Williamstown High School - Yearbook (Williamstown, MA)

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Engraving by JAHN 8z OLLIER, CHICAGO Photography by KINSMAN, WILLIAMSTOWN Printing by MCCLELLAND, WILLIAMSTOWN

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W.H.S.1933 YEAR BOOK pageforty-seven tonight. What are you going to talk about? I've been sitting here dreaming for an hour, and I've been wondering what it was going to be like. I wondered if it would seem the 'same as when I went to church there as a boy and listened to the Reverend Asa Atwill. Only of course tonight I will be listening to my daughter, and the Reverend Asa Atwill will be sitting by my side. He is the best man God ever made, Mary Alice. Then he is the man who is going to speak at Bible Class tonight? Yes, Mary Alice. He was my spiritual advisor when I was a boy, but I didn't carry on when he went away to be a missionary. He told me I should enter the ministry. It seemed easy then. It was something for me to look forward to, and I anticipated the time when I would be in a position such as he had in our little country church. I never aimed any higher. When Mr. Atwill went away, I was afraid of the task I had set for myself. His strength of character and saintly manner had been a wonderful example and had been a guiding post to me while I saw him every day, but I forgot him when he left. He was God's own gentleman. You see, dear, that is why I wanted you to be a minister. It did seem queer to you - but that was where I failed and I was selfish enough to want you to carry on and make up for what I didn't do. It was foolish of me to even expect you would want to do the same thing I wanted to do when you were my age. But come - what are you going to talk to your old father about tonight? Will you use a passage from the Bible for your text? Slowly Mary Alice rose from the arm of her father's chair. There was a set expression about the corners of her sweet mouth. I'm going to use a lecture I prepared at college called Contrasting Modern and Ancient Art . It was an A lecture. Hurry, or you will be late, father. She was gone. Daren Ross sat up in his chair, an expression of incredulity on his face. Then she wasn't going to have a real old-fashioned sermon. Well, really not any sermon at all. We had heard the Art paper before, Asa Atwill was coming back to the old church to hear about Modern Art was he? Oh, she couldn't talk about that-but she had said she was going to. It was too late now to change. So this is what she had been doing all summer and the people had liked it. Mr. Ross clasped and unclasped his hands, then he walked around the table and sat down again. ' Oh, why of all nights couldn't she have chosen tonight for a real sermon? I could be so proud of her with Asa Atwill listening, too. He spoke aloud. Upstairs he could hear nothing. It wouldn't do to even suggest changing now. Up in her room Mary Alice was dressing. Her face in the mirror was wet with tears. Her hair on her forehead was damp and her lashes were stuck together in points. She was talking to herself as she often did. Her voice was low and determined and she Wasn't crying anymore. I didn't want to hurt father. I didn't know my sermons mattered so

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W.H.S. 1933 YEAR BOOK pageforty-nine didn't need to talk so loudly. Quickly he stole a glance at Mr. Atwill. He sat there straight and silent. He hadn't moved once and he was looking at Mary Alice fairly drinking her Words in. Mr. Ross composed himself like a martyr and crossed his legs and arms and prepared to listen. What was she saying? Did he hear correctly? He caught these words. Jesus - his disciples - the last supper with their Lord - Jesus' face. She was quoting the Bible. He listened to every word. The Reverend Asa Atwill sat rapt 5 his attention riveted on Mary Alice. For a girl of eighteen or perhaps twenty she was marvelous he thought. Mary Alice did look younger than twenty-five in her simple white dress. Her eyes were shining and she spoke with conviction. The light in the pulpit which had heretofore lighted a speaker's paper of notes was not necessary. Mary Alice had no notes. She spoke directly to the two in the rear of the church, and the light in the pulpit lighted up her face and made a halo of her pale gold hair. Her hands were clasped before her, and her emotion, conviction, or pleading was expressed only by the varying tones of her lovely voice. The sermon was drawing to a close, Mary Alice felt. She seemed to have no power to make it last. For her part she would have liked to go on and on but the words were being given to her. That last sentence that she had struggled with was coming out right. All the eyes in the congregation were on her drinking in her words. Old people were listening to her in rapt attention, and best of all, her father and the tall white haired man by his side had never taken their eyes from her. The last sentence came clearly and distinctly without a halt and her words: - a beautiful life like a painting lived by God's guidance and help, died away as she pronounced the benediction. People were coming up the aisle. Several men and women shook her hand, and then she saw her father's face. Tears were in his eyes. The Reverend Atwill stood by him. He clasped her hand and said: My dear, I'm proud of you. Her father, in articulate as usual before so many, wept openly and press- ing her hand between his own two, he whispered: My daughter, you did it. Oh, I didn't think you could, Mary Alice. I'm proud of you. Ruth Breed '34