splendor that fall, as school life took up so much time. Nevertheless, many a day as I sat dreamily in school on cold winter afternoons. I often gazed at the lacy outlines of the trees, now without any vestige of cover, except here and there an occasional thin blanket of snow on their lacy fingery branches. Robert Cotey, ’33. BEECH TREES Down under tussocks mossy A little hole I see— A vestibule so tiny. With neither lock nor key. Beneath an arch of lichens A little porch stands out. With Nature’s magic touches And tufts of ferns about. Now when I'm feeling lonely, My heart is sad until The shaded path I follow. When all the world is still. Barbara Bristol, ’34