Johnstown High School - Spectator Yearbook (Johnstown, PA)

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30 SPECTATOR “These are the hill pastures,” replied the old man, “and I have employment for you. Which of you can shear the best ?” “Good father,” said Covetous, “I am the closest shearer in all the country; you would not find as much as would make a thread on a sheep when I have done with it.” “You are the man for my business,” replied the old shepherd. When the moon rises, I will call the flock you have to shear.” When the monn rose the shepherd took his flute and played a merry tune, immediately a troop of shag- gy wolves was heard coming up the hill, and the old man said, “Rise, and shear; this flock of mine have too much wool on them.” He arose to do so but they gave such a howl that he was glad to run behind the old man for safety. To his great surprise when Kind arose to shear the wolves, they seemed to know him, and stood quietly to be shorn. Kind clipped neatly, but not too close, as he had wished his brother to do with the sheep. When he had finished, the old man said: “Ye have done well; take the wool and the flock for your wages, return to the plain, and if you please, take this worthless brother with you.” Before Kind could answer, all the wolves had changed into the very sheep that had strayed so strangely away. All had grown fatter and thicker of fleece, and the hair he had cut off them lay by his side, a heap of wool so fine and soft that its like had never been seen on the plain. Covetous and Kind returned to the plain that night with great gladness. All the shepherds came to hear their wonderful story, and ever after liked to keep near them because they had such good luck.

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SPECTATOR 29 ning to be chilly. One day before Covetous had clipped the sheep, first the lambs, and then the ewes began to stray away; and search where the brothers would, none of them were ever found again. Covetous blamed Kind with being careless, although he knew it was not his fault. The flocks grew smaller and smaller every day, and all the brothers could find out was that the closest clipped were the first to go. The other shepherds, to whom he had boasted of his wool, were not sorry to see pride having a fall. Most of the shepherds pitied Kind, but still the flocks strayed away until there were only three old ewes left. One glorious midsummer evening while the two broth- ers were watching their sheep, Covetous said, “Brother, there is wool to be had on their backs.” Kind was grieved to see his brother so greedy, and to divert his mind, looked up at the great hills, while his brother went for the shears. The hills seemed to comfort Kind. The far ofif heights were growing crimson, and as he looked, three creatures like sheep ran up one of the hills, as fleet as any deer. When Covetous returned, the two brothers were much surprised to find the three ewes gone. Covetous’ first ques- tion was what had become of them, and when Kind told him what he had seen he scolded him with might and main for lifting his eyes off them. Before the father of Kind and Covetous had died, he told them there were great shepherds living beyond the hills. The next morning the brothers resolved to go beyond the hills to see if they could be taken as shepherd boys. They took the direction the sheep had taken and by noon reached the cleft where they sat down to rest. Their feet were sore and their hearts heavy; but as they sat there, a sound of music floated down the hills, as if a thousand shepherds were playing music on their summits. They foll- owed the sound up the cleft, and at sunset they came to the hill top. Here thousands of sheep were feeding, while an old man sat in the midst of them playing his flute. “Good father,” said Kind, “tell us what land this is, and where we can find service; for my brother and I are good shepherds.”

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SPECTATOR 31 Belonging E. D.’15 Dorothy Stanford had never possessed a real girl friend. She lived about a mile from a small southern town, and the only time she had companions of any kind was in the sum- mer, when her two big brothers were home from school. She pined and wished so much for a real girl chum that her mother decided to send her away to a large school for girls, away up in New York state. Dorothy was delighted at the prospect of knowing a hundred girls and could hardly wait till she could meet the school girls. However, when she was introduced to the girls formally, she became self-conscious and shy. Later when Betty Allison spoke to her, she crawled away back in a big shell labeled “Shyness.” “Whew, she’s stiff,” commented Betty, and the word passed along, and was confirmed by so many other girls, that in a short time Dorothy was left entirely alone. Once she was asked if she had played on her school basketball team. Dorothy was stricken with a sudden fit of shyness, and only managed to murmur a faint, “No,” and forgot to tell them that she had played often with her brothers and was a good player. One day, about a week before Christmas, when attack- ed with a particularly bad spell of lonesomeness, she thought to herself, “I believe I will do something for some one to- day ; maybe I won’t be so lonesome.” Accordingly she set out to see Mrs. Harrington, an old blind lady. She read and sang until it was so late, she had to run back to school. Going through the gate she passed Helen Hartford, the captain of the team, and the most popular girl in the school. Unconsciously she smiled and Helen returned the smile and the two girls walked up the road together. Going into the building, Helen remarked, “We are going to have practice tonight for the big Christmas game. You know this the hardest game of the season; those Rockford girls have grit.” “Oh, I just love to play. I used to play with my brothers