Woonsocket High School - Quiver Yearbook (Woonsocket, RI)

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14 THE QUIVER Salesgirl—Here are some light blue, dark blue, black, yellow, gray, light green, crimson and brown, at prices from ten cents to one dollar. (Mrs. Jones selects the crimson pair.) Mrs. Jones—How much did you say this pair is? Salesgirl—That pair is fifty cents, madam. Mrs. Jones—I'm not sure but this color will wash out; and, I declare, here’s a thread broken. Let me see the yellow ones. You said they are fifty cents? Salesgirl—Oh, no! those are one dollar. Mrs. Jones—Ahem! They’re not worth it. When I was in Boston, •- bought a pair of socks exactly like these for twelve and one-half cents i don’t believe Alphonso would care for them, anyway. These light blue ones appear to be the best. What time is it there? Half-past five! Alphonso will be waiting for his supper. I’ll take the light blue ones (The salesgirl wraps up the light blue socks, and Mrs. Jones examines the black ones.; Mrs. Jones—Why, I declare! I’m sure I didn’t notice these black ones before. How much are they? Salesgirl—(with a weary look)—Ten cents, madam. Mrs. Jones—Why, I believe I like them better than the blue ones. 1 11 take them instead. (The salesgirl rapidly ties up the black socks to prevent Mrs. Jones from changing her mind again.) Salesgirl—Here’s your parcel, madam. Ten cents, please. (Mrs. Jones spends four minutes searching through her purse. She hands the salesgirl a ten-dollar bill. The salesgirl moves away to wau on another customer.) Mrs. Jones—Was there ever anything so inefficient as a salesgirl in a department store! I declare, I’ve been waiting exactly thirty seconds for my change! Salesgirl—Here’s your change, madam. Nine dollars and ninety cents. Mrs. Jones—Well, at last I can start for home. Alphonso will be tired waiting. I’m sure he’ll like his socks. I couldn’t have bought him a better present. They look exactly like the dollar ones. But it certainly does take patience to buy anything here, (with a Job-like look.) Exit Mrs. Jones. Scene II. The department store two hours later. Enter Alphonso. Alphonso—What is a suitable present for a stout, middle-aged lady ? Salesgirl—Here are some fine kid gloves. All the wealthy people

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THE QUIVER OUR ORCHARD 13 Just imagine that you and I are sitting in the shade of the sycamore tree. The cool afternoon breeze is very refreshing, and peace and quiet reign. To the west lies the apple orchard near the foot of a hill. The land slopes gradually upward, so a part of each tree can be seen from where we sit. I believe that I never saw anything as beautiful as the apple orchard is now, for the trees are in full bloom, and the scent of apple-blossoms fills the air. Everything harmonizes. The clear, blue sky, the dark green hill, and the shades of pink outlined against the black bark of the trees form a beautiful picture. Once in a while we can hear the clear, sweet notes of a bird. A few butterflies flit in the sunshine. Everything is so beautiful that it hurts. Many of the trees are very aged; some are even a hundred years old. Year by year the dear old trees are falling, but each is being replaced by a young, vigorous one. Beyond the orchard, in a pasture, are a few of the oldest fruit trees on the farm. In the heat of the day, the cows gather in the cool, dark shadows, and placidly chew their cuds. Do you see that tree with the wide, outspreading branches? I am very fond of it, and have named it the “Mother Tree” because its branches seem like gigantic arms ready to hold you. Every limb forms a seat, and even now I like to climb up there to read or think. The tree directly in front of us is an Astrachan tree. I like it because its apples are the earliest in the orchard. When I was little, I used to play dolls under that tree, with its low boughs for cradles. Nearly every Fourth of July, our family has an outdoor picnic there. We can not look long on this beautiful natural picture without feeling strangely quieted, and we leave it with a sense of restfulness and peace. HELEN J. THAYER, ’18. SHOPPING FOR CHRISTMAS Scene I. A department store Enter Mrs. Jones, with forty-one parcels. Mrs. Jones—I want to see some gentlemen’s socks. Salesgirl—What price, please? Mrs. Jones—I’m sure I don’t know. Salesgirl—Any particular color? Mrs. Jones—Oh, show me all you have. (The salesgirl takes down eight different colors at eight different prices.)

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THE QUIVER 15 are wearing them. They’re only two dollars, but I’m sure they’re worth five. Alphonso—All right! I 11 take ’em. Two dollars, eh! Here you are! Never mind doing them up. I’ll take them in my pocket. Good evening! Exit Alphonso. HELEN H. KELLY, ’16. INK-BOTTLE IMPS AND HOW THEY LIVE The other day, as I sat at my desk after having finished writing a tHenie I stared idly at the ink-bottle. It was a common ink-bottle filled with black ink, but somehow it captivated me. On it was stuck a red paper sign with black letters, which spelled the words, “Carter’s Black Letter Ink.” After observing the ink-bottle closely, 1 put the cork in it, intending to read a fascinating story in which I was interested; but I had no sooner put the cork firmly in place than I heard a voice saying, “Stop that!” I certainly was surprised, for I could see no one in the room. Besides, I knew no one with such a queer voice. It was very high-pitched and squeaky. If it were a piano, I should suggest having it tuned. Thinking that I must have been mistaken in hearing a voice, I again arose, and again heard the same voice, which this time said. “Take out that cork or I’ll have the law of the land on you!” I responded by uncorking the bottle, and, to my amazement, as I looked in, I saw a little, black hobgoblin wrathfully expressing his opinion of me. I shall not attempt to tell you what he said, but he certainly looked comical, shaking his little fists at me, and altogether putting himself into such a passion that I found it difficult to keep from laughing. When I regained my composure, and he had quieted dowrn, I politely said, “Pray, sir, who are you?” Seeing that I respected him, he puffed himself up, and answered with great pomp, “I am Ichabod Ignatius Imp. I live in the House of Imps, where my father and his father and many fathers back have lived. I am a scout, and it is my duty to see that all is safe about the house. When you stop up our chimney, it is my business to dislodge the stopper. You often put it in so tightly that our whole reserve army cannot push it out. Then, too, we have to be careful not to let you discover us. I trust you because you uncorked the chimney when I wanted you to.