Wakefield High School - Oracle Yearbook (Wakefield, MA)

Page 16 text:

trick clothes? Gee, they get on my nerves. Lorna ' s quick temper flamed at the conde- scending, critical air of the other girl. If you mean that I am annoying you, young lady, I can only advise you to go where I may not be in your sight, for I have not the slightest intention of moving myself, yet awhile. In lieu of the fact that you have been criticiz- ing my garments, I think I may justly remark on yours. What can he the matter with your hair? Are your brains so scanty that your hair refuses to grow? Look at your lower limbs. Are they so beautiful that you feel you must brazenly expose them to the public? Your face resembles my little nephew Ensie ' s when he plays at bandits. Your But Cherie also, had a temper, and a very hot, one, too. At this point she interrupted Lorna. Her words were perhaps we had better omit that part. Suffice to say the bat- tle raged for several minutes. Then both girls, realizing the pettiness, the childishness of such proceedings, began to laugh. Cherie in her loud alto tone, Lorna with tinkling soprano note. After Cherie had recovered from her hy- sterics, both girls sat, side by side, on the table, and talked — oh, how they talked ! Lorna, with many blushes, told Cherie of John, her lover; of the stolen meetings they had had, far away from the anxious, ever- watchful eyes of the Doones. She described her life in the valley — that valley so full of sin and crime, whose very name made her shudder. With characteristic impulsiveness, she related the events of the night when John, wonderful, strong — 1 fear Lorna wan- dered a trifle from the theme of her tale, put- ting a wee bit too much stress on the already lauded merits of the trusty John. However, she soon got herself in hand sufficiently to pass on to the events of that fateful night when John stole her from the hateful valley, taking her to his own home, to be cared for, and loved by his mother — she had never known one of her own — and his sisters. From that time her life had been most happy. She was learning to cook, and to do other little housewifely duties, so that in the near future, when she should become of age, she might make a home for her lover— her John. She ended her tale with a brief outline of the fu- ture, of the happy days to come. Then Lorna demurely requested Cherie to tell the story of her life. Cherie responded with accounts of house parties, dances, motor rides, and many other diversions, all of which so interested and as- tonished the quiet Lorna, that she was struck dumb with wonder. She recovered herself fi- nally and said, But why are we so different? Do we live in different countries? But even if we do, it must be everywhere the year 1684. Sixteen eighty-four. Sweet papa, and I ' m not born yet! The shock sent Cherie to her feet. In the distance a clock struck twelve. Lorna grace fully rose to her feet. And what is your time? she inquired. Nineteen twenty-two! Imagine! Listen, there goes eight bells! If T don ' t hump myself, I won ' t be able to get back. And believe me, dearest, no matter how much I like you, I prefer my twentieth century varieties to your seventeenth century routine. So I won ' t linger, Fair One. And I, too, said Lorna, prefer my time to yours. Your speech is so difficult to com- prehend, your customs so peculiar. Your cen- tury is so — so — Lorna struggled for a word. Do you wonder? How could she of 1(584 de- scribe the customs of 1922? With affectionate kisses the girls parted. Cherie opened her cover, and with a bound, a loud laugh, disappeared. Lorna, opening her own dark brown cover, with a dainty little step, a merry tinkle of laughter, faded from view. ELLEN CONNER, ' 24. HATS AND CAPS Between the years 1790 and 1800, there were two great political parties in Sweden. One of these parties was for the king, the other, against him. At that time only the aristo- crats were allowed to wear hats; all the com moners wore caps: — hence the name, Hats and Caps. The Bats were on the king ' s side, and used all their power to uphold his rule. On the other hand, the Caps heartily hated the king, and the Hats, his supporters. There were constant feuds between them, and it is with one of these fends which my story deals. It was a dark and rainy night in early spring, anil especially dreary in that part of the country which was some miles north of Stockholm. Now and then came a coach drawn by wearied horses, sinking deep in the mud; but almost everyone preferred to remain safely at home, where warmth and comfort were offered. For almost two hours all had been quiet.

Page 15 text:

IN MEMORIAM The last class meeting of the Senior Class was being held in Room 1 of the Old Wakefield High School. Principal Melvin J. Hill sat on the platform and gazed proudly upon the group of out-going Seniors. The president rose to speak. Fellow Sen- iors, said he, at our last Assembly a request was made that any member who could, should bring in suggestions on the subject of how to make the na me of our class remembered through the coming years. If there are any among you who think they have a good idea, please present it to the class. ' ' Several Seniors were on their feet in a minute and one by one they made known their various ideas to the students. A set of books for the library was turned down. A silver engraved cup, a. famous picture, and others met with the same fate. The president began to get discouraged and finally said, Is there no one who has anything to offer that pleases the class? For several moments silence reigned, then a boy rose from his seat. Mr. President, he said, my suggestion isn ' t a very brainy one, but seeing those of the others have failed, I ' ll give mine. After thinking the matter over, I have decided that nothing is a more lasting memorial for man, than a tree, always living and growing as the years go by. There would lie hardly any expense. That is all I have to offer ; and he sat down amid much ap- plause from his schoolmates. After restoring the class to order, the pres- ident said, This suggestion seems to please you. Do you wish to vote on it. ' They did and it. went through unanimously. Mr. Pres- ident, a girl jumped up from her seat, wouldn ' t it be an unique thing, if we each put our names and histories in little boxes and buried them at the roots of the tree? This, too, received an unanimous yes. And so on one bright morning the Senior Class and the Faculty of the school planted a slender young tree with much ceremony on the corner of the High School lot where La- fayette and Common streets meet, and buried little metal boxes at its roots containing the autobiography of each member. There it stands to this day, always living and grow- ing, until it is now a beautiful shade tree. About eight feet up the trunk is a small tab- let on which is engarved : Centennial Tree Planted by Class of 1876 W. H. S. EDITH M. DOWLING, ' 25. OUT OF THE BOOK The book with the flaming cover moved, rested quietly, for a moment, on the dark, pol- ish ' ' d table, and once more stirred. Strange, wasn ' t it? A slam — a rustle of leaves, and out from among its pages stepped the prettiest little miss one could wish to see. Her bobbed curls were of a brown that turned golden in the ' sunlight. Her checked skirt barely reached below her silk clad knees. And yet, she was not a child of ten or eleven years, she was, in fact, eighteen, perhaps nineteen years old. There was, on her face, a look of youth, and of age vicing with each other, so that it was difficult to estimate her age — listen, she is speaking. Gosh, how perfectly spiffy! This busi- ness of being ' shero ' of a novel is all right, but it ' s darned tiresome. It ' s nice to get away — By .love, here ' s another book on the table. Let ' s have a look. She fugged at the dark brown cover, which opened so suddenly that the pretty little miss was sent sprawling on the table. Oh, please, I beg your pardon. I was pushing and you were pulling; I was so very eager to get out of that dingy book, if only for a few minutes, said a soft, sweet voice. That ' s all ri say, you look great! Where ' s the blow-out? I don ' t think I understand you. Plow-out, costume-ball, dance, party! I!uf there isn ' t any dance, any party. Well, what have you got your grandmoth- er ' s clothes on for? Say, who are you? Where do you come from, anyway? The first maid plied these questions as she daubed her nose with powder. 1 am Lorna Doone from Doone Valley. Per- haps you don ' t know what Doone Valley is. It is a place just full of nefarious robbers and wicked men. I really didn ' t belong there, though. When a very little child I was stolen and taken there. Ignoring the reference to her clothes, she went on, Might I enquire who you are, and from where you come? Sure. I ' m Cherie of ' Youth ' s Challenge. ' All jokes aside, now, what ' s the idea of the

Page 17 text:

when suddenly were heard the creaking of coach-wheels, the labored breathing of horses, and the voices of coachmen. One coach, then another, a third, a fourth; who were these people coming at so late an hour? The country, at that time, was not densely populated. Very often houses were many miles apart. Wealthy people owned great es- tates, which they used in the summer, these, to- ward spring ' , were opened for the usual prep- aration for the occupants, and the keys en- trusted to trustworthy servants. The travellers continued on their journey. The wearied horses pulled and stumbled along the rough road. Upon turning a slight bend in the road, a large house loomed up in front of them. It was the Vestan-O, one of the largest ami finest estates, for many miles around. The horses turned up the driveway, swung around towards the back of the house, and stopped before a large iron door. A coachman jumped from his seat, and opened the door of the coach. One man stepped out, followed by others. Each wore a dark suit, a long black cape, and a cap. They quickly moved over towards the iron door, and waited in a group. Not a word had been spoken. The second coach came up. More men joined the group. In a few minutes came the third and fourth coaches, all carrying men of the same description. At last the party at the door was complete. A tall man, evident ly the leader, stepped up to the door, and gave three taps in quick succession. The door swung slowly open. One after another the men passed through, and the door closed, in the same fashion, behind them. Within, all was absolute darkness. The air was damp and cold, as in a cell, and an involuntary shiver passed through each man. A small light flickered, and came nearer and nearer. A servant brought a small tallow candle, and with this light, they proceeded on their way. It was indeed like a cell, this passage through which they were going. The floor, walls, and ceiling were all of stone. At the end of the passage, which was about fifty yards long, was a small trap door. This, also, as the gate, was of iron. It opened from the bottom and was not more than four feet in height. As the men reached it, they stopped. The. door was lifted and each man, crouching down, stepped into a long narrow tunnell, which extended from it. The last man extinguished the candle, and, followed his companions into the tunnel. Half an hour later, the same party of. men suddenly appeared in a park, one mile and a half distant from Vestan-O. They hurried stealthily for about fifteen minutes, keeping in the shadows of trees as much as possible. Each man was silent, busy with his own thoughts. Their course led to another large estate. This time a small light shot out a welcoming beam. This light shone from a window on the ground story. The men quickly entered, and presently on the drawn shade were seen their silhouettes. They drew up chairs around a small table; the leader arose and addressed them; then others spoke; arguments seemed to arise; — the meeting of the Caps was on! Two weeks later, the king was assassinated at a masquerade. BERTHA VIK, ' 24. AT REID ' S TAVERN The short winter afternoon was drawing swiftly to a close; an icy wind drove through the trees with an eerie shriek, chilling to the bone a weary pedler who was trudging along, bent down under the weight of an enormous pack. The road, 0110 of the few in that part of Ohio, in the year of 1843, followed the wind- ing shore of Lake Erie. Ahead of the trav- eler, glimmering in the fast gathering dusk, were the lights of Reid ' s Tavern. To a stranger the house might have radiated warmth and comfort, but the belated pedler approached it with a feeling of distrust. How- ever, his immediate need of food and shelter overcame his misgivings. Upon entering the tavern, the traveler was attracted at once by a cheerful blaze, snap- ping and crackling in the huge fireplace. After laying down his pack and removing his outer garments, he warmed himself at the fire, and then sat down to a steaming supper. Feeling refreshed after his hot meal, his at- tention was drawn to a group of men, at the other side of the room, who were intently re- garding his pack. Immediately he recollected all of the unsavoury tales he had heard con- cerning this inn. Exhausted and not caring for the companionship of these men, he re quested a, candle from the landlord and retired to his room. Setting his candle down upon a small table, he gazed about the room. It seemed to be a storage- room for vegetables for winter use. From the rafters hung strings of dried apples