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

Page 11 text:

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

Page 10 text:

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

Page 12 text:

10 VERGENNES HIGH SCHOOL BUENA VISTA “Well, Henry, we’re here at last. Oh, he careful, you nearly ran into that tree! Oh clear! A poor little fern—all crumpled up. What?—It is too a fern. After all these years a member of the Women’s Horticulture Club. I ought to know a fern when I . . . did you say dandelion greens? Really. Henry, I’m sure I would have noticed it anyway. after all, I was a charter member of the Women's Hort-----Henry, were you laughing at me? I do wish you wouldn’t mumble like that. “Rrr-r—don’t you think it’s getting cold? Which box did you put our winter coats in? Yes. dear, you ‘told me so,' but after all. you’ll have to admit F was the one who remembered to lock the house up “Oh Henry! Isn’t it grand to be here! Just think—two whole weeks of pure enjoyment—no business—no telephones —no worries—no—Henry! Did you remember to tell the milkman not to stop? But I told you to! Fourteen bottles of milk just wasted. “Oh well—Let’s not worry. Let’s enjoy ourselves. Isn’t the lake lovely— and so romantic . . . Henry! Henry ! Where are you ? Oh there you are. Oh. no you don’t. You don’t go fishing yet, You’re going to help me unpack. ‘Lovely view’—humph! “Oh Hen, dear, I don’t remember putting this pail in, do you? . . . . Sometimes I think I might as well talk to a stonewall . . . hmm. This pail is heavy. Euk! doow! Oh my goodness ! What in the world! There, out vou go—you—you worms! HENRY, DON’T SHOUt AT ME. I was merely emptying that pail of dirt. “Henry, we’ve forgotten the knives and forks. Don’t stand there looking at me like that. Say something. Go over to that camp and borrow some right away . . . Heavens! My freckle cream spilled all over Henry’s socks. Whew I’m tired. I might as well write a card to Grace—she expects it. Let’s see—‘Dear Grace, having a swell time. Wish you were here—Mable and Henry !’ There— “Oh dear, why doesn’t Henry come back. Sometimes I wish we had never-— “Oh there you are. Why Henry— what ARE you grinning about? Tell me the good news quick! What—two of them? And they play bridge!? Oh Henry!” Jeannette Graves. ’37 SLATE Scotch Hill Road is a small road labeled “Legal load limit 20.C00 pounds” running out of Fair Haven toward West Castleton. If you drive along it. you will notice one thing in particular, piles and piles of waste slate, a lopsided derrick with maybe a pair of rusty tackle blocks protruding from the top of each—crude monuments to a mighty industry. I believe that Vermont stands second or third in world production of slate; that Fair Haven is the one place where one can get a real unfading green slate in the whole world, but that is neither here nor there. What I want to do is take up some unimportant but rather interesting phases of the slate industry. First of these is its effect on the people. Slate miners are, for some mysterious reason, Welsh. That gives a slate-quarrying town a different atmosphere from any other. The Welsh are a quiet people, slow to anger, and tough as the beefsteak I cooked myself. They have magnificent singing voices. In their own churches, they often sing unaccompanied, and the sound is something you’ll never hear elsewhere, and never forget.