Nestled away at the very back of E-Wing are a dozen old, rusted filing cabinets. Within these cabinets are bundles upon bundles of bygone editions of The Tattler, which allow us to peer into the lives and minds of past IHS students. As The Tattler’s newest archivist, it is my pleasure to give these articles a second life! I do hope you enjoy.
May, 1926
“Tattles”
Seniors were born for great things,
Sophs were born for small,
But it is not recorded
Why Frosh were born at all.
T-T-T
Mr. Hickey— “Who was that who laughed out loud?”
Mayhew— “I laughed up my sleeve, but there’s a hole in the elbow.”
T-T-T
“One of them city fellas tried to sell me the Woolworth build-
ing.”
“What did you say?”
“I sez, ‘All right, young fella, wrap it up’.”
T-T-T
“David, vere are my glasses?”
“On your nose, Fader.”
“Don’t be so indefinite.”
T-T-T
Flunk! Flunk! Flunk!
In the little red books they go.
And I would that my tongue could utter.
The things that I ought to know.
T-T-T
A young theologian named Fiddle,
Refused to accept his degree.
“For,” he said, “Tis enough to be Fiddle,
Without being Fiddle, D. D.”
T-T-T
“What is a ground hog?”
“Sausage.”
October 1922
“The Lady in Black”
By Gertrude Whetzell
It was a dark, dreary night, and a heavy fog hung over London, and spread itself even beyond the great city, until at last a dense, white mist curtain surrounded Longford, the estate of my uncle. Longford is old, very old. It had been built in the time of the Normans, and there are many exciting legends and stories told concerning it. For miles about it is considered one of the most haunted of haunted houses in England.
Two short days before, I had arrived at Longford to spend a month with my cousins. There were three at home at that time. They were jolly English youngsters and I had, as they would have termed it, “a ripping time.” I had asked about ghosts and had said that I wished ever so much to see one, as I really never believed that there was any such thing.
My cousin Alice only laughed, and answered that there was only one ghost that was often seen at Longford. Before she could tell me more of this ghost, however, we were called away to a set of tennis.
On the third night of my visit, we were expecting a number of friends, and Alice and I had hurried down the great oak stairs to the hall, that we might be on hand to welcome the first guest who should appear.
We had barely stepped onto the polished floor of the great hall when Alice gripped my arm. She had not looked about, but said, staring straight before her into a large hanging mirror which faced the stairs, “She is on the landing.” Of course I had no idea who “she” might be, but Alice’s hand was like ice. In spite of myself I shivered, and, as my eyes followed her gaze into the mirror, I turned about to gaze at the figure on the landing.
A little old lady, hardly more than five feet high, stood there. She was dressed in a black silk dress of an old, old style. There was a mass of white lace at her throat and her snow white hair hung in curls about her face. Oh, that face! It was the most beautiful face I have ever seen. One tiny hand was raised to her forehead and partially shaded it, but there was a wistful and longing look in her large black eyes, as they seemed to search the great hall for some well known figure.
My cousin and I stood entranced, and then—was it a breath of wind?
No, I believe it was a sigh that escaped those lips. Her hand dropped to her heart, and for a second she gazed at us. I could not look into her eyes and so I blinked. Then, as I looked, she faded, slowly, surely, and then there was only a grey mist where she had stood. As this also faded, I turned to Alice.
She whispered, “The Lady in Black. I have seen her before, but every time it makes me feel just as queer.”
“She was so tiny, so beautiful, so sad. It makes me want to cry,” I said.
Our guests were arriving just then, so we said no more of what we had seen until after the party. Then Alice said, “Come with me, I’ll get father to tell you about her. He can tell it much better than I can.”
So together we went to my uncle’s study, where he told us the story of the beautiful little old lady, which I will repeat, just as he told it.
“My great, great, ever so great aunt was very beautiful. She was in love with a young nobleman, a very handsome lad, and as nice as he was handsome. At that time England was at war with France and my aunt’s lover felt that he must fight for old England. He bade her good-bye in that hall yonder, promising to return. With tears in her big black eyes, my aunt promised to wait for him until he came back again. Alas, poor fellow, he never came back. A French bullet laid him low; but my aunt never forgot him, and even after she learned of his death she continued to watch and wait for him. If sorrow can make one more beautiful, that must have been the case with my aunt. As she grew older, she grew sadder and more lovely to look upon. It is said that every night, as she went to her room, she would turn on the landing, and, shading her eyes with her hand, would look long and earnestly at the door. Then with a slight sigh she would put her hand to her heart, and turn away. Ever since her death she had come back to watch and wait. She usually comes when guests are expected and when the fog hangs heavy o’er Longford. If you girls saw her tonight, as I have no doubt you did, you have seen the most beautiful ghost which we have in this ghostly old house.”
Thanking my uncle, I walked up those same steps from which earlier in the evening the beautiful ghost had vanished. I saw her only once afterward, on another foggy night, and then only a glimpse as she turned away and disappeared in the mist. But now I have turned entirely English and believe in ghosts, for I can never forget the beautiful Lady in Black.