Butler High School - Magnet Yearbook (Butler, PA)

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THE SENIOR MAGNET snob. The sissy with his girlish ways; he’d show him if he cut in on his girl! At this moment he collided with something. He regretfully called back his wondering thoughts and gazed negligently at the obstacle. The next moment he wished that the earth would open and swallow him up, for what should his eyes encounter but the angry and indignant countenances of “Chardy” and her friend Ruth. He blushed and stammered and hastily apologized. Noses-in-the-air they flounced past him, scornfully commenting on the clumsiness of a certain boy. To make matters worse, he saw the “bunch” rounding the corner. With set face and eyes straight ahead he pushed steadily on, not heeding the derisive yells and cat-calls which followed him. 1 le mentally noted the most offensive and vowed that the town around here would witness a little excitement in the near future. He then concluded wearily to return to his suicidal reflections. On a second thought he decided that turning on the gas would be too tame a way of making his demise. But before another plan was formulated he discovered he had reached home. His mother was looking for him and caused his heart to bound cheerfully by telling him that a plate of fresh doughnuts was awaiting him in the pantry. He made a dash for the pantry deciding to postpone his death until after he had made a closer acquaintance with those particular doughnuts. In taking Buddy out in the coach she decided to overlook his many other faults. B.H.S. LEA VING Saha Lee Spero We’re glad that we’re leavin, Ami happy to he free; From school’s relenting bondage, And teachers stern decree. Blit in long and lonely years, When we sit and ponder well; We’ll find that there’s regret, When we give that sad farewell. And though we smile and happy are, Our tears kept firmly hack; We feel that after all we leave, There’s something we well lack. For there’s pain in the parting, And to be free is sorrow; For from our childhood friends, We will be free tomorrow. So a sad farewell for all ’t’will be, And all will feel the pain; When ere we will leave, this grand old school, To ne’er come back again. DON’T GIVE UP THE SHIP! Floyd Yohe Don’t give up the ship, boys! Don’t give up the ship; We’ve weathered many a storm—boys! We’ve got to make this trip. The waves may break upon deck. And winds may tear the sail; But the ship will never be a wreck, And her crew will never fail. So put your oilskins on—My boys, And come up on the deck. The ship has weathered many a gale, But she must be held in check. Swing to it with a will, boys, Thats how we’ll get her in; For we can’t shirk the job, boys, If our goal we expect to win. At last we’ve brought her in, boys, That shows what will can do. If we really want a thing done well, Work will make it all come true.

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10 THE SENIOR [MAG N E T JIMMY DIEGAN George E. Koerner Aw, Mother, I know that ol’ Mazurky now, aint 1 practiced long ’nufT?” Mazurka and haven't,” she corrected mechanically. Oh, was that the Mazurka you were playing? I thought you were practicing the scales. No you still have three-quarters of an hour to practice.” With which unfeeling remarks his mother left the room saying something about seeing if baby was awake, lie looked after her aggrievedly. Mothers never did understand a fellow. When all outdoors was calling for him to come and renew last year’s acquaintances, mother made him stay in to practice. None of the other “fellers had to to it. lie picked up his violin rebel-liously and played a fewf half-hearted notes. His eyes strayed wistfully to the window. His hands just itched to feel the thud of a baseball and the healthy swing of a bat. What a “grand an’ glorious feeling” it was to feel the sting of the bat when you hit the ball squarely “in the nose! He closed his eyes reminiscently and once more left the memorable game of the last of the season, when he saved the day for the Tigers by a bitter “homer” in the ninth with bases full. Just then his mother’s voice interrupted his mental cogitations. “It’s such a nice day that after you’ve finished practicing you can take Buddy out in the coach.” He listened in horrified amazement. This was adding insult to injury! His violin crashed to the floor, and not stopping to pick it up he ran to his mother, desperately determined. 1 le would not take that kid out if they paid him. Why all the fellows “guyed” him now for taking music lessons, and he’d never hear the last of it if they saw him pushing a baby coach. He'd be “darned” if he would! But against his mother’s impenetrable calm nothing prevailed. A few minutes later he was wheeling the coach in direction of the square. He glanced furtively around. None of the “bunch” was in sight. Breathing easier, he settled himself to his thoughts. This was the last straw, he ruminated. He was going to run away. Nobody understood him here, so he was going somewhere where he could be his own boss. As his self-pity deepened, he considered the thoughts of suicide. He saw himself lying “cold and dead” (an expression he had learned in school) in a coffin banked with flowers labeled “To Jimmie” and Our Pal.” He would be smiling slightly but proudly, as if above such pretty things as music lessons and baby brothers. The fellers would come in and see him “laid out” and would gaze awe-stricken with wonder and admiration. The “fellers” would try and bribe Hannah, the cook, to let them see the room and the gas-jet he had turned on. Hannah would tearfully show them his quarter bank which he had emptied into the gas meter. (He’d taken no chances on not having enough gas.) Then his Sunday school teacher would come in and gaze sadly at his remains. She w'ould weep with mother and tell her how nearly always he was interested in his lesson and made such original remarks. (To him she called them sinful, heathenish ignorance.) Then “Chardy” Doyle would come in sobbing. (At this moment his emotion nearly got the better of him.) She would perhaps feel sorry that she had refused to go to the party with him next Saturday night. (Oh, but before he did away with himself he must “spoil the face” of that Watson

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12 THE SEN 10 R TM A G N E T ALMOST A ROMANCE Margaret Beserock It was a beautiful spring day. The birds were singing, the trees were bright and green, in short it was the sort of a day our mothers would choose for a thorough house cleaning, or the young man across the alley would choose as a favorable day to see her, or the sort of a day that you or 1 would try out our new spring bonnets. But to go on with my story. It does not deal with spring bonnets or house cleaning. But it deals with the lives of two people. Now you know the whole story. The handsome young millionaire married a poor but beautiful maiden, and they lived happily ever after even though their income tax was very heavy. But there you are wrong again; the millionaire never married the pretty maiden, and thus the last part of our story must end differently. A young lady sat reading a book in one of the many parks in New York. Now there is nothing unusual or remarkable about that, a young lady and a book in a park,—of course not, she was good to look at. Young men, think of your own Katies and Sallies minus their pimples, long noses and double chins and you have a very fair portrait of this certain young lady. I ler name was Sadie Ferguson. Sadie came from the country. Like all country girls, she came to New York to get nice clothes and to find the hero. She had an abundance of nice clothes, but the latter she had yet to find. Prom a dish-washer she had risen to the position of cashier in one of the leading down-town restaurants. She was considered the brightest and prettiest girl in the restaurant. She wfas able to give the correct change even while she was talking. She could talk on any subject from “ I he building of the Panama Canal” to “Why girls leave home.” Sadie was a very bright girl, indeed. As fate would have it, Jonathan Pierce, the young millionaire, was passing through the park in the guise of a common workman. Oh, by the way, Mr. Pierce had more than ten million and was actually sick at the sight of money. In other words he was one of those newly-made millionaires who come from the west, throwing fifty dollar bills through the train window at the passers-by. Society whispered that he was in search of a wife. Poor working girls dreamed and society shuddered, while mammas with marriageable daughters sighed in vain. Mr. Pierce did not fail to notice the girl at the bench. Me wondered who she was and he hoped she was not rich. “A very sweet face; I wonder if she is a poor working girl. 1 hope she is,” he thought. While these things were flitting through the young man’s brain, Sadie glanced up, then immediately glued her eyes on her book. Oh, by the way, she was reading “The Divine Comedy.” lie is a very fine looking young man, but, oh, he must be very poor to wear such shabby clothes. We haven’t a written record of how it happened, but it happened in a moment; the book fell and there you are; you know' the rest. In a moment they were introduced; opinions were exchanged on loveliness of the weather, and who should be our minister to Turkey, in short, they talked about everything. Sadie Ferguson told him all about her travels in foreign countries. As he listened, his heart grew sad. “She is wealthy, she talks of nothing but her travels, her servants, and money.” “Poor boy! he will be interested to