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

Page 8 text:

6 VERGENNES HIGH SCHOOL fate, they had met here on their homeward trips. “The West,” the big fellow had a drawl, “brings you closer to nature than any other place in the world. Can't you see it? The huge trees, the canyons, the mountains—and our crystal lakes can’t be beat.” “No, I can’t see it.” replied Vermont flatly. (Good, good, I applauded. Vermont is giving chase!) “I think your trees are stuck-up.” continued Vermont showing some fire. “There’s not a friendly thing out there. It scared me. Now take any one of our Vermont hillsides—or valleys. This time of year (spring) there would be flowers, and birds, and tumbling streams—-and peace—a peace you can’t find out West.” “You were just homesick.” scoffed West. “I think your little backwoods valleys are—” he cast about for a contemptuous word, “silly!” A hot wave of indignation welled up in me. This was too much. I jerked up in my seat, folding my innocent newspaper with a great deal of noise. The men looked mildly surprised at this apparently uncalled-for show of distaste. West looked at me and said, “Sav, you’re a writer, aren’t you?” I bowed my head. Such are the forfeits of “being known.” I couldn’t hide my profession behind my face. “ Then you ought to- know which is best—but let me tell you of our argument.” “Thank you.” I made a great show of injured dignity. “I’ve heard quite enough.” I turned away, then looked around at them. “I happen to be a Vermonter, myself.” Forthwith I boarded my train, and taking out pad and pencil commenced my article. Its title was “Backwoods Beauty.” As I wrote, I became more and more interested in my subject. It came “so easy” because I was expressing the feelings of every true Vermonter. I wove a spell around my Vermont, or rather, I put on paper so that all might sense it, the natural spell that was there. Thinking of “West,” I put in a section for him. Vermont is not “grand” like the Rocky Mountain Reserves. There are no breath-taking heights to look down from into cold, distant canyons. There are no great expanses of forest with trees so unfriendly and far away they make you shiver—no unsmiling lakes— no geysers—no awe-inspiring, snow-covered summits. Yet these are the places where traveling people go; these the the things they go to see. “My dear, you haven’t seen anything until you have seen the Grand Canyon. It’s simply marvelous—it took my breath away!” But they wouldn’t want to live there. The Grand Canyon in the sunshine is painted with beautiful colors —but it never will be friendly. At night the great Western showplaces grow dark and sinister. Nature draws itself up. and casts black, severe shadows. The Great Trees will tolerate voluble visitors in the daytime, but at night— never. They resent intruders into their melancholy. Vermont’s beauty, however back-woods it may seem to some, is cozy. The “view” from one of our hills may be breath-taking, but it’s the soft, peaceful beauty that does it, not grandeur. Spring in a Vermont woods is a delightful thing. It is both fragile and spiritually strong; it is quiet with the noise of a hundred twittering birds and the tumbling river. There is peace! “That,” I mumbled with satisfaction, “ought to hold him for awhile!” Barbara Ball, ’37

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BLUE AND WHITE 5 Barbara Ball, ’37, Editor Daniel Bull, ’38, Assistant Editor BACKWOODS BEAUTY I was interested in the two men because they were so hopelessly different—and so helplessly alike. Neither of them were the type you would expect to find in Grand Central station on a morning like this. They were evidently. strangers who had struck up an acquaintance during tneir wait. Or, on close inspection, could I call it an acquaintance? They seemed to be having an argument. Finding my own lot rather dull, I moved closer to them to indulge in a little impolite eavsdrop-ping. Confidentially, that’s where a writer gets fifty per cent of his inspirations—from listening to the opinions of people who don't know they’re being listened to! As I approached, the pair stopped talking. While I was settling myself carefully behind my newspaper, which, by the way, I had read three times, I exercise an expression of complete inattention and boredom. I had done that before, too, and I had to get my article in today. As yet I hadn’t the slightest idea what I was going to write about. Satisfied that I was harmless, the two men began again. “I still can’t see how you can place the West against Vermont’s beauty,” said the slight, farmerish-looking man. “Grand Canyon is a wonderful place to see, but who in time would want to live in such a country?” Already the argument was clear to me. One man was an Easterner—a Vermonter, who had been visiting the West. The other was a Westerner who had been East, and by some chance of

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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