Steele High School - Annual Yearbook (Dayton, OH)

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Page eighteen THE ANNUAL PETER By MARGARET E. HOWARD i' ET ER brushed a speck of dust from his coat sleeve. It was a hot july afternoon. It can't be the train is late, he said to himself, clutching the little old valise nervously. The breath of the coun- try was in the air. A bird whistled on a tree near by the little waiting-room. I'11 miss the old place, no doubt, he said tremu- lously, but, his lips grew iirm, I've made up my mind. The train whistled and soon came puffing up to the little station. The journey was before him. He turned and looked back down the old road he knew so well. A buggy was coming. He climbed huriedly into the train, and then gazed anxiously about. In one corner a tired-looking mother was holding a little boy. He was sleeping, but for a moment Peter was startled. The boy reminded him of Johnny. johnny'1l miss his old grandad, he sighed. He took a seat where he could have an occasional glimpse of the boy. The other passengers regarded the little old man with some curiosity at first, but soon returned to their daily papers or their naps. Peter still held his valise tightly. The train started. The windows were open but the air was sultry. He longed for the shady woods by the old farm. Johnny 'll want me to fix his pole so he can iish in the little brook, he said sadly, but mebbe the hired man 'll have time to 'tend to it. He looked out the window but the green fields seemed to call him away from the present and so he fell asleep. Tickets. Peter woke with a start. Have we come? he said. Tickets, The conductor looked bored. Peter opened the valise. There was nothing in it but a clean oollar and a few handkerchiefs. Any time, growled the conductor. Peter looked dazed. He fumbled in each pocket of his coat and Finally with a triumphant smile pulled out an old sock. Very carefully he took out 3 purse and handed it to the conductor. I guess there's enough, he said hesitatingly. The conductor opened the purse gingerly, counted the small coins and handed it back to Peter. Peter was relieved. He placed it carefully-almost tenderly in the old sock.

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THE ANNUAL Page seventeen hended it-the glorious ideal she had clung to for so long, and the loss of which makes the world a queer, empty place to live in-especially if the Princess be young and impetuously enthusiastic.. Sometimes the Prince comes in the guise of a longed-for hope, or a soaring ambition, or a dear desire-and when they disappear, there is nothing for the Princess to do but to sit down and wait in patience. Pity the Princess who must wait, crouch- ing alone in the darkness, waiting for footsteps-is there a greater agony in life than waiting for footsteps? or else, a greater pain, waiting among a crowd of ignorant ones to whom her fear is unknown and by whom it is misunder- stood. Pity the Princess who waits! Her golden hair may become thin and rough, her eyes become unspoken reflections of the longing within, her rose- leaf cheeks be sere and yellow, her features may be an a great peace-it is not the peace of content, but the costlier peace of resignation, the Princess' heart never can quite forget its youth and lost joy, it remembers into eternity, even though the bliss was transitory and fleeting, and the pain-brimmed agony is life-long. Though the world long since has passed by the fact that she ever lived, she still exists, slipped back from the coldness of human eyes, back into unrecorded history, back into the crowded, silent ranks of those forgotten. Perhaps we might mention the other Prince, too, but many sympathies have been lifted in his defenceg many strong masculine voices have aided him-and many weaker faminine ones, too. And the men who never come off, he said, who try like the rest, but get knocked down, or somehow miss --who get no Princess, nor even a second-class kingdom -this is only a sample. The other Prince somehow does not get so much contumely from those around him, a Prince may always strive again, and make his past a stepping-stone for his future, but, in some queer way, the world seems to consider a Princess who has failed as a lost atom, whose chances for success are gone. Why is it so? Only another phase of the fairy law, I suppose,- the feeling that everyone is bound on the wheel of things and must revolve with the turnings of the wheel. But why do we so often find the Princesses at the bottom of the wheel, which does not help them to rise, but passes over them and crushes them? Poor Princesses! Some of them with the half of a broken rope for a pillow at night, some with heavy heaps of regret and scorn weighing them down, some-and these are the saddest of all-whose broken hope is a tiny bundle hugged tightly in their arms-a little harmless atom, whose heritage is grief and shame. Let any one dare to say that this Princess is not in reality a Queen, just as much as are her lucky sister queens, sitting proudly on the top of the wheel and gazing down on her in haughty disdain. So you remember that, when the master went into the garden, the little gray leaves were kind to him. He knew the agony of incomprehensiong he had struggled, bitterly and alone, to remain the captain of his soul, to keep unharmed the faith and immortal love for which he stood. And the only real sympathy that came to him was that of a little gray leaf.

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THE ANNUAL Page nineteen The little boy across the way was awake now and sat staring at Peter. Peter held out his hand, but the boy stuck out his tongue. Don't do that, Adolphusf' The mother shook him roughly. The old man won't hurt you. He's too trembly and weak to bother you. He ought to be in some asylum 'stead of travellin' around at his age. Peter sank back in the seat. It was true then. He had thought it might be a mistake. He always felt strong despite his white hairs, but now it must be true. He looked out the window. Houses were coming in sight. Here was the city at last! How crowded everything was. In the country-but then he must not think of the country. No, he had come to live in the city and perhaps he would become used to it. The train stopped. The passen- gers crowded into the aisle. Peter grasped his valise more tightly. The crowd was nearly out now. Peter hurried after. Cab, sir? Peter looked up politely. People in the city are always polite. No, I don't believe I'll take one this morning, thank you, he said apol- ogetically. The man stared at him so hard that poor Peter was greatly embarrassed. He hurried to the sidewalk. I donit know just which way I'd better go,', he said to himself. I sup- pose it must be one of those big buildin's over there. The little old man started off, but being pushed and shoved by the crowds of people so exhausted him that he leaned against a lamp-post to rest. I must be gettin' weak, he sighed, weak and trembly. I used to hoe the taters back at the old place and plow the I-ields with the best of 'em, but I'm weak and trembly now. What's the trouble, old man? A kind-faced gentleman took him by the arm. The hurrying people looked at them curiously, but Peter did not care. It was good to have some one to lean upon. I was looking for-for the 'Old Men's Home,' he said, half ashamed and yet proudly enough. Perhaps you know where 'tis and can tell me, sir. Well, yes, I can.'i The gentleman paused. ' Oh, I'm so glad, sir. Peter now spoke almost eagerly. You see, I'm anxious to get there 'cause its pretty timesome travelin' this hot weather. He pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his brow. ' Are you alone? the gentleman asked. Oh, yes, said Peter, 'Tm alone, but I reckon if you show me the way I can Find it all right. Is it very far ? Yes, it is rather far, too far for you to walk, but we'll manage some way, the gentleman replied. Here, Jim. d A cab drew up at the curb and the man helped Peter in and closed the oor.