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

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8 VERGENNES HIGH SCHOOL It is a late summer afternoon in the month of August. Two middle-aged men in buckskin clothing are drawing near a small cabin in a clearing of about two acres in size. There are several children playing about the door of the cabin. Yet there is an air of caution which hangs over the whole scene. As the two men draw near, the children run in the cabin and shut the door with a bang. Soon the door opens and an elderly lady of about 50 steps out of the door to greet the strangers. It seems that the Indians of the surrounding tribes are on the warpath and all the settlers have been moved to the fort on Lake Champlain except this one family near Otter Creek. This elderly lady. Mrs. Sherman, and her nine children live here. When the warning was sent out she replied that she would re- main aS she thought she could take care of herself. Her husband had been killed in a previous raid on the settlements. These two men were scouts from the fort who had come to take the woman and her children back to the fort. Mrs. Sherman thanks the men very kindly for wanting to help her, but tells them she wishes to remain here. She invites them to stay to supper which the hungry men gladly accept. One of the boys goes out to bring a bowl of water for the night meal, but as he steps out the door, an arrow knocks the bowl out of his hand. He runs back into the house and slams the door, barring it with the board provided for this. All the windows and doors are boarded except for the small holes to stick the guns through. In a moment

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BLUE AND WHITE 7 “ROKEBY” On the main highway, in the town of Ferrisburg, set slightly hack from the road in a frame of old trees, stands the Robinson homestead, made famous as the birthplace and home of Rowland Evans Robinson, artist and' distinguished writer. The unpainted, weathered house does not give one any impression of its age or interesting history. It is not important for its architectural lines or style, but for what it shelters beneath its roof. Four generations of the Robinson family have lived in this house, which was bought by the great grandfather of the present owner, Rowland T. Robinson, son of the author. Here many a fugitive slave was sheltered on his way to Canada and freedom for this was one of the underground railway” stations. An evidence of the interest the father of the author had in abolition, is the framed copy of a Vermont newspaper of 1843 in the entrance hall, which gives notice of an Abolitionists Meeting in Ferrisburg, and is signed by the senior Robinson. Before Rowland E. Robinson -became blind, he did a great deal of sketching and painting. He sold humorous drawings to magazines. In addition to drawing cartoons, he did illustrations for seed catalogs. When he went fishing. he always took along his sketch book to make pencil sketches of scenes which took his fancy. Later he transferred them to canvas with oils, supplying colors from memory. He often used the fungus growth from the trees as a medium on which to sketch, that permanently preserved the picture when dried. At the house is a large collection of this work. However, most of his drawing was done in the evening by the light of a kerosene lamp, which either caused or hastened his later blindness. When Mr. Robinson lost the sight of one eye, and the other was failing, he went to New ork for an operation, but it was not successful, and he became totaly blind. With encouragement from his wife, he tried writing. It is doubtful if any name connected with the literature of Vermont is better known and more loved than that of Rowland E Robinson, the blind author of the “Robinson Books.” Marion Harrington ’37 and Glen St. Jean, ’39 MID AFTERNOON A grey sky— A grey store— A grey bird’s Sweeping soar. A grey street— A grey wall— A grey town In a grey pall. A grey man— A grey cat— Dull, grey monotony—shattered ! By a school girl in a crimson hat. Catherine Bodette, ’37

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BLUE AND WHITE 9 a “whoop” is heard from the woods and about a dozen Indians start for the cabin, but they are met by a volley of shot and six of them fall dead. The rest ran back to the cover of the woods. During this lull the two men from the fort look around and are surprised to see that several of the children have muskets and are all posted at a hole around the wall. It is getting very dark now and the people in the cabin can hardly see the woods, when suddenly about two dozen tire arrows flv through the air and land on the roof of the cabin. The Indians are trying to set the cabin afire. Things look pretty bad for the people in the cabin. When Mrs. Sherman Sees that there is no hope of saving the cabin, she lifts up a trap door in the floor and beckons to the children to descend. She explains to the men that this is a tunnel that leads down to the river bank. They fire another volley of shot and then go down into the tunnel. After walking along the tunnel for about ten mnuites, they hear a crash; it is the house falling down. To the utter amazement of the two scouts, the tunnel leads into a large room underground which is furnished with regular frontier furniture. Off from this room are two smaller rooms which serve as sleeping quarters. In the corner is a stove with a chimney which runs up into the center of a hollow tree. Mrs. Sherman explains to the scouts that she and her children have made this underground home and that they will be safe here for the time being until the Indians find the place from the smoke. Just then they hear shouting from the tunnel. The Indians have discovered the tunnel in the cellar of the burned house. Mrs. Sherman has taken care of this also. Out of a large cupboard in the wall she takes a small bag of powder and rolls it down the tunnel. In a few minutes a great explosion is heard. Unfortunately for the Indians the powder goes off right amongst them and caves in the tunnel. During this time the people in the house have escaped down the river in a canoe and are on their way to the fort. Sidney Danvow, ’38 VERMONT There is one place in this wide world Dearer than any spot Found on the face of this old earth— My native state—Vermont. No matter where my steps may lead Nor where success be sought, If failure comes I’ll tread the path To my native state—Vermont. Vermont will ever be to me A place for love and thought, And as the years slip quickly by I’ll dream of old Vermont. Cecile Lajoie, ’40