Johnstown High School - Spectator Yearbook (Johnstown, PA)

Page 10 text:

16 SPECTATOR ‘Qie Christmas Tree Leona Powelson T7 Colored popcorn on a string, Canary birds which do not sing, Little candles dribbling wax, Bangles, spangles, jumping jacks, Jack-in-boxes, rubber toys, China Cupids, mostly boys; Fancy gewgaws, globes of glass, Children’s watches made of brass, Cheap tin horses, sheep and goats, Paper dolls and wooden boats, Lots of toys which run on wheels, A ball which, when you squeeze it, squeals, Tinsel tassels just for show, A candy clock which doesn’t go. Rosy apples, gilded nuts, A pocket knife which never cuts, Horns of plenty full of candy, Tooting horns for Bill and Andy, A drum for Tom, a sled for Ned, A dandy pair of skates for Fred. A blue necktie for dear old Dad— The prettiest one he ever had, A handkerchief for Mamma, too, And a sachet bag for Sister Lou; All these things and plenty more, On the tree and on the floor.

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SPECTATOR 15 stocking was amazed to see a very old, white-bearded gen- tleman in a red cloak, with a hood on his head, descending to the hearth. The night light burned suddenly brighter; the room became warm and cheerful. The stocking, which was too wonder-struck to speak, thought that it had never seen such a quaint old man in all its life. The old gentleman, who was no other person than Father Christmas, advanced to the bed and let a large bag, which he had been carrying, fall to the ground. “Ha!” he said, laughing, this is the only night in the year when the foot of the bed has a stocking.” He patted his hand on the stocking, and said, “Well, master woolyribs, how do you find yourself tonight?” “Rather lonely,” answered the stocking. “I miss my mate terribly, and its cold.” “Oh, I’ll warm you quick enough!” said Father Christ- mas, and diving into his sack and pulling out all kinds of toys and boxes of sweets, he began to cram the stocking with presents. “Not so hard,” cried the stocking, “you’ll split my sides, if you aren’t careful. What next, I wonder? I’m a stock- ing. What do you take me for, a toy shop?” Father Christmas laughed. “You’re new to this game, then?” he asked. “I was only born this winter,” said the stocking. “I grew on a very nice sheep in Russia until the beginning of spring. Then I was cut off, sent to the mill, and woven into the handsome stocking which you see I am now. “After a few minutes, he disappeared the same way in which he came and I was left alone once more until morning, when my mistress came to relieve me of my burden, and placed me back in the cupboard with my mate.”

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SPECTATOR 17 The Old Fashioned Umbrella Salome Cartwright ’14 Grown old and shabby from constant use, With one rib broken and handle loose: It’s ferrule bent in a crazy way By a man who borrowed it one day. The silken cover stained by dust, And even the catch eaten off by rust; And from its shining folds, the years Have cut the glory with wanton shears. Of folks who in the stone-house dwell, A varied history it could tell! ’Twas given her son on Chirstmas day By a mother, long since passed away. And brave it stands in the ancient hall In the old stairway, against the wall. Now jostling a cane with a golden knob, They’re two old cronies out of a job. That ancient handle carved with care Inlaid with ivory, here and there, Might tell of happiness and pride And glad home coming with his bride. Blushing maid and happy fellow, Well sheltered by the green umbrella, Once entering at the parson’s door, To be thence parted never more. Ah! many hands have carried it: And some were worthy, some unfit. ’Twas lent the pastor, making calls, Had gone to funerals, weddings, balls. And once ’twas stolen and made a trip: It crossed to Germany on a ship. And now with the staff it finds repose, And we bring this eulogy to a close.