Woonsocket High School - Quiver Yearbook (Woonsocket, RI)

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THE QUIVER 13 When I finished my last examination, I felt as happy and jubilant as if summer would last forever. I nearly burst with joy at all the graduation observances, although I also felt the sorrow of parting with the upper classmen. From then on, my castles in Spain were overthrown and I lived merely for the present. I cannot tell from my diary that I did anything of importance or otherwise during the first week of vacation, because there are six blank pages. I evidently felt that I needed a rest from that task, too. My memory tells me that I was merely idle, laughing, playing, and being generally happy. When my sister, who manages our domestic affairs, went away, there suddenly fell upon me the responsibilities of the household. It became my duty to do much of the cooking, to see that meals were on time, to buy the necessary articles, and to expend the household income. I learned to shop on bargain days, to watch the newspaper for a decrease in the price of sugar, and to systematize my work so that I might do it in the shortest time possible. I had the difficult task of battling with the tiny red ants, and after trying every insect destroyer, was finally victorious. After the housekeeping episode in my vacation, I sought to beautify our piazza by the use of green paint on the furniture. After I had made many brown pillows for the Cape Cod hammock and chairs. I spent much time reading light literature in comfort. As happens every summer, there was an occasional picnic, when I spent the time out of doors, frolicking or swimming. I indulged in all the warm weather pleasures with delight. I have often regretted that I have acquired the art of sewing so well that all the members of my family leave to me some fine bit of sewing, claiming that my skill far surpasses theirs. The praise is pleasant, but my family's careful sewing is extensive. In making new' curtains I seem to measure more accurately than any one else, so therefore an understood rule at home is that I measure and make new curtains. Thus more of my vacation sped. When my vacation was ended, I tried to conceive how I had let two months slip by without fulfilling my promises to myself. I reproached myself for idleness and frivolity. I felt that my summer had been wasted. Now that I am again in the reins of school routine. I realize that my summer was spent advantageously, nevertheless. How unwise I should have been to make the two summer months like the rest of the year, instead of frisking about in the most beautiful season to prolong

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12 THE QUIVER take the picture was to go to the end of the dock. The dock was rather shaky at the end as a result of being bumped continually by rowboats. Daddy was not aware of this, and so just as he leaned over the camera, ready to snap the picture, the dock fell in. The loud splash brought the girls to the lake, in which they discovered Daddy holding his camera high above his head, trying to reach shore. The girls crowded around the lake shrieked with laughter. Daddy was insulted. I have never quite formed an opinion of Daddy Bigelow, first, I shall try to prove his potato theory. Many farmers have laughed at it, but wouldn’t Mr. Hoover be pleased if Daddy were right! BLANCHE SCHLIVEK, ’19. MY SUMMER IN DREAM AND IN TRUTH About the close of school last June, and, in fact, for months before, I was looking forward with pleasure to the summer vacation, when I should have plenty of time to devote to the acquisition of knowledge. During the school year I am usually rushed with school and home duties, so the summer seemed to be a favorable time for improving my mind in subjects not directly encountered in school. My aims were principally founded upon the fact that I fully believed that I was destined to tie a teacher. When I was young and was so foolish as to play school after being dismissed from that institution, my playmates always singled me out as the one best fitted to wield the ferule and to place somebody’s grandmother's spectacles on my nose. Last June, since I had not felt the call of any particular life work, and since I enjoyed preparing my English lessons and reading so well, I felt that my vocation was clearly pointed out to me as a teacher of English. Naturally. I thought that the present was the time to begin training for that responsibility of knowing everything and anything under the sun that a young, curious person might choose to ask. Fancy an English teacher being unable to say that she was thoroughly acquainted with every particular of English literature! My program was to be arranged almost as if I were in school. When the time came. I intended to devote certain hours every day to my numerous undertakings. My plans were to read more than a score of good books by only the best writers. Then I was to study mythology and English history. Practicing on the piano and studying harmony would further occupy my time. I even had wild dreams of taking a course in stenography at a commercial school to help me in taking notes in college.

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14 THE QUIVER my youth and health! I am now content to let ten months of real work suffice, and I am now waiting for my vocation to find me. So I return to school with good health and happy spirits after a summer spent in joyous relaxation. IRENE M. LONG. ’18. Locust Grove Farm, Woonsocket, R. I., April 16, 1918. My dear Miss Mowry:— At last, at last, I have climbed to the very top of a mountain, none other than Mt. Mansfield in Vermont. Somewhere in my brain, there has always been the cherished notion of accomplishing this feat, but never before this year has it been possible. Mt. Mansfield is 4800 feet in height, with an outline roughly resembling a man’s face. We motored to the foothills over a true “rocky road to Dublin’’ and began our ascent on foot. The trail was very good, winding in and out through the thick woods. Soon an unfamiliar sound reached my ears, the sound of running water. Every here and there we crossed swollen mountain streams, rushing noisily over moss-covered stones. I had to lag behind to listen to their music, for what music is more wild and sweet? Soon my companions began to talk of the Half-Way House, where we were to strike the real trail. I imagined it would be a picturesque little place, but it was merely a very old signboard with the words “Half-Way House ’ scratched on it. That was the first of many surprises. It had recently rained, and the so-called trail proved to be a running brook. It was unusual walking, I'll admit, but one became used to it in no time. It was fun to me to find a sure footing on the slippery rocks, to climb over big tree trunks across the trail, to catch at overhanging branches, but to feel all the time that I was going up and up. There was no view, of course, as we were hemmed in on all sides by trees, brush, and brambles. At intervals we rested near a clear, trickling spring and drank freely of its sparkling water. But mountain climbing is not all pleasure. I can’t begin to tell of all the aches and pains one acquires on the way, although the strange thing about it is that they are hardly noticed at the time. Finally, the trail became steeper and steeper, so that we even had to use ropes at times. Little by little, a bit of the surrounding country could be dimly discerned through the trees. One by one we reached the top, and finally stood there all together. O, it was the sight of a lifetime to stand there with the wind blowing