Wakefield High School - Oracle Yearbook (Wakefield, MA)

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down by the massive gates of a fashionable country seat. Raising his violin, he softly drew the bow across the strings. Some- how he found himself playing the River of Di-eams. The skilled touch of the player and the sweetness of the melody threw the strains over the high garden walls. Inside the walls a lawn party was taking place. Mrs. Ellen Graham was trying to render the afternoon a pleasant one fo. ' her set. They were sitting on wicker chairs, sipping tea out of diminutive cups. They were laughing and joking and in a constant state of amusement. Presently there was a lull in the conversation, a mo- ment when a pin could have been heard to drop, and over the wall a melody was waft- ed on the breeze. The guests listened, amazed. It was a lullaby, so dreamy, so entrancing that no one spoke for fear of breaking the charm. But what was this that had come over the proud, self-pos- sessed society woman, Mrs. Graham? An ashy hue took possession of her face. Her trembling fingers refused to hold the tea- cup which fell to her feet shattered into fragments. It is my father, she cried, playing the ' River of Dreams ' for me. I must go to him. And declining any offer of aid, Mrs. Ellen Graham wended her way out to the gate where sat the old musician. Father, she cried, take me into your arms and heart; how I have missed you through these years. After I had earned enough money to buy all the luxuries I felt you needed, I came back home for you. But the windows were broken and the grass and weeds had overrun all the gar- den. I inquired, but no one knew where you had gone. You do not know how I have suffered through these years. But now I am glad, very glad, for at last I have found you. There was a joyful look on the the old musician ' s face as he pressed his Ellen to his heart. All was forgotten as his feeble hands stroked her hair. All that mattered was that it was Ellen, his Ellen, come back in answer to his playing. The sun was slowly setting. Myriads of colors were reflected in the sky. Down among the trees sank the sun, a mass of flaming red. And so went the life from the old music master. Sudden joy had done for him what long years of sorrow had failed to do. Herr Schneider had gone Home. IDA ESNER, ' 22. THE FLOOD Received honorable mention in The Boston Traveler Short Story Contest Sally Shaw must be crazy. The idea of a woman of her age having such dreams! exclaimed Mrs. MacKenzie, look- ing around the circle with indignation. Well, anyone who drinks tea that ' s been boiled ten minutes ought to have dreams, or nightmares, I know I would. But then, they do say that I make the best cup of — But, broke in Miss Susan, don ' t you believe in dreams? You know, I have read that every dream has a hidden meaning, and there are people, spiritualists, or what- ever they call them, that can tell just what each one means. Now, if we only knew where to find someone to tell us what that dream of hers meant, why — What dream are you talking about? asked young Mrs. Goodwin. I haven ' t — Why, haven ' t you heard? — Why Sally Shaw had a dream last night and — She said it was terrible, and when she woke up she was half dead — She was nearly overcome this morning when she told me — Her eyes looked just as wild as — She dreamt about a great flood that — The water poured down from a moun- tain and rushed — No, that isn ' t right. She told me it was like a tidal wave full of — Well, anyway, it was water, and it came all of a sudden, and went right over — Yes, and half the people were drowneJ, a lot of men especially, and she said th?c she could see Si Hopkins ' s store sailing away like mad! Yes, and she said that she never saw anything so a-we-inspiring — Oh, I forgot the voice! She heard a voice saying, ' Tomorrow, only tomor- row! ' — And she said it came out of a black cloud — No, it was a black and gray cloud — It hung right over the top of the water! And it was going as fast as an auto- mobile!

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1620 — 1920 Three hundred years ago this year, the little band of Pilgirims — our Pilgrims — left kindly Holland for a new world. There were so few to go; the big, happy-go-lucky old world laughed at them; the way was so bleak and long. And when at last they reached their new world, it offered as a welcome that terrible First Winter! But the Pilgrims had courage; they had faith; and, most important of all, their purpose was high and true. That is why they could found a Nation. In the Fall, the High School will com- memorate the coming of the Pilgrims by a play or pageant. It is fine to do that, but such things, no matter how cleverly car- ried out, are artificial after all. Class of 1920, you can commemorate the coming of the Pilgrims in a fitter way, in a spirit as noble as their own. You are about to leave the comfortable, protecting years of High School to seek a new world — the world of grown-up life. You, their descendants after three huudred years, be like those Pilgrims of old. America has need of them today. ' Tis true the woods around Boston are not full of Indians now, but who will deny tha.; there are dangers just as red? You are not obliged to live on wild birds and the scan t harvest of yellow corn, but in a different way, these are the lean years of the Bible. And there will be those who will laugh at you, those who will pay no attention to you, those who will urge you to go down their easy way. But grip courage with both hands; never lose faith; and if you find your purpose in life grow- ing petty and mean, throw it away, and get another as straight and true as a pine tree on our brave New England coast. So you will uphold a Nation. HESTER C. SHARKEY. SOLITUDE God ' s own country. Free and wild. Giving of its sweet life. Is the thing I want in springtime. Then a yearning grows within me Swelling, swelling. Never ceasing. Till I can withstand no longer, And I flee to God ' s own country, Where all things are peace and quiet. GERTRUDE HUTCHINSON, English IV B. THE RIVER OF DREAMS Received honorable mention in The Boston Traveler Short Story Contest He was old and blind, this aged German musician, this old music master, who wan- dered from town to town always seeking someone he had lost. Accompanied by his dog, Trask, and with his beloved Cremona, he played for people who listened breath- lessly for his every note. He told all na- ture in his playing, of the morning song of the birds, of the wind, murmuring in the pines, of the rain, dripping on the sod. He played with his heart, his soul, and put his being into the music. Herr Schneider had had a life of con- stant sorrows. Coming from Germany at an early age with his wife, Gretchen, he had settled in the country, but Fate had dealth cruelly with him, and his life was not like that of which he had dreamed. Shortly after his daughter, Ellen, was born, he lost his wife, his beloved Gretchen! Gradually, however, the sunshine came back into his soul and he cared only for Ellen and did all in his power to make her happy. He composed and played little melodies, quaint, yet beautiful, which delighted the heart of his daughter. There was one lul- laby, River of Dreams, which was Ellen ' s favorite and many time at his daughter ' -: bedtime, Herr Schneider played this drowsy melody to waft Ellen into the land of Dreams. And so Ellen grew up, but although her father devoted his life to her, she felt vaguely something was lacking. Many times she caught herself day dreaming, of how wonderful it would be if she could go away and make a fortune at singing, for, indeed, Ellen sang very well; then afterwards come back and lay the world at her father ' s feet. On one dark evening Ellen did slip away, her love for her father filling her head with many fancies. The shock of her leaving, combined with the weak condition of his eyes, made Herr Schneider go blind; the.i restlessness set in. So with his dog and his violin he set out in quest of Ellen. Since then he had lead an itinerant life, depend- ing almost wholly on charity. The day had been a warm one. Several » times the old musician had drawn out his handkerchief to wipe off the little beads of perspiration that formed on his brow. Gradually the sun had set lower in the heavens, and overcome by fatigue he sank 7

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I do think, said Miss Susan, that that dream has some dreadful meaning. What do you think it can be? A tidal wave! That ' s it. There w; s one, well, let me see, Uncle Tom had been married two days, so that must have been thirty, — thirty-five, — thirty-nine years ago last — It couldn ' t be a flood, for there hasn ' t been a drop of rain for the last three weeks, and the river ' s as dry as a bone. ' ' Well, we haven ' t had much rain, it might be a cloud burst! You know that all those guns going off in France for the last five years have had a lot to do with the weather; and if there was a cloud burst, it would come from a black and gray cloud. But the voice? What about that? Why, the voice only means that it ' s coming tomorrow, whatever it is,— and do you know! I haven ' t got the front room cleaned! I ' ll have to run right along and get the house to rights, because I ' d hate to have them find me drowned in a dirty house, and — Why, it ' s after five o ' clock! We ' ll all have to go. I ' ve had a real pleasant afternoon. If you hear anything, just run over and let me know, won ' t you? We ' ll hear tomorrow what it ' s going to be — I think they ought to have a prayer meeting tonight, as long as we ' re not sure about tomorrow • — Goodbye! Goodbye! The next day dawned bright and clear, but everyone noticed a peculiar grayisli look around the sun. Toward noon a faint, gray haze appeared in the northwest, and this slowly grew into puffy gray clouds. A deathlike stillness hung over the town. The clouds became darker, and began to sweep across the sky. In some places they were inky black. All housework was stopped. The sewing circle assembled on the church steps, op- posite Si Hopkins ' s store and waited and watched, but not in silence. All had now adopted the cloudburst theory, and fully expected to hear the voice at any moment. Suddenly a buck-board appeared on the dusty river road, tearing along at full speed. He ' s coming to warn us! shrieked the ladies in chorus. It certainly looked that way. He drove pell-mell up the road and stopped short in front of Si ' s store. The ladies pressed around- him, and Si himself sauntered out. What is it? What ' s coming? A cloudburst? A tidal wave? The end of the world? The country has gone dry. Wilson has signed the prohibition amendment. Noth- ing but water for us now! Water! remarked Si Hopkins in a dis- gusted tone; water — water — water — Water! cried the ladies. Water! exclaimed Miss Susan. There yju have the meaning of the dream! And 1 know why the flood swept Si Hopkins ' s store away, too. But the voice, and the black and gray floud? Why now, they do say, that President Wilson always wears black or gray. SELMA ROACH. ' 20. A SOLILOQUY With all this wonderful Spiritualism, Why can ' t Cicero be a realism? With his deep and powerful gift for talk. If ' twere only five minutes, he ' d make things walk. He ' d settle the Red and the Profiteer , And find who ' d live in the White House next year. He ' d make Old Mars come half-way to get The rocket the scientists are trying to set. He ' d make Kaiser Bill take his long- delayed dose, And he ' d patch up the League so that all ' d feel jocose. And to do all this, he would simply ri e. And open his mouth, and also his eyes. And look at the Red and the Profiteer And the candidates for the White House next year, And bellow forth in his sonorous tones, Latin enough to make Jove utter moans. And just as he made that Cataline stray. Away from Rome, up the Appian Way, So would he drive these rascals to reason. And obliterate every thought of treason. But alas! Since this can be only a dream. We must leave it to Ouija to make the world beam. RUTH GLIDDEN ' 21. 9