Woonsocket High School - Quiver Yearbook (Woonsocket, RI)

Page 17 text:

THE QUIVER TO THE RESCUE 13 One morning as I was on my way to Woonsocket with Frank, our red horse, my attention was drawn by the horse to the incident I am about to narrate. Following his gaze. I soon discovered, ahead of r,i m tlie road, a line of vehicles of various descriptions, ranging from lumber-wagons to limousines. Upon arriving at the scene, I hitched my horse to the fence and joined die crowd. I learned, upon inquiry, that it was a case of beauty in distress. The joys of a beautiful young girl, accompanied by her aunt, had been cut short when the machine that she was driving had become unmanageable and. leaving the road, had stopped only when all four wheels were fast in the mud. 1 stood on the edge of the crowd and watched, while each person in turn came to offer his services, some with tow ropes, and others with jacks and mud-hooks, but with no success. The girl was fast losing courage when the hero appeared in the form of an old steel gray-horse. In some time past he had been wounded, like Achilles, in his heel, which gave him a noticeable limp. His driver was clothed in a pair of dirty overhalls and a soiled shirt, and had a coating of dirt on his face and hands. In spite of his unattractive appearance and the crippled condition of his horse, he quickly, in a business-like way. attached a chain from the rear end of his wagon to the front axle of the machine, and speaking a few- encouraging words to his horse, he soon had the machine landed safely in the road again. The girl rewarded him with a two-dollar bill, and the excitement was over. JOHN HARRIS. 23. Mr. Carroll: “Miss Logan, what is a crankshaft.'” Ik Logan: “The same thing as a spark plug.” Mr. Rodgers: “Now we will take up Samoa.” Voice: “Some more! Gee. haven’t we had enough.' Pupil: “Is cocoa butter good to eat'” Mr. Rodgers: “No, but it is used for many things, such as in salve, on chapped hands, and—but you know I m not selling cocoa butter. Class.”

Page 16 text:

12 THE QUIVER jumped with lightning grace, when once an unruly spark flew out into the middle of the room. Bob liked so much to watch the ever-changing mystery of a fire. Her whole attention was wrapped up in one huge, blazing log that threatened to topple off from its crumbling support any second. Her eyes widened in anticipation of the quick flare of sparks when the log should fall. Scratch!! What was that? Like a flash she had noiselessly bounded into the corner. She turned and confronted the door, rifle poised, and alertness stamped on every line of her body. Her smoldering eyes showed no fear. Scratch ! Scratch !—Then silence. Her sharp ears caught the sound of metal rubbing. What could it be? For five minutes she held her poise and listened to those faint scratches. Finally she drew a deep breath and relaxed. Probably some furry night prowler seeking warmth had disturbed her. She smiled when she saw the heavily bolted door that protected her from intruders. She had turned to lay down her rifle when a terrible thought struck her. Her father! Suppose it was he, hurt, too weak to call out. She again grasped the gun and with determination written on her young face, moved slow-y towards the door. Stealthily she unbolted it and stopped to listen. A faint scratch reached her ears. Cautiously she poked the muzzle of her rifle through the small opening and peeped out into the blackness. She could make out the sharp outline of the spruce trees against the sky, and farther off the glitter of the lake. Seeing nothing, she flung open the door and took one step out. Nothing there! How queer! She certainly had heard scratching. With a disgusted grunt ,she turned to go back. Something soft and furry brushed against her moccasined feet. And there, wearily crawling across the threshold, was a tiny black bear, one foot caught in a trap. Bob’s indignation suddenly melted into pity for this wee. unfortunate cub. She knelt down and took account of her visitor. The little cub had evidently dragged himself some way. He was exhausted and nearly dead from loss of blood. Too small to fear her, he simply kept his beady black eyes fixed on her face, trusting that she would help him. And help him she did. Staying up most of the night, she set and bound his broken leg and cared for him as if he were a baby. With his stomach full of warm milk and maple syrup, which he loved, he curled up and went to sleep. She called him “Hippy” because of his queer little broken-legged gait; and the mysterious visitor from the night turned out to be a family pet. HELEN DAVIS, ’21.

Page 18 text:

14 THE QUIVER THE SCULPTOR It was Thanksgiving Day and the sun shone brightly on the large city. It looked into the churches and into the homes of both rich and poor. It shone on the great park dedicated to the Pilgrim Fathers. In all these places, it saw its own radiance reflected on every face. It looked into the windows of a sculptor’s studio and played over the statues, but it saw no radiance on the face of the sculptor. Instead, the sculptor sat before a small log-fire, his head in his hands. At last he glanced up and gazed bitterly around the studio, noting for perhaps the hundredth time that day, the shabbiness and the poor furnishings. Then his gaze travelled to his statues. Failures —every one of them ! Thanksgiving, indeed ! The fire had almost gone out, but the sculptor did not move to replenish it, for his glance had fallen beyond his statues on an enormous piece of marble. He had ordered and paid for it when he had first begun to feel the pangs of bitterness; but he would never use it now, for he would make only statues that would be failures,— statues at which all the world would laugh. He picked up the newspaper to read again the unfavorable criticism of one of his latest works. While hunting for the criticism, however, he came across the poem, “The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers in New England.” “Not as the flying come, In silence and in fear; They shook the depths of the desert gloom With their hymns of lofty cheer.” As he read it, his thoughts returned to his youth. How proud he had been of his Pilgrim ancestors! What dreams he had had! He had believed firmly that with half a chance he could become famous. These thoughts quieted him. Gradually the worn face relaxed and he fell asleep. By the light one could see the deep lines of struggle in his face. And he dreamed! In his dream he found himself in the park dedicated to the Pilgrim Fathers. He sat on a bench; around him were groups of Pilgrims talking to one another. Finally one approached from a group near-by. “Brother,” he said to the sculptor, “thou seemst to be weary. Wilt thou tell thy troubles to me? “Sir”, replied the sculptor, “I am weary of life. It holds nothing for me.” “But, brother, thou art not thankful for what thou hast. Surely