Butler High School - Magnet Yearbook (Butler, PA)

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4 THE MAGNET A Few Bars In the Key G. HRONGS of people crowded the streets of a small Western city, seemingly taking no notice of each other, except, in their haste, to push and jostle one another along. There were just three of us in the company, and as we were going along one of the less frequented side streets, we could not help but remark about a tall, distinguished looking Man, making his way among the crowd, almost beside us, sometimes ahead or perhaps behind us, depending upon the moving crowd. The long, narrow face, with the sunken cheeks, are relieved a little by the dark, almost black eyes, which seem to give expression to the whole countenance. We notice the eyes brighten and grow larger as some pleasing sight comes within their range, while again a slight narrowing and steel-like glint expresses their owner’s displeasure.. But we are impressed by the dark, sorrowful expression over the whole countenance, which cannot be relieved, no matter how brightly the eyes may smile and sparkle. The Man goes on down the street and mingles with the crowd, but we catch sight of him pausing in front of the Edrich theatre. The pause lengthens, for his attention is attracted by the program billed for the afternoon; he slowly pulls his hand from his pocket and looks at the bill tightly clutched there; a deeper look comes into his eyes as they glance toward the ticket window, which changes to determination, as the man moves forward and falls into line. As the Fates decided, we were going to attend the same show. We purchase tickets which place us in seats near his, where we can occasionally glance at our interesting friend. Soon the curtain rises. We see our friend eagerly watching a man with a violin, who slowly moves across the stage, where his presence is acknowledged by thundering applause from the audience. He raises his violin and draws his bow gently across the strings. Then follows a sweet, gentle, sympathetic strain of music. The Man in the audience sits with bowed head; the music rises, then falls, like the swaying of leafy tree branches, but suddenly glides off into minor strains which soar and swell far above the thoughts of the audience, with the exception of the Man, who sits up, throws back his head and grips the seat, as if listening for a voice from above. The music rises higher and higher, expressing the passionate workings of the manly heart, whose whole being is bent towards making the violin speak his longings. A slight obligato strain is heard now, as if a little bird had suddenly found its voice after the storm. The Man’s eyes become filled with tears as he listens a minute longer to the strangely beautiful bird-like strains of the violin, then takes his hat in a death-like grasp and mutters to himself, “I’ll play it myself until I meet her.” A noisy crowd of us young folks from the city were sitting on the porch of a mountain hotel in the West, where we had come to spend a short vacation. Our chaperone was a woman of about fifty. The owner of the hotel, a sturdy old mountaineer of eighty years, walked out on the porch one evening at dusk and, seeing the beautiful sky over the high, snow-capped mountains, that reflected the last rays of the setting sun, he called us all out to notice it. His weather prophecy was interrupted by an exclamation of wonder from

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THE MAGNET 3 when all of a sudden a light was flashed on in the boys’ dormitory in the back of the building, just a little way off from where the ladder had been set up. Breathless and trembling, the guilty crowd, part on the ladder and part huddled together at its foot, saw their president, in one of his nightmares, inspecting the boys’ beds, and finding several of them empty, came to the window and opened it. The cold, frosty air must have awakened him, for in an instant he was gazing at the unlucky victims. He recognized every one of them, even to Professor Longwell, in the clear moonlight, and bade them, in a tone of voice none too gentle, to return to their rooms immediately. Anyone who had witnessed the affair would have said that it was not many minutes before all was quiet in the dormitories. Quiet, however, did not reign in the hearts of the culprits, especially that of Professor Longwell, who too clearly saw that he would lose his position immediately, and who, in the midst cf the scramble which followed the dis- covery, might have been seen to whisper a few hasty words to a small, darkhaired girl standing near him. At any rate, it was found out the next morning that Professor Longwell had disappeared before the rest of the occupants had awakened, as had also Phyllis Murray of the Sophomore class. Of course there was some surprise among the students, and President Jacobs concluded that the young professor, who had left his resignation in the dormitory, had preferred that to expulsion, for everyone knew that it would not be difficult for him to find another position. That morning in chapel the escapade was brought to light and the guilty ones were expelled from school. It was nearly noon when Vivien, almost distracted by the absence of both her brother and her best girl friend, received this telegram, sent from Phyllis’ home town: “Dear Vivien: Bill and I were mar- ried here this morning. Bob is on his way now to bring you to your new home. In haste, Phyllis.” HELEN SHOMO.

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THE MAGNET 5 the rest of us. We all became quiet and listened in amazement to the sweet strains of music in the distance. It rose and fell in soft tones, and then glided off into minor strains, which soared and swelled far above the door of the player’s tiny hut, into the evening air, expressing the passionate workings of the manly heart. A slight obligato strain was heard and then the music stopped. Silence reigned. I tried to think where I had heard that same piece before, when one of the company inquired of the hotel keeper who it might be who played such beautiful music. In reply, the rough old mountaineer said, “Oh, that’s old Abe playin’ his evenin’ prayer.” But how can an old man out here play anything as beautiful as that?” I was forced to ask. “Well, now, if you want ter know, I’ll tell you. As near as I kin recollect, it was in the fall of ’97 when Abe was courtin’ a gal from Clarion. They was drivin’ along the Horn, out here about ten miles, when his hoss scared at a rollin’ stone, and run down over the mountain. That, of course, throwed him and the gal out. When he come to hisself, it was almost dark, an’ as he looked around, he saw her—dead. Well, to make a long story short. Abe went to the city a good while ago to get a job. He was mighty good lookin’, bright as a whip, and is as handy with the fiddle as anyone you ever seen. He thought he would forget the girl, but mind you, one night when he was goin’ down the street in the city, as he quietly told me one day, he seen where some fellow with a high-soundin’ name was to play the violin at one of them there theatres, and he was so lonesome for music that he went in. You know he was alius savin’ of his money, and more so since that gal died, and then he was so quiet, and it made him mad for folks to ask him why he didn’t talk more. But, as I was sayin’, he went to hear this fellow play, an’ I guess it was too much for him, for he come out home here after that evenin’, and every night he plays that there piece. “Somebody asked him one day why he alius played the same piece, and he said that the fellow in the city had played that, and it seemed as though he could jist hear the snortin’ of the hoss as they drove on and then went tearin’ down the mountain, he and his gal. An’ then the rest reminded him of a funeral hymn. He said everything was made to seem so real. An’ then he said he was goin’ to play that piece every evening till he died, and he hoped he’d die playin’ it. “He’s purty old now, and don’t look nothin’ like he used to, so maybe he’ll get his wish. I guess that’s about all, and I’ll have to go in now and go to bed, for I have a hard day’s work for tomorrow. So, good night to ye.” All was quiet for awhile. The story put me to thinking. I could not but express my thoughts in words, and so I said: “I know that’s the man I saw some time ago, who attracted my attention both on the street and in the theatre, for I watched him so closely and heard him say that he would play the piece until he died. And I am glad to learn he is able to fulfill his wish, and finally see his loved one, after playing those ‘few bars in the key of G.’ ”