Butler High School - Magnet Yearbook (Butler, PA)

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i I Til!-: SHNJO R fM A G N R T when the sun forgot to shine and a misty uncomfortable drizzle filled the air. Long ere eight, old Peter sat in the dusky little shop, before a seemingly endless pile of shoes, and in his office, Dr. Randolph arranges his store of books, prepares for another day of waiting. At precisely eight o’clock, Peter almost automatically lifted his eyes—and sure enough there came the little slippers— inadequate as they were for such a day. Their step today was halting, faltering, and old Peter’s face clouded as he saw them waver. Suddenly, quicker than a flash, a heap of dainty humanity had fallen directly in front of the window, and a peaked white face was scarcely distinguishable from the clothes about it. Norman, from the window above, saw too. He saw an arm flung upward as if from sudden pain; he saw little Barbara fall. So at almost the same time when Peter hobbled up the squeaky stairs, the sturdy young doctor had dashed to the street, and together they reached the still little form. They carried Barbara’s fainted body into Peter’s shop. Norman gave his orders quietly, so that he might not frighten her. and Peter executed them silently. It seemed centuries before the long eye-lashs flickered, and the pale lips took on some of their natural color. But at last Barbara stirred and flinging her arms out, clasped Peter’s withered old hand convulsively, and cried loudly in her delirium, “Oh, don’t let them have me! Keep me with you.—Rain and thin shoes!—No rent and she sent me away. Oh, keep me—keep me!” Old Peter’s heart was touched and tears gleamed in his wrinkled old eyes. “If it is true that she has no one else, Doctor, my heart and home are more than open.” “There is no way of finding out now,” replied Norman, “and she must be moved immediately, before it is too late. If you wish, I will have an ambulance carry her to your house at once.” Thus it came about that Babsie Files-dale became a member of old Peter’s family, and for the first time in her life, she had a home where only love reigned. She had been very near the door of death, and lack of proper nourishment and clothes had wasted her away until a mere skeleton practically, remained. For many nights and days, old Peter stood constant, tender vigil, and hour upon hour, he sat beside Barbara’s bed, striving by every power to lessen the power of pain. Norman worked patiently, and it was by his care that the darkness was turned to sunshine, and Barbara’s life was saved. Then don’t you think everyone was happy? During Bab’s long convalescence when she could walk about the house, she transformed Peter’s house into a home, and her many little acts of kindness worked their way into Peter’s heart until they found the very core of it. When the roses had returned to Barbara’s cheeks, and the diamonds to her eyes, she came to Daddy Peter one day, and crouching on the floor beside him, she said, Daddy Peter, you’ve been so good to me. I’ll never be able to repay you.” “Tut, tut,” interrupted Peter, “Why, Babsie, just having you with me is reward enough honey-girl.” “I know how you feel, daddy dear, but 1 owe you so much. Now please don’t scold when 1 tell you what I’m going to do. Dr. Randolph needs an assistant. I le says that 1 brought him good luck— he has the nicest practice. Please daddy! I can reciprocate a little for Dr. Randolph, too, that way.” “Well, honey, if you want to work, it’s not I that will stand in your way. All 1 ask is to see you happy.” Barbara certainly was happy with Norman. She didn’t even admit it to herself, but Peter recognized the symptoms. Norman’s denseness aggravated the old man, so he decided that he would

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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—

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THE SENIOR tMAGNET help Norman in the matter. One night when Norman and Barbara had been to a movie together, they came home and sat in the glimmering moonlight, conversing in whispers, Finally, Norman mustered up enough courage to take Barbara's hand, and old Peter watching his chance, popped out just then. He looked from one to the other, “Well, well, lie exclaimed, “1 suspected it. Easy come, easy go. Well, Norman, if anyone must have my little girl, I’m glad it’s you. And Norman did the rest. The night before the wedding, Babs handed Peter a pair of very shabby, worn out little slippers. “Please throw’ these out, daddy. They can never be used again.” But Romance laughed until she cried, when old Peter took those slippers and locked them up in his cupboard. •B.H.S.- A TRUE STORY Abram Barron Not many years ago I was born in Bvliastok, Russian Poland; the town was inhabited by many Jews, who lived in constant fear of pogroms. These pogroms were as common in those days as they are in these. In 1906 my father decided to leave for America. This announcement was brought about after many days of deliberation, and as we had relatives in America that were not poor, they were willing to help my father get started on the road to prosperity. My father decided to leave on a certain Monday. The rest of us were to follow as soon as father had made enough money to bring us over. On Thursday of the same week a pogram broke out. That event has left an impression upon my mind that shall never be effaced, for the horrors of this pogrom are still fresh in my mind. On Thursday evening all was quiet, and then the news, came out. The Jewish soldiers had been arrested. Why? was the question raised. There had been no outbreak. Then the truth came out. Two regiments of royal Russian soldiers had come for a visit to our town. They were drunk. The Jewish soldiers had been placed in prison to be out of the way of the Russian soldiers; and then we knew our fate. The first shot came at ten o’clock; a storekeeper had been killed. Then amidst great confusion the Jews took to their houses, and at our house we hid under the bed. As 1 lay near my mother, I could hear her beg God that we should be spared. The pogrom lasted two days; a person lived a life time. Fathers were killed, mothers insulted, and babies dissected. It was horrible for one knew not w’hen his turn should come to be killed. Then at last deputies from St. Petersburg came and they caused the soldiers to stop their murdering and plundering. Some months later, money came from America to us. Our happiness can never be expressed to America; the land of the free where the streets were paved with gold. But best of all, where one could live without fear and dread. And when we left, I heard my mother say, “ Thanks unto thee, Lord, for Thy goodness and mercy.”