Johnstown High School - Spectator Yearbook (Johnstown, PA)

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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

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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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32 SPECTATOR and I was equal to them most every time. Of course, they didn’t play roughly,” slipped out before Dorothy had time to think. “Gracious, why didn’t you tell me before. Well, never mind now, I’m in a hurry. Oh, say, I will call for you to- night; be sure and be ready.” Dorothy was happier than she had -been before in her life. At seven o’clock the girls called and Betty and Dorothy walked side by side. “I hear you can play,” said Betty, “what do you play?” “I play forward,” said Dorothy. Hump,” was the reply. “ so do I; wonder if you could beat me.” “I reckon not,” remarked Dorothy. “I haven’t played for a long time.” “Well, you are to have a try-out this evening,” Helen said. “I guess we will see.” Dorothy stood the test so well she was appointed a substitute. When she retired that night, she whispered to herself, “I almost belong now.” At last the day of the game arrived and Dorothy was gazing at the girls, perched every where, yelling for Helen one time and Betty the next. Dorothy wished with all her heart that they would cheer for her. But now the game had begun, and Dorothy was root- ing lustily for Athurs, when she saw Betty fall, get up, and limp painfully across the room, just as the first half ended. The girls clustered around her and Helen assisted her to the dressing room. There Miss Allison, the physical director, rendered the woeful verdict that Betty could not play any more that night. “But, Miss Allison, we must win,” cried Betty. “That’s all right, Betty, but you are going to stay here,” grimly replied the teacher. “I guess Dorothy Stanford can play, Betsy dear; we'll get along all right,” said Helen anxiously because the score was a tie. Then, raising her voice, “Dorothy Stanford will