Walker High School - Pepper Pot Yearbook (Simsbury, CT)

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School Song l-lere's lo The school we love so dear, l-lere's +o our comrades lrue. l-lere's To fhe happy days we've spenr, Miss Walker, here wilh you. l-lere's +o our colors glorious Uniled for a while. l-lere's +o rhe many more happy hours l-lere's lo our dear Sun Dial. ln days lo come we'll scarier 'lar Bur lei us ne'er lorgel, A welcome here And friendly cheer Are wailing for us yel. Though clouds may somelimes darkly bend We'll slrive wilh all our powers, Dear Dial, like rhee, in memory, To mark bu+ golden hours. Dear Dial, like lhee, in memory, To mark buf golden hours. Miss Walker's Song Pass lhe loving cup around, Pledge lhe school we hold so dear, l'lere's +o all lhose Thar have gone, And lo lhose rhal are here. And Jronighl lei each one vow And lonighl lel each one rule Thar forever, as now, We will sland by our school. 88

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The PaTricia Wood ShorT STory Prize Awarded To MARY BUSHNELL PEARCE THE SPHERE MICHAEL moved cauTiously as he arranged a group oT Tiny Tigures in The glass shop window. He paused only To wave or smile aT some passerby. This was oTTen, Tor everyone in NeuchaTel knew Michael, The old glass blower's adopTed son. There was always a group oT children around The window. Today liTTle clouds appeared and disappeared around Their Taces as They breaThed againsT The cold glass. Pierre's glass shop was an essenTial parT oT The old Swiss village. No one could remember when iT had noT been There and iT was undersTood ThaT Michael would keep up The TradiTion aTTer Pierre's deaTh. ln The back oT The shop Pierre seTTled a pair oT old Tashioned glasses on his nose, brushed a shock oT whiTe hair away Trom his Torehead and called To The boy in The window. Come, Michael, we musT geT back To our work. The lighT is Tailing and my eyes are weaker TonighT. Michael sTepped lighTly over The parTiTion aT The back oT The window and Took his place opposiTe Pierre aT The scarred work Table. Pierre sTudied Michael's dark head which was benT over a heavy leaTher-bound volume oT The old glass masTers oT Venice. Suddenly The boy looked up. His inTense gray eyes meT Pierre's. Some day, FaTher Pierre, l will prove To you ThaT The long hours and The paTience you have given in Teaching me have noT been losT. Pierre did noT answer. His silence was a symbol OT The perTecT undersTanding beTween The man and The boy. Michael Toyed absTracTly wiTh a delicaTe liTTle glass globe wiThin which was a Tiny Tigure which spun as you Turned The globe on iTs wooden pedesTal. The globe had been on The Table as long as Michael had worked There. He was always pensive when he ThoughT oT This, Tor Pierre had blown iT nineTeen years ago when Michael had TirsT come To live wiTh him. The sphere represenTed Pierre's liTe and The Tigure wiThin was Michael, The cenTer oT ThaT liTe. Michael had oTTen vowed ThaT he would never TorgeT The signiTicance oT ThaT biT oT glass. WiTh This ThoughT in mind he reTurned To his work wiTh renewed vigor. Pierre rose and moved quieTly abouT The shop. He knew every deTail oT iT. The heavy pine cases wiTh glass TronTs ThaT housed his books and his Tools, The low bench along The wall, The greaT iron bound chesT aT The back oT The room, even The old walls oT knarled pine: all oT These Things were his Triends. He smiled happily as he ThoughT oT Michael carrying on his work in The same room aTTer he had gone. 90