Woonsocket High School - Quiver Yearbook (Woonsocket, RI)

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 THE QUIVER At noon we ate beneath a shady tree and explored the country near by before setting out on the return journey. Instead of resisting us, the river now aided our efforts at navigation, and we paddled rapidly homeward. The frogs basked in the warm afternoon sun and all nature seemed satisfied and happy. As the sun went slowly downward, the lilies furled their sails, and the beams of the western sun were broken into many flashing, sparkling gems by the dancing ripples, until their light finally disappeared altogether. Darkness gathered slowly around us and the breeze died down. We soon glided silently to the boat-house, glad to be home once more. T. BUELL CARD, ’16. “JUST ABRAHAM LINCOLN” (An Imaginary Incident) “Why doesn’t someone answer that doorbell?” I muttered, half to myself and half to the baby; but no sooner had I spoken than I remembered that there was no one but myself to answer it. Te rs came to my eyes, for I was tired out and in despair. News had come of my husband’s death in the battle of Five Forks, and, although I knew it wasn’t true, I was very, very anxious. Richmond had surrendered. apd a great fire had swept the city. The servants had fled in terror, and I was left alone with my little son. The ringing of the bell again aroused me with a start, and after I had tucked the baby under my arm, I started for the door. You can’t imagine how much I dreaded to open that door. Of course, I should find some Northerner, for the city was full of them, and I not only hated them but feared them. I opened the door, however, and saw a tall, gaunt, sad-faced man in loose-fitting clothes. Never, to this day, have I seen anyone quite so tall as this man was. I really had to bend back my head to see his face. “Is this George Andrew’s place?” asked the stranger. “Yes, sir,” I replied. “But—” and a sob choked ,me as I thought of the news I refused to believe—“but he isn’t here.”. “I know all about it, lady,” was the reply, in the kindest of tones, “but I just wanted to look over his place. You see, George and I are very old friends, although we havep’t seen each other for years, and I would give much to see him once. more. I wanted to see him, to see his home, and his family. I am Abraham Lincoln, and you, I suppose, r

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THE QUIVER o ON POND AND RIVER The sun was lifting the gray mist as we launched our canoe and started up the pond. Everything was silent except for the sound of the steady dip and drip of our paddles. When we reached the first “carry,” the mist was quite gone and the sun coated the quiet water with a sheet of living gold. The green banks, rising from the shore, looked soft and velvety in the sunlight, and the shady coves invited the explorer’s paddle. Ascending the river, we soon came to another pond, where water lilies lay anchored like fleets of fairy craft. Their gleaming sails sweetened the air with the choicest perfumes of elf land and tempted us to remain in their lotus-land. The river ahead beckoned, however, and we went on, after a last long look at the dainty blossoms. On the winding river we now struggled with a stretch of rapids and then glided over a deep and quiet pool, where the current lay asleep. The waters shone clear and emerald bright, and, looking into their crystal depths, we could see dainty aquatic plants gently waving in the current, awkward turtles plunging hastily to shelter among the roots, and bright fish darting and flashing over the bottom. Sometimes, as we rounded a turn in the river, a pair of ducks would rise from their meal with much indignant splashing and quacking. Sleek muskrats dived and swam along meadow bottoms, always deeply intent on business. At times the stream lay straight before us, bordered on one side by high, wooded banks and on the other by peaceful hay fields. Here and there a quiet old bridge lay brooding over the stream, casting calm reflections on the hurrying water beneath.

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THE QUIVER “Not the President?” I almost shrieked. “No, madam, no; not the President. Just George’s old friend ‘Abe.’ But tell me, is this his son ?” By this time, the baby, who, all unnoticed, had gradually been tottering, step by step, toward the man, was begging to be taken up. The President’s face relaxed into a smile, and as he picked up the cooing child, who insisted upon kissing his new friend, the look of tenderness and love which lighted up his face was indeed more wonderful than anything I had ever seen before. As Mr. Lincoln handed the boy to me, he said in a trembling voice. “My boy, tell that rascal, your father, that I forgive him for the sake of that kiss and those bright eyes.” So saying, the President turned and went down the steps, out of my sight. I never saw him again, but never have I forgotten for a moment the change which came over that sad face as my little boy begged to be picked up and kissed. RUTH J. HENDRICK, ’17. A TALKATIVE FRIEND Did you ever notice the difference in the characters of your friends? Some are quiet and reserved, others lively and talkative. Some are restless and never still. My friend Bill has a tongue that is never still. Bill is about my size and age. I knew him a long while ago when he and I were in the first grade of school. I remember that, even in that remote time, he had a love of conversation that excelled. Bill’s family left Woonsocket while we were still in the primary school. When they returned six or seven years later, I noticed that, as far as talking was concerned, he was the same old Bill. He loved argument and revelled in narration and description. His arguments were not always sound and logical, but that mattered not as long as the words flowed freely, and he did not have to stop to think. He would keep up a steady stream of talk so that his opponent never got the chance to say more than half a dozen words at a time. Then he would break in and hold the floor for the next hour or so. Next to argument, Bill liked exposition. If he wasn’t arguing with you, he was explaining something. Sometimes his explanations were as unsound as his arguments, but that mattered not, either, as long as he kept that tongue of his wagging. He and I worked in the same mill one summer, and one day he came to me and glibly explained how to run a machine. I asked the