Albion High School - Chevron Yearbook (Albion, NY)

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0l lIlll l THE CHEVRON l ! O At half-past eight she had half run, half skipped downstairs with a brand new nickel clutched tightly in' her small, hot hand. In exchange she had re- ceived two really pretty valentines. Pausing every ten hops or skips to look at the valentines she had hurried to school. One by one, her classmates marched to the teacher's desk and whispered in her ear the name of him or her to whom he wished to send the valentines. At last her turn came. To her dismay the teacher told her that the girls had to send their valentines to boys. Mary, perplexed, whispered the first two names that came to her head, the names of the boys who sat in front of her and behind her. Mary had been a quiet child. She could not mingle freely with the other children. She tried, oh so many times, but she couldn't. She felt older than the rest of the children. She had no close friends. Except for another incident the morning passed by joyously for Mary. A boy, Louis Sorn, whom she detested had sent an inquiring glance at her while deciding to whom he should send his valentine. She had vigorously shaken her head and sighed relievedly when he had glanced about the room again. At noon she could hardly eat her dinner. It seemed she would never have time enough to put on her new dress, which she had taken off so that she wouldn't spot it. Slowly, oh so slowly the hands of the clock turned. The bell! Two o'clock. The party began. Ray Lorry, one of the big boys, had been chosen postman. He had delivered the valentines. She had quivered expectantly every time he strode up her aisle. Then, with a feeling of terror and something undescribable she had realized that all the valentines had been passed out and that she hadn't received a single one! It was unbelievable. There must be one, at least one. Maybe it was in the very bottom of the bag. But no, not a single one for her. A queer lump formed in her throat. No, she mustn't cry. She bit her trembling, tell-tale lip until she realized the pain even through the over-power- ing emotions that controlled her. Then the teacher noticed that Mary had no valentines. Before Mary could act or speak she had said, Children, Mary has not received a valentine. Lena, won't you give her one? lLena had received hfteenj. Lena had pettishly answered, No, I got them, they're mine. I won't give her any. A wave of shame and anger rushed over Mary. Shame at the thought of the whole room knowing that she had received no valentine and anger at the teacher and Lena. The lump in her throat was growing bigger and bigger. It wouldn't let the ice-cream, cake and candy that were served go down. How the time crept. The time between the clicks of the minute hand seemed interminable. Would they ever be excused so that she could go home? She wanted to cry. She had to cry. But not before the class. No! She would die ilrst. At last she could go. She rushed home blindly. She crept up the stairs, hazy through a mist of tears that could be held back no longer. Stumbling, she had groped to the darkest corner of the darkest closet and she had cried and cried. A bright tear fell on the biggest and reddest of Janet's hearts. -Tulia Brunetti. Page Fifteen

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0l llll! l THE CHEVRON l !IilI l0 BITTER-SWEET Look, Mary, I got eleven valentines, six from boys and five from girls. Mary, startled, jumped up from the desk which she had just been cleaning out, letting fall an envelope from which protruded some valentines. She shook herself and laughed rather shakily. It was only her imagination. But it had sounded so real. She could easily picture her young sister, Janet, ex- citedly crying the words before she had even opened the door. Janet's joyous shout as she came proudly carrying home her trophies from the valentine party at school always brought back to Mary's memory her own haste to reach home that day so long ago, her own fumbling at the door-knob. So alike and yet so different! Janet would rush home to show her valentinesg Mary had rushed home to hide her tears and mortificationsg Janet had fumbled at the door-knob in her joy to show her pretty valentinesg Mary had fumbled because the door-knob was dimmed through a blur of tears. Pity for that poor child she herself had been welled in the heart of Mary. She could never bring herself to believe that that forlorn, hurt child had been she. She was different now. That terrible day had shown her that one can't sit back and let the rest of the world go by, not if one wants to be happy. So Mary had mingled, a hard task for her, recast, found some happi- ness. Again even though so long a time had elapsed, she felt slighted and wanted to cry her heart out as she thought back over the ten years. Some people looking back upon moments of joy, pain, sadness or embarrassment can smile at the emotions which impelled them then. At that moment Mary could not do this. She must experience again the joy or pain. Oh! Only too well she remembered that bitter-sweet day. She had worn her new pink dress because her grade was to have a valentine party. She loved that dress. It was so soft and had such beautiful frilly lace on it. She had almost cried with joy when her mother had allowed her to wear it all day, even though the party was only in the afternoon. Page Fourteen

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0I llill l THE CHEVRON sit o CINDERELLA IVERS Are the decorations all ready, Jane? Are you sure Spud brought the balloons? Yes, he brought them, but- Oh Bab, did your dress get here all right? Say, Jim, I've got a last-minute girl for you. Some looker, too. Wait'll you see her! Amid such evidently happy preparations for a mid-year prom, Alan Baird plodded along the hall in deep dejection. Oh. yes, they can all go about making plans. They aren't under a terrible handicap. Honest, I'm in a worse fix than any fellow playing football could possibly imagine. Why did I ever do it? What a state of mind for the most popular fellow in school! As several pretty co-eds approached him for a confidential talk, they were actually frightened away by his appearance. His ordinarily sleek dark hair was rumpled in a very disturbing manner, the well-formed brows met in a most unpleasant, decisive frown, and his heretofore smiling grey eyes seemed glued to the ground. What could be the matter with him? When he neared the boys' locker-room, Alan suffered an inward twinge of pain-or was it jealousy? Of course, all the fellows in there would be talking about the girls they were expecting to bring tonight, and what had he to offer in the line of such conversation? A homely old-maid, probably, who couldn't dance and didn't know how to be a sport! The kid hadn't given any of the particulars in the case and he was free to imagine anything. Where was Stuffy Ivers, anyway'? If he could find him, he had half a mind to back out. But no, he couldn't! The girl was going to arrive in about two hours, was probably on her way now. As Alan paused on the threshold of the dreaded room, he met the inquiring eyes of the fellows in his crowd, who were all lined up exclaiming and talking in unison. They hailed him. Hey, Alan, when are you going to reveal the monstrous secret? Which one are you taking tonight, Betty or Letha? Yes, who's the lucky one, Al? Have you got your dance program all filled out? The dejected hero slumped down into a handy and vacant chair. He had put off the evil hour long enough. He supposed he would have to give the fel- lows fair warning of what they were to expect when he entered the gym that night. He began: Say, boys, have you heard that measly Stuffy Ivers going around here for the last week? Heard him? Why a fellow would have to be stone-deaf not to hear that whining cry! Yeah, contributed one youth Sandy, employing a high falsetto, Won't one of you fellows take my sister to the prom? You know she's new to this town and hasn't got acquainted yet. Please, somebody take her. You wouldn't want a young girl to be lonely and disappointed on such a night, would you? Young girl, me eye, Sandy! l'l1 bet she don't look a day over thirty, if you ask me. Same here, Bill. Well, boys, this isn't finding out Al's secret. That's so, Jack. Come on, Al, show us you can beat the old-maid Ivers. Page Sixteen