By Crayon Efird
There are all kinds of scenes, good and bad, and sometimes a good one is spoiled by a little bad. Standing on an old foot log, we face south, and before us is a clear lake. About two hundred feet long by fifty feet wide.
Its banks are fringed with overlapping bushes, and its appearance of having no outlet is deceiving, for it slips away in a threat like-way under the bushes to the right. From there it is hidden until it runs square into a high cliff, and turns back to the left.
At the lower end of the lake is a broad bed of white sand, caused by the creek running straight when it is overflowing its banks. The bed of sand has a back ground of thick bushes through which a man is looking.
“The man has something in his hand which all boys dislike. There is a great deal of clothing scattered about on the sand, and several boys are splashing around waist deep in water.
The appearance of everything indicates a Sunday morning in June. It would be a beautiful scene if the man wasn’t there, and he wouldn’t quite spoil things if he were only empty handed.
We draw the curtain, but behind it goes up a great deal of upper “C.” Music, worse than any cat on the back yard fence, or a baby with a case of colic, on a cold night.
From page 3 of The Midget, published by the students of the Albemarle High School, December 1922
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