Butler High School - Magnet Yearbook (Butler, PA)

Page 14 text:

THE SENIOR MAGNET how she had found Jean’s story, and being unable to compose one of her own, had taken Jean’s masterpiece, knowing that it would keep her from playing on the team. Professor Gleeman had tears in his eves when Louise finished. I low he pitied the girl, yet it was his duty to punish her. What should he do? “Go to your room, pack your trunk, go home. We do not keep thieves in this college.” It was a severe sentence, but no more than the girl deserved. Jean did not return to her room after supper, but went directly to the gym with the rest of the girls. She could at least coach the girls if she couldn’t play on the team. It was just twenty minutes until time for the game to begin when a messenger came to the locker room, “Message for Miss Handel.” Jean hastily tore open the envelope. She read it through; then—“Girls, listen to this: “ ‘Your essay has been found. Will explain later. Take your regular place on team tonight. Professor Gleeman.’ ” “Oh, goody! Jean is going to play.” Jean hastily changed into her middy and bloomers and was ready with the rest when the whistle blew. Amid the cheers of the crowded gym, Jean took her accustomed place and played better than ever. It was a fast, close game with a final score of 22-25 in favor of Ober-lin. Jean hurried to her room after the game and was surprised to find Louise packing. “Why, what does this mean, Louise?” Louise quickly explained everything, adding that she was sorry to have taken the story. “Listen, dear,” said Jean as she gently took Louise in her arms; “You aren’t gor ing home. I’ll tell the Professor that you are sorry anti that will make it all right. Besides you and I are going to be real good friends.” Louise sobbed out her gratitude in her roomie’s arms and thus founded a lasting friendship between the two girls. Jean received permission from the Dean for Louise to remain; and having explained everything to the girls, the barrier was broken down between the haughty Louise and the jolly crowd at college. Through the efforts of Jean, Louise was received into the hearts of the college boys and girls and the last few months of her college course were the happiest she had spent in the whole four years. She loved and was loved bv all and finally realized what it meant to meet life squarely and not be jealous of the one who happened to be brighter than she was. This above all else, To thine oven self be true; And it shall follow as the night— the day, Thou cans’t not then lie false to anyone.

Page 13 text:

T :' S E N JO R IM AG N li T have hunted everywhere for it, hut it is no use. I put it in the drawer of our table hut when I went to get it, lo, it was not there. Now if any of you know where it is you are brighter than I am.” The girls looked from one to another. They couldn’t understand the situation any better than Jean could. It sure was a case for the detective. Part of the girls thought they knew about the story, but they woudn’t say anything to Jean for it would hurt her honest little heart; for she was true as steel herself, and she could not imagine anyone’s being anything else than just as honest as she was. If anyone had been watching Louise very closely when Helen spoke about having heard Jean’s story, they would have noticed her start very violently and get terribly pale. I lowever, she calmed herself almost immediately and snatched up the trigonometry into which Jean saw her gazing so intently. Thoughts were chasing themselves in Louise’s brain, what should she do? Tell Jean and forever lose the respect of the girl she both loved and envied? No, that would never do. Should she stay away from class when the essays were read and let the class think what they would? Or should she go to Professor Cdeeman and tell him the whole story? No, she could not do that for she stood in awe of the white-haired old gentleman whom everyone loved and honored. What would he think of her if he should find it out? Her conscience was hurting her terribly and she was aware of the fact that it was beginning to show on the outside. For that round dimpled face which was her pride and joy, was getting thin and the black eyes were loosing their sparkle. Louise had noticed Jean’s eyes following her inquiringly and one day when she asked it she was ill, Louise had snapped her off with a quick “No thank you.” All this time the day was rapidly ap- proaching for the Westminster-Oberlin game. A substitute was put in Jean’s place, but oh! she was not to be compared to their own Jean and they were sure they would lose. Finally the day came for the big game, also for the reading of the English compositions. Louise was unable to go to class for she had not slept a wink the night before, and now that the terrible ordeal had arrived she could hardly stand it. “Oh, why did I ever do it?” she asked herself when she was alone. Jean had gone to class with a very sober face. In the English classroom all was excitement. Professor Gleeman had just read a very wonderful essay written by Louise Glenn. When he had laid the essay down, Helen Martin asked for permission to speak. “Mr. Gleeman, you may think me bold when I say this, but I don’t believe Louise wrote that essay. It sounds mighty like the one Jean Handel wrote.” Jean upon being questioned, said that it did sound very much like hers; but as she had lost it. no doubt this one did belong to Louise, and with that decided to drop the matter, although she did wonder how anyone could write anything so very nearly like her own. Professor Gleeman was puzzled. Did Louise Glenn, his dullest pupil, write that wonderful composition, and why did Jean Handel, his brightest pupil fail to hand any in at all? He decided he would send for Louise herself; so that evening while the rest were at supper, Louise received a message to go to the office. She knew what was coming: they had found out about the story. Oh, what would they do, would she be expelled? It was too terrible to think about. The kind old Professor was stern when he asked Louise if she did or did not write the essay. Louise dropped her eyes and in a low tone replied. “I did not.” Then between sobs she told him

Page 15 text:

T II E S H N1 O K m A C, N E T 13 ROMANCE AND BARBARA’S SLIPPERS Leona Cohn In an obscure corner of one of our large cities is an even more obscure little shoe repairing shop. It might be identified by an unpretentious little sign, much the worse for wear, which reads, “Peter Rogers, Expert Shoe Repairing” and hangs out on the sidewalk about the level of one’s eyes. Down a flight of squeaking stairs, and we have reached our destination. It is a dark gloomy little place, but somehow, we cannot but notice something cheerful in the atmosphere. Perhaps it is caused by the jolly smile on Peter's old shriveled face, as his eves wander from his work long enough to bid us a cheery good-morning; perhaps by the presence of one little caged bird, who sings merrily despite his lack of freedom. Be that as it may, it is certain that no superfluous amount of cheer could be taken from the gleam of light which penetrates through the one tiny window. Romance is a creature blessed with much wanderlust. She may even be found in a concealed corner like Peter Rodgers’ shop. For old Peter dreamed dreams, and his very best dream centered around a pair of slippers—which isn’t so incongruous, considering that those were the means of his livelihood. You see, it was this way. The window in the shop was very small, indeed—so small that when Peter sat at his task, all he could see when he looked out, was the feet of the people who hurried across the pavement above, and of all those scurrying shoes, one pair alone attracted Peter’s attention. They were very tiny and wellshaped, these slippers, but otherwise quite unusual; so it may have been the jaunty step with which they rose and fell, or it may have been Romance herself who compelled Peter to notice them at first, and then watch for them. Every morning at eight, and every evening at five, day in and day out, those slippers passed Peter’s window, and in the long hours that intervened, the grey haired old shoemaker created visions concerning them. When the slippers were new and shiny and sparkling, Peter’s vision topped them with ravishing silks and satins, but as time drew on, and they aged more and more, he fancied their owner as one of his own kind—one of the thousands of sweet, patient, hard-working little girls, who plug and plug, and still smile. There was another dreamer. He lived in the same building as Peter, but many stories up and miles removed from the old cobbler. Norman Randolph was his name—with an M. D., if you please, and he was just starting hopefully, joyously, on the journey whereon Peter had traveled so far. It is sad, but true, that as yet, patients were not besieging Norman’s door, so he, too, had many minutes in which to build air castles and fill them with pretty pictures. Strangely enough, his dreams centered about the very maiden of Peter’s slippers—still not so strangely, since wily Romance had her hand at the wheel. Norman, however, saw no slippers—all he saw was the crown of a dainty red hat, as he looked down from his window, and when the weather was warm enough, an occasional glimpse of a shock of chestnut hair, and the firm young curve of a pink cheek. Life is somewhat like geometry, with its circles and triangles, and here Romance had one of the latter just ready made. Old Peter was one corner, anti Norman Randolph was the other, while the innocent unsuspecting apex was Barbara Ellesdale. And one part of the triangle was unconscious of both others. But there came a day—as days must—