Wethersfield High School - Elm Yearbook (Wethersfield, CT)

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rocky river Qhe touched the white scar on his foreheadjg he had fallen. He remembered falling, he had seemed to fall for hours, rolling over and over on hot irons: the rocks on the bank of that little river were beautiful -and cruel. Some one had found him there, the blood from the gash on his head staining the white flowers that were growing all about. When they had brought him to M. Garreaux' home nearby, he had held a single white flower still clenched tightly in his hand. For a time after that, everything had been vague. But this being in M. Garreaux' studio was very real. He looked about him reverently. I should like to have you stay with me. We could work together, you and I. Jaques stared at the old man intently. M. Garreauxf' he said evenly, you have been very, very kind to me. I think also that you understand me. Yes, Jaques. When one has seen people and lived as I have done, one learns to know a man. Then, monsieur, you will understand what I mean when I say that I must go home. M. Garreaux was silent. I have a home, Monsieur, there is work for me there. I understandf' said M. Garreaux. Madame Madeline stood in the middle of the kitchen and stared at the figure in the doorway. She held a little blue bowl in her hand. Jaques! The little blue bowl fell at her feet in a thousand pieces. Jaques took the little woman into his arms and stroked her gray head. Jaques-oh, Jaques, she said again and again. Neither of them could speak. Together they bent to pick up the pieces of the blue bowl. It was not until they had cleared it all away that they found their voices. Then they talked a long time, Jaques had to stop every little while- his throat was so dry. He was very much excited. Presently he stood up. Is it the same up there, my room?', f'Yes, the same, go up, Jaques. A moment later he stood before the big chair in his room looking down eagerly at the little sleeping figure curled up so small. Collette!,' he whispered, gently bending and touching with his white fingers the dark head shining in the sunlight. He stared hard at the pale, tear-stained face, something was thereg the little childish lines were different, there was a great deal more in that face than he had ever seen before. His own face was like that. He straightened quickly and looked about him. He moved his easel from its corner, he found a piece of canvas already stretched. Everything was just as he had left it. By and by he was working. He did not bother to sketch in an outline, he painted right in, eagerly. Once when he glanced at Collette,

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V. A duster, you want? queried Madeline softly. Collette lowered her eyes. Yes-the-his room--it must be very dustyf, She pushed back .1 lock of her dark hairg it was a childish little movement. But Collette's face was not childish, it was very pale, it was older. Dear child,', said Madeline. She brought her a duster. Very wisely she said nothing more, she stood quietly in the big kitchen and listened to the echo of the girl's feet on the stairs. Collette reached the door of the long room and stood looking in. The sun was streaming in at the windows. An easel standing near one of them threw its long shadow across the floor, there were other smaller shadows, and all the rest was golden with the sun. It was very silent and lovely and warm. Collette had not been in the room since that day when Jaques had gone away. She walked in slowly. Suddenly half-way in, she stopped short. In a corner a finger of sunlight touched a canvasg it had been a portrait of a lovely dark girl. There were two vicious slashes across its surface, a little palette-knife lay on the floor quite near it. Collette did not touch it. She moved over to the big chair and sat staring at the ruined canvas. All at once she began to cry, presently she was sobbing. She pressed her white fingers over her lips and tried to stop the sobs. She could not. It was not meant that she shouldg it was the first time she had cried since Jaques had gone away. VI You have worked a long time-are you not tired?,' No, You like it here in my work-room? It is-good, said Jaques softly, fingering a bit of charcoal. The other looked at him quickly. Sit down, he suggested. Would you-care to-talk? he asked carefully. Yes, said Jaques simply, I should like very much to talk with you. He took the cigarette offered him, lit it, and for a few moments stared before him, absentlyg then he began to talk. It was very diiiicult, especially at first, to put into words the things that he had tried to force himself to forget. Days when he had tramped hungry and sick in mind and body, black days in the French mines, where he had cursed his slim white hands. There had been one time when he had felt almost happy-that had been when he had joined a traveling circus and had earned his way about by doing rapid-fire sketchesg it had been very hard to get his hand back into form againg somehow he had done it. But this had not lasted. Then had come long days when his hunger had been terrible. After a time it had seemed to go, but he could not remember things, he had been dazed--starving. In some way he had wandered to the bank of a little

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she moved a littleg the next time he looked, he saw two dark eyes re- garding him gravely. He Put down his brushes. She sat up. Jaques! He caught her to him, laughing at her eager face. Were you frightened when you opened your eyes and found me, Collette? No, Jaques, I had been dreaming of you. It seemed right that you should be here when I opened my eyesf' she explained with difficulty. Suddenly she stopped smiling. She stared at his forehead-the scar. Someday, I shall tell you, Collette, that is a reminder that I have lived and found a soul to give to you, when I put you there, Collettef, He pointed to the canvas. A great picture must have a soul.', A great picture?', she queried dreamily. We shall start again-together. I-Ie frowned boyishly as he saw two drops, rain-bow colored in the sun, forcing their way beneath her closed lids. He picked up something white that lay beside her to wipe away the tears-it was a little crumpled duster. Then he picked her up and carried her off down the stairs fjust like thatj. -Virginia Becker, '30. FLIGHT Through the grim, dark night came a steady hum, The roar of a motor like the roll of a drum. The roar increased, I strained my eyes For a glimpse of this messenger of the skies. I waited and Watched on the sodden trail- Watched for the plane with her treasure of mail. Over the World her lights gleamed bright, Speeding their way through the hush of night. Swiftly they flashed on my Held of sight, Slashing the sky like daggers of light. My thoughts turned back to the days of old, When Apollo rode in his chariot of gold. It is useless to dream of days gone by, When men were brave and their ladies shy. I will seek adventure, elusive and rare, Where Romance still lingers: up in the air. I --G. Y., '30.