Johnstown High School - Spectator Yearbook (Johnstown, PA)

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THE SPECTATOR 19 The three young men played and sang as they probably never played and sang again. The most critical of audiences was en- thralled. Life came back to the old musician; he stood trans- fixed when they had finished, his face lighted up, his eyes glisten- ed. The boys handed him his hat, which had a goodly sum in it. Then, wishing him luck and happiness, they skipped off to tell their companions of their adventure. Brothers WILLIAM HELLER, 12. The men shouldered their muskets, the drum beat, the officer raised his sword and gave the command, and the little company swung down the village street to the broad level pike. The two brothers glanced at each other; each of them was proud, and yet sorry that the other was there. The mother watched until the last glitter of sun on steel had been hidden by a bend in the road, and then threw herself across the bed, sobbing in grief and anguish as she thought that she might never again see her two beloved boys. She would nyss the quiet reliability and strength of John, the elder, the feeling that while he was near she need not worry. She would miss James, too, her darling, the boy whom so short a time ago it seemed to her she had nursed at her breast and hushed to sleep with soft lullabies. Both had disappeared down the cruel, dusty road. John would make a good soldier, for he was steady and reliable; but why did they take bright, gay, laughing, handsome Jimmie? Her mother’s heart still called him Jimmie though he was almost a man. Why could they not leave her one? “John,” she had said, as with hands on his shoulders she gazed with tear-blinded eyes into his, “take care of Jimmie. You are the elder; stand between him and danger.” Aijd John, kissing her, said that he would. The uniforms were faded and torn, the muskets had seen much service, and the two brothers had fought side by side in the ranks of the company that had been swallowed up in the regi- ment, and the regiment in the vast army; the ranks that had been thinned and filled again, and thinned once more. John paced back and forth in front of the tent where his brother lay, the brother who was to be shot when the morning sun sent its first rays of greeting to the slumbering earth, the brother who, wearied by long days of marching and fighting, had

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18 THE SPECTATOR For The Honor of the Conservatoire DOROTHY SMITH, ’14. One cold February evening an old man with a stout stick was walking in the most fashionable quarter of Paris. He was thinly dressed, and was shivering with the cold. He was buffeted about by the hurrying crowds, and was apparently at a loss to know which way to go next. His right arm pressed to his side an oblong packet wrapped in a checkered cotton handkerchief. He untied the checkered handkerchief disclosing an old violin and bow. Raising the instrument, he tried to play, but only harsh and inharmonious sounds came from the violin. With a sob he sank upon the steps, resting the instrument upon his knees. Three young men came down the street singing a college song which was then very popular among the students at the Conservatoire de Musique. One of them accidentally knocked off the man’s hat. The barehead violinist rose to his feet. “Pardon, monsieur.” said one of the boys, “I hope you are not hurt.” The speaker picked up the old man’s hat. “No,” was the reply. Seeing the violin, the young man asked, “You are a mu- sician ?” “I was one.” Two great tears rolled down the old man’s face. “What is the matter? Are you ill?” “No,” he replied, “but I cannot play any longer, and I am starving.” The boys felt for coins in their pockets. But they were poor students and had no money to give to him. “I tell you what we’ll do,” cried the one. “David, you take the violin and Charley, you sing, while I go round with the hat.” The boys, thinking of the sport, pulled their hats down over their eyes and turned their coat collars up, so they would not be identified, and began the music. Such masterful music did not customarily come from the instruments of street players. Win- dows of the palatial houses flew up and heads were thrust from the openings; those who had gone on retraced their steps. A large audience soon listened to the music. Charley sang the fav- orite part from “La Dame Blanche,” in a manner that held the audience speelbound. It rained money when the song was ended. “One more tune,” whispered the treasurer. “Bring out those bass notes of yours, David. I’ll help you out with the baritone, Charley. Sing your best, fellows, for mind we are singing not merely to assist the old man, but also for the honor of the Con- servatoire.”

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20 THE SPECTATO R gone to sleep on his post; the brother with whom he had played, whom he loved and had promised to care for. Now it was his duty to see that Jimmie did not escape or fail to satisfy the stern decree of the court-martial. As he paced and turned, and paced again, his mother’s words kept ringing in his ears: “Take care of Jimmie. You are the older; stand between him and danger.” Yet he was compelled, by the order of an officer who had forgotten their relationship, or remembering, did not care, to stand between his brother and, not danger, but liberty and life. His love for his brother, and his promise to their mother, fought against his duty to his country and the commands of his superiors. The cold, calm moonlight shone on the face of that pacing sentinel, ut did not reveal the fierce conflict that raged within him. He thought of his mother who would weep at the death of her youngest boy, of the country that demanded a life for neglect of duty, of the mother he loved and to whom he had given his promise, and of the country he loved and had sworn to obey. Why had not some other man been put on guard ? No; that would mean death for his brother. He would keep his promise. He would see that the court's decree had its victim. . He would satisfy both mother and coun- try, both love and honor. “Where is your prisoner?” “He is gone.” “Gone! Gone where ?” “He is gone.” “Did you allow him to escape?” “Yes.” “Do you realize what that means to you?” “Yes.” “Why did you do it?” “He is my brother.” As the first streaks of sunlight broke through the dark veil an officer and a squad of men filed solemnly down the road with a prisoner between them. The shallow, new-made grave seemed to open its arms in welcome. The prisoner, with a calm and peaceful countenance, faced his executioners less moved than they at the tragedy about to be enacted. For him the suffering had ceased. He had done his duty, as it had appeared to him. He was ready to accept the consequences. He waved them back when they would have bandaged his eyes, saying: “I’m not afraid to look at death.”