Wilson Central School - Crest Yearbook (Wilson, NY)

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delicately at some nodding buttercups, then she merrily raced an old white horse, kicking up his heels at pasture. She climbed the railing of a bridge across a little stream to poke at the minnows with a thin branch, and almost fell in headfirst. She was enjoying herself hugely. On the steep side of a hill she came upon a great field of daisies, nodding and bending in the soft breeze. With a gay little crow she dived under the wire fence to fill her hands full of the big white blossoms. With her fists full to overflowing with the treasures, their long stems trailing and weighing down their sisters, she wandered happily among the flowers, almost hidden amidst their luxuriance. Thus concealed, it was no wonder that the little old lady in black, so wearily walking along the road, started at the sweet-toned salutation: “Good afternoon! You pretty well today?” It was instant before she spied the touseled head among the daisies. Ah, good afternoon, dear. Have you been picking the pretty flowers?” Yes’m. I’ll give you some.” She stretched her chubby little fists out through the wires, with eager generosity. “Thank you, little girl.” The sad face softened into unaccustomed lines. “They are lovely. It’s very generous of you to give me your pretty posies.” “You'm welcome. Wait jes’ a minute ’n I’ll go with you.” She clambered through the fence, with the awkward aid, after an instant’s hesitation, of the old lady. “Do you live down this way?” “M— no’m. Over ’n there,” with a vague gesture of the fat little hand. Then, hastily, “Is that a ’rithmatic you’ve got? I know all about ’rithmetic,” proudly. My brother Ted, he studies it, ’n my mother says I can, too, some day, when I’m big enough.” Oh, no, dearie, this isn’t an arithmetic. This is a very famous book, ‘The Lives of Our Presidents’. I go 'round t® all the houses and sell it to the people. Then the men who print it give me part of the money that I get for every book.” “They must be nice men. Don’t you have to do nothing but that?” Well, that’s pretty hard, sometimes. You see, they don’t always want to buy it, and then I don’t get any money.” She smiled bravely down at the dimly comprehending, sympathizing eyes of the child. “And some days it’s pretty hot, and you get tired, you know.” “Yes’m, I know. ’N then you mos’ cry and your mother pulls down the shades, and makes it all nice and cool, ’n sings you to sleep—. Does your mother have curls? My mother has. But none

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Then I found myself repeating the following lines: Father Time brings many changes,, But he leaves for us to tell In whatever path we live and toil, Whether or not they be well. R. L. A. ’17. NOT DEAD, JUST STEEPING. One little Junior one morning awoke, And thot she would play a nice little joke. She came to school just full of pep, And told the rest w.hat she dreamed as she slept. T’was a great big banner, all silver and green, Which on the east board could always be seen. They looked, and behold her dream was true, Just realizing that they had been dreaming, too. So one little Junior, the banner erased. And immediately, there, a junior banner was placed. This banner was turkey red and white, With a cute little ’18 right in sight. But we Seniors soon banished that, all right, Although the Juniors guarded it late at night. All the little Juniors went running home fast To tell their mammas of their bright little task. This trifle didn’t worry us Seniors a bit. But the poor little Juniors nearly had a fit. It’s all passed and gone and our trials are done. Next year will be the time for the Juniors’ fun. SUNSHINE AND DAISIES. It was such a happy, sunshiny day, and the heavy gate was ajar a big crack! Was it any wonder that Maggie could not resist? With a gleeful, watchful eye on the house, she tugged at the gate until she could insert her small self within the opening and squeeze through. Then, just as fast as the little feet could carry her, down the road she sped, amidst rising flurries of hot, yellow dust. Pant-ing, but gayly, when out of sight of the house, she slowed down to a light-hearted saunter, happily observant of all the breathing world of sights and sounds about her. Now she stopped to sniff

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of the other girls’ mothers do, even Ellen’s. Of course,” politely, Mothers are Jes’ as nice even if their hair is straight.” This little old lady was tired and discouraged and lonely. Perhaps this was the reason why she tripped unseeingly over a big stone in the road, and why her voice sounded so low. “Yes, my mother used to have curls, too; black curls, with black eyes, and the lovingest smile. And she used to rock me to sleep every night.” Are you too big now?” But the lady didn’t seem to hear the question. “Don’t you think that if we sat down here under this nice apple tree, you could eat one of the sandwiches they gave me at the hotel this morning.” Don t cry, I loves you,” the soft baby voice was anxiously sympathetic. Is you sorry 'bout something? Maggie will help you,” climbing half up into her lap, stretching the short arms consolingly about her. “Don’t cry,” with comforting concern. “Thank you, darling. There, now, the sun’s come out.” Oh, I'm glad. Was it because you wanted my sandwich?” The sun almost went under again at the remembrance of the unwholesome morsel, and of all the homelessness it, and the never-ending chain of just such untempting lunches for which it stood. But she straightened up bravely. “Oh, no! I’m going right back to the hotel, and I can get some more if I want them for supper. But, dear, it’s going to be your supper time pretty soon. How much farther do you live?” “Let’s go on a little bit farver, shan’t we?” “Farther? Why, where do you live? Back the way we came?” “Uh-m’ yes’m. But it’s such a nice day. S’pose we take a nice little walk.” “Why, child, you must tell me just where you live. Does your mother know where you are?” “I— don’t b’lieve so. She wasn’t home when I came away. She’s home now, though. I guess maybe p’raps, we’d better go see her.” “Is it far, dear? I’ll take you part way. What do you thing your mother will say to you, because you ran off?” Lm I don’t know. Aunt Lizzie’s there, and she’s cross, awful. My mother knows.” “We must hurry, dear.” “I don’t fink my mother’ll care, do you? Does being lonesome make you cross?” “Why, what do you mean?”