Page 55 - 1942 Hartridge

ing of contentment pervaded him. He liked to think that he would lie here all night, not sleeping. He seemed to see the dawn become brighter and brighter until it was day. He forgot the bustling house and his cool, clean bed. He wondered what the first birds awake would sound like if he stayed in the barn all night. He felt full of happiness and peacefulness. He knew the sun was sinking beyond the edge of the earth, and he watched the domed sky grow darker and darker until high up in the zenith a star appeared. The world was drowned in ghostly moonlight. White fields of grass waved gently in the night breezes. Marshes poured forth sounds of frogs and peepers. Far away a dog howled.
He shivered, stretched, got stiffly to his feet, and crawled down the ladder. He stepped softly across the moonlit yard as if he were anticipating something. He gazed at the twinkling lights in the valley and loved them. Then he tiptoed in and went to bed.
Margaret Anne Fezandie, ’42 Prize Winner
PETER
Peter was tramping through the daisy field. He was plump, and his nose turned
up a little. The bright spring sun made his black hair glisten, and his eyes seemed to reflect the clear blue of the sky. His tanned legs tramped down some of the daisies, and then Peter tripped and fell down. He rubbed his ankle with his baby hand, but it still hurt, so he just lay down on the daisies and gazed at the few puffy clouds in the sky. They looked like his mother’s balls of wool, they were so soft and fuzzy on the edges. Peter knew his mother was knitting baby sweaters for the British War Relief. He wasn’t sure what that was. Peter had an idea that other little boys his age were cold and hungry. His mother told him to be thankful for the food he had to eat because some little boys didn’t have any at all. Peter was quite conscious that there was a war going on some where, although he didn’t know exactly what a war was. He played war with his little lead soldiers and white ambulance, but somehow he didn’t connect them with the other war.
Peter looked again at the sky, as if his eyes had closed when he was dreaming. The sky was a much deeper blue, and the puffy white clouds had drifted so they were over the garage behind Peter’s house. That reminded him to go home, where he knew his mother would give him a big, cool glass of milk and a kiss on his cheek.
He got up. There was a flat place where he had lain down on the daisies. His cheeks were rosy, and his shiny black hair was all mussed up. He rubbed his wide blue eyes, picked the biggest daisy he could find and waded through the daisies toward home. His ankle didn’t hurt any more.
Paula Welles, ’45 Prize Winner
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