Arsenal Technical High School - Arsenal Cannon Yearbook (Indianapolis, IN)

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........................ ......... While I finished dressing he said: alt is not far-just across the street.'7 Then he was tae man who lived in the house of mystery, evidently -and I was to learn its secret-I told him that I was surprised. 6'Quite naturaif he replied. uNobody ever knows it. Since my wife was first taken ill it was necessary tnat I find an absolutely quiet place. I will tell you,-she is insane. She imagines she is dead. Perhaps a good many of us are dead and do not know it. I did not have the heart to send her to an asylum, so I built this house, where I have nursed her myself. I am with her as much as possible, but often she wants to be alone, so I have a flat in the city too. This time, however, I am afraid that she is really dead? I listened to his explanation without a word. It was indeed a strange story my visitor was telling me. Several times I wondered if I were not dreaming. He drew me across the street and pulled the bell cord. There was a single stroke and the door opened itself. 'GThis is a little invention of mine,'7 he said. 4'The door is con- nected with a mechanism which informs my wife that I am coming so that she does not have to get upf' Q uVery ingeniousfj I said, but I felt rather uneasy. We went through the hall, across the garden, entered another house behind, walked through a dimly lit corridor, and up a flight of stairs. MI love my wife dearlyf, mused my patron, Hand I did not want anybody to know that she was sick. But now I feel that the end has come and she is deadfi He stopped me in a large vestibule illuminated by many wax candles. A heavy odor of incense, wax, and dust filled the air. I will go and find her now. Perhaps she has come back to con- sciousness. She is very sensitive, and the sight of a stranger might do her harm.'7 I waited a little and then he came back greatly disturbed. uShe is still unconscious or worse,'7 he said. uCome in, please? We passed through another corridor, then he threw aside a heavy curtain. A strange sight met my eyes. I looked into a chapel which had a domed ceiling tinted in dark blue, lustrous gold stars reflecting the rays of a hundred candles. At the back was a kind of a vault, in which was a cofiin containing a motionless figure of a woman. I stood spell bound. WI'hat is she, he said. UFor years she has insisted on sleeping in her coflinf, t fContinued on Page 485

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ElIIIllllllllllllllllllllllll llllllllllllll ll lllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll llllllllllllllllllIllllllllllIIIIllllllllllllllllllllllllIlllllllllllllllllllllg LiterarqA pirations THE HOUSE ACROSS THE WAY. By I-Iarriette Callahan At the end of an alley-like street in the outskirts of Paris stands a strange and forbidding house. Its grey walls are massive, pierced with only a few windows which heavy iron bars guard. The en- trance is low and narrow, and the ponderous iron door reminds one of an old prison entrance. Visitors, however, are very rare. No light is ever seen within, the whole house resembles an immense tomb. When I was a young doctor, I lived in the house opposite. I had plenty of leisure time, and in my idle hours I often wondered what mysterious secret was hidden in this gloomy old building. Neighbors told me it had been built by some foreign crank years before and that it concealed the real house, which stood some dis- tance back in the garden. That was all. The stranger never went out, no tradesman was ever allowed to enter, and all provisions were passed through a special opening at the side of the door made for that purpose. Everybody in the neighborhood was curious to know more about the man, but nobody had been able to penetrate the veil of mystery which surrounded it. One night, the deep sound of a bell awoke me from my sleep. I got up to see what it was. My door opened just enough to ad- mit a person. A mysterious shadow slipped through and the door closed itself automatically. I got up quickly, dressed, and hurried out, but some vague fear made me hesitate. uWho is there? I asked. 'alt is about a patientf' a voice replied. MYou must come quickly. I suppose I am talking to Dr. Alvin Moquierfw uYes,,7 I replied, still surprised at the unexpected call. alt is I. Then I opened the office door and let my visitor in. He was a tall slender man-still young, though his hair was white. His face was ghastly pale, and his black eyes gleamed. nYes, he said, in a decidedly foreign accent, alt is a very extra- ordinary case. My wife has had a stroke and does not revive. She has often had similar attacks but they have never lasted as long as today, and now I have become afraid.

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Elf 25it nf Qllap The first time I can remember of seeing the queer, pathetic little canti-air,, we cannot hope either to disable or bluff an enemy His clothes flapped in the gale like the torn sail on a wrecked ship's mast, and with just that suggestion of desolation. He was as inani- mate as a dead leaf blown toward me by a mischievous gust. Even his eyes wore the set, weary expression of an old, ill-treated work- horse, who plods on and on, stumbling a little, beaten perhaps, ever bearing a burden too heavy for him. He always carried a great limp bag on his back. I had often wondered what was in it. I liked to fancy that little old man, whose shoulders must be so tired, and whose heart must be so weary of plodding, plodding, carried his sorrows in that bag. He spoke to no one. He seemed to see nothing. Lilacs bloomedg the little old man with the heavy bag could not see them. If he had whistled, or spoken, that wierd, unnatural air about him would have vanished -but he was always silent-always mute, always appealing. and always starting, as it seemed to me, on a unending journey, with his pack. I could fancy, too, that he knew there was no turning of his road, but was so helpless, so resigned to his tragedy that he never questioned. ' One morning I turned the corner where I always met him, but no plodding figure slumped dejectedly past me. HPerhaps he has reached the end of his journey,', I told myself. And I felt a queer sort of loneliness creep over me, for the little figure had been the embodiment of my own sadden moods. But somehow, I could never think of him without his burden, I suppose now he is still plodding along to-somewhere, his eyes fixed on the ground, and his unwieldy bag across his curved shoulders-plodding, plodding- through eternity. 000000 flln Elilar ffliime fWith apologies to Alfred Noyes.J Come out to Tech in lilac-time, in lilac-time, in lilac-time, Come out to Tech in lilac-time, It isnit far from heaven. And there you'll wander, books in hand, With oy, in summer's wonder-land. Come out to Tech in lilac-time, It isn't far from heaven.