Woonsocket High School - Quiver Yearbook (Woonsocket, RI)

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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

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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.”

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THE QUIVER 15 thou hast as much as we,—we who found great hardships, starvation, and even death. But we found freedom, and are we not thankful. Brother, I ask you to thank God for ilis goodness.” The Pilgrim sank on his knees and folding his hands, bowed his head in prayer. The sculptor awoke. His face was shining. His old enthusiasm had returned. What a subject for a statue! Many years later, on another Thanksgiving Day, the same old sun shone in through the windows of the sculptor s studio. It was no longer poorly furnished and shabby. And the sculptor himself had changed completely. Although he looked older, the bitterness had gone from his face. He sat before another brightly-burning log-fire and smoked peacefully, while he read again those wonderful lines, “Not as the flying come, In silence and in fear; They shook the depths of the desert gloom With their hymns of lofty cheer.” Finally, he finished the poem and walked to the window. Looking out between the trees, he gazed into the park of the Pilgrim Fathers. But where, years ago. had been a barren plot of land, there stood a majestic marbte figure. If one looked closely, one could discern a pilgrim kneeling in prayer. The sculptor seemed to hear the Pilgrim say again, “Brother. I ask you to give thanks to God.” This time the sculptor bowed his head in prayer. MADELEINE ROSWELL, ’22. JOYFUL DAYS The little flowers are waking, And birds begin to sing; With joyful hearts we’re bringing Bright greetings to the spring. Our lives are full of sunshine. Our hearts are full of praise ; ’Tis nearing graduation, The happiest of days! EDITH GOLDFINE. 21.