Woonsocket High School - Quiver Yearbook (Woonsocket, RI)

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THE QUIVER 15 , Europe shook her head. “Tomorrow, always tomorrow! Amer-tomojrovy will be too late. My children, are weakening. You have a great surplus. You can feed my children and still have plenty for yourself.” America looked at Europe’s war-worn, pleading face, and mused. “How can I refuse this plea of Christianity? Shall I let Poland and Armenia, and all those beautiful little children die of starvation Which shall it be, Dollars or Lives?” LILLIAN R. MAHER, ’20 “MAN WORKS FROM SUN TO SUN” The day on our farm begins in autumn before daylight. The barns and sheds are coveerd with hoar frost. The air is biting and still. Not a breeze stirs the big pines yonder; a leaf flutters to the ground from the gnarled mountain ash; the black walnut rears it leafless branches as motionless as a statue. A few steel-cold stars glitter in the sky, which gradually becomes lighter. Over the orchard there, it is turning to silver. The stars wink and go out. The cock crows loudly, slapping his wings against his sides; he is answered by one to the north. The cows swing their stanchions uneasily. A dog bays in the distance. The fog is rising in a frosty cloud from the river beyond which there echoes the hollow pounding of a horse’s feet. Father is clattering the stove lids. I listen to his steps as he goes to the barn. The horse also hears him as he opens the door. He begins to nicker and paw. He moves aside too far for father to feed him and bumps against the wall. I can hear the clatter of the tubs in the cow mangers and the creak of the stanchions as they strain forward. The “ping” of the milk cans as they are taken from the rack is mother’s alarm clock. Soon. I know, there will be odors from the kitchen that will drag me reluctantly from bed. but I decide there is no time like the present to take another nap. I am awakened by an unearthly screaming. An excited pig en route to breakfast and a screech owl at dusk are close rivals for weirdness but two pigs,—-saints preserve us! The cock leads the chorus of hens which are singing with more zeal than music. He is a strap ping young cockerel, a Columbian Wyandotte, less than a year old. As the sun swings up over the horizon, the sky is a pale straw color. There is no doubt that the air is chilly. As I dress, my teeth

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14 THE QUIVER parlor. There was a young girl reclining on a sofa. She was very, very weak. Europe drew America aside and said, “There is Poland, who is struggling to become strong like her other brothers and sisters; but how can she become strong when she is starving to death ? A young man, thin, but sleek, with long finger-nails that would cut the flesh if they came in contact with it, sat near the sofa, bending towards the young girl as though he were beseeching her to do something. Europe frowned and said, “America, Poland is struggling to overcome this persistent and dangerous lover, Bolshevism. He promises that if she will marry him, he will provide the necessary remedy that will make her strong and well, better off, in fact, than her brothers and sisters. While Poland has strength she will resist Bolshevism, but she is losing her strength and will accept if no other means are offered. Come this way. Europe led America up a pair of stairs to a bedroom where a young woman lay ill. Europe said, “There is Armenia. She is beautiful, but has been tortured for years by that terrible disease, the Turk. It is killing her by inches. She bravely fights it, but she cannot hold out much longer, for I cannot give her the nourishment she needs. She is also wooed by Bolshevism, for his belief allows him to have more than one wife. She is strong enough to fight him now, but she is rapidly becoming weaker. Europe then led America through the rest of the house, showing her all her smaller children, who were weak and were being overcome by disease. Outside again Europe continued: “You have seen for yourself; you understand my circumstances. I do not ask that you give with out expecting a return. I ask for a loan. Only a little of your surplus foodstuffs would give the proper nourishment to my children and make them strong again to resist temptation and disease, that would lead them to ruin. Think, America !• I entreat you to think of what will become of my children if they are offered no helping hand. If Poland and Armenia marry Bolshevism, their children and their children’s children will mean numbers added to the cause of Bolshevism. It will then be a greater fight for you. It will mean the loss of life of your own children. America thought several minutes, then replied, “I will consider it and tell you tomorrow.”

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16 THE QUIVER chatter so fast that they seem to be running a race with the shivers shooting up and down my back. I run to the barn with the dog to mix a pail of mush for the hens. After breakfast we carry the cans of milk to the dealer. Then father takes the horse and draws some corn fodder to the barn and pulls and stacks some beans to d;y. Then he picks apples until dinner-time. In the meantime mother and I have been sweeping and cleaning and cooking and doing other odd “jobs” too numerous to mention. There is, perhaps, on the pantry shelf a strawberry or a cream pie or more likely two or three apple and a mince, a cake, a dish of cookies, loaves of bread, both white and brown, or a cottage cheese. In the afternoon we all go into the orchard and pick more apples. There are smooth Northern Spies and Baldwins, hunch-back Pewaukees, rough-skinned English and Roxbury Russets, yellow Bellflowers, Tolman Sweetings, the best apple to bake, Rhode Island Greenings. Jilliflowers. the peerless McIntosh Red, and mother’s favorite, the freckled Peck’s Pleasant. These are put into bags and barrels, loaded into the wagon, and taken to the house where they are put into the cellar for the winter. I get the mail and find it is time for chores again My cousin feeds the hens, throwing the corn at her feet to bring the cock near. Her eye has noticed and admired his tail-feathe s, which shine bronze and violet in the rays of the setting sun. As soon as he is near enough, she stoops and pulls out one of the prettiest, but the feather grew there and so it comes out with difficulty. She almost lifts him from his feet. He makes an awkward bow and hits his head on the ground. Verily it is not all fun to be a handsome cock. Then we search for eggs and carry into the roost a setting hen, which has stolen a nest across the road among the sweet-fern. If we should let her stay there, we should be afraid thit the little screech owl or the skunk down there in the junipers would cntch her. 1 hen we go for the cows and wait at the brook for them to drink. Off they go in single file down the path which they have worn. Their heels click like knitting needles. As they see the barn, they quicken their steps and one cow bawls. Father milks them. The pigs are fed. The chickens go to roost with much pushing and noise. We have our supper and draw up around the light to read. At nine o’clock father goes to the barn and beds down the horse. And so we settle down for the night. A cricket is mourning under my window. A south wind is sighing in the pines. All is dark. A meteor shoots earthward in the northeast. There is a bright glow to the south made by the lights of Providence. Another day is done. ELSIE MOWRY, ’20