Butler High School - Magnet Yearbook (Butler, PA)

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7 HE SENIOR DA A G N E T 17 brought wealth and luxury, which eased and comforted his body, but not his mind, because the sight of the cabin brought back painful memories. One day, when strolling, he wandered farther than usual, and suddenly came upon a young girl painting a landscape scene. There was something familiar in the way she held her curly head, something in her figure that reminded him of his wife, although he could not see her face. At the sound of a twig breaking, she suddenly turned around, frightened at the sight of the man. 1 le told her not to be frightened, he meant no harm. He came forward and the girl drew back till she saw the expensive looking painting outfit of the stranger, then she stood still with amazement. He answered her inquisitive glance and told her he also was an artist. Then he asked her name, from sheer curiosity. But instead of an answer, he saw anger flash in the gray eyes so much like his own. I le explained the situation and at last the girl consented to remain and hear the sad bit of story from the artist. Shame, at her anger at him, sympathy, and pity awakened the woman in her, and she at once told him the brief story of her life in return for his. I low Auntie Prue loved and cared for her, a motherless child, how she had taught her from childhood, how many sacrifices she made to make life more beautiful for her. And at last the death of Auntie Prue and her dying request that she never would look in her desk till she was twenty-one. When the artist heard this, a desire arose within him to learn more of this fascinating and talented child. And as the days passed a strong friendship grew between them. They had so much in common—their art, griefs, memories and aspirations. One day when the girl was down in the valley, the artist went to her cottage. 1 le was surprised to find such curios and relics, evidently from distant lands. Surely the child’s aunt had lived elsewhere than in the cottage all her life. He went up stairs and entered a small room barely furnished. It contained a bed, so long unused, the linens were yellow, a dresser, chest of drawers, and a desk It was in the desk the artist found the written confession of Auntie Prue. She in reality was a childless widow who kidnapped the baby Elsa in a park in New York fifteen years ago. He was rejoicing over the confession when the girl returned. I le hastily explained his presence there and handed her the confession. After reading it, she flew' to him with open arms eager for a father’s love she had never known. The old cabin of the artist was torn down and the beautiful white cottage erected, which we saw along the winding mountain path. Wealth and luxury abide there, but the greatest of all is the love of the father and his long lost daughter.

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16 THE SENIOR £M A G N E T THE ARTIST ' Elizabeth Neill Last summer while visiting a college chum of mine, Dr. James, of Weston, I chanced upon a choice bit of a sad but interesting story. During the short interval between office hours the Doctor and 1 were strolling along a very picturesque mountain path when suddenly I noticed ahead of us at some distance a beautiful white cottage. The cottage, which nestled among trees, shrubs and climbing roses, was neither large nor small, and around the front and east side was a large porch, partly screened in by climbing roses. The lawn was spacious and of velvety green, which was broken in several places by small shrub bordered walks leading to and from the cottage. The effect was artistic, and not being accustomed to seeing homes like this in Weston, 1 immediately asked Dr. James who lived there. It was then the Doctor told me this story, which 1, in return, shall try to relate to you. Some fifteen years ago, there lived an artist, Mr. Rollesford, his wife and small daughter Elsa in New York. Mr. Rollesford struggled for success, not success itself but for what success meant for him. It meant health for Elsa, cheerful surroundings and new- supplies for his portraits, which were all so costly. But his greatest desire was the restoring of Elsa’s health. Mrs. Rollesford, too, was much concerned about the present state of Elsa’s health, and, when she was not posing for her husband, she walked with Elsa in a near park. It was during one of these walks that little Elsa was kidnapped. Her mother, while admiring some new blooms, missed Elsa’s childish prattle, and turning around and not seeing her, began calling. But no Elsa answered. She ran, fran- tic with fear, till she met a policeman. Elsa’s description was given him, but the officer had seen no such child; but he had seen a high powered motor swing out of the park gate quite rapidly. A search was made. The Rollesfords spent all their money running down clues, and finally they decided to leave New York and search for Elsa themselves. During this search Mrs. Rollesford took ill and died, partly from grief and constant exposure, although Mr. Rollesford sacrificed much for the comfort of his wife. A new grief now entered the life of the aritst. 1 le wandered, lonely and poor, from one town to another and finally settled in a little log cabin where now stands the white cottage. He stopped painting portraits, because there was no one to pose for him, and every time he tried to paint, the last picture of his wife and child together as they laughingly waved good-bye on their departure to the park, loomed before him in a never-to-be-forgotten memory. He now put all that was left of a broken man in scenery pictures. And what small prices he got for them he saved in order to enable him to return to New York to enter his new picture, “The Setting Sun,” in the next art exhibit. The picture was a work of art and raised many questions as to where the unknown artist came from. It sold for an enormous sum, as did all the other pictures of the artist. 'This enabled him to stay in New York. It meant friends, position and wealth. But still the artist was not happy, he had not forgotten the sorrows in the days of utter poverty. They were written indelibly on his mind and were reflected in his sad gray eyes. Again the artist went back to his cabin, but not as he went before. This time he

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18 T II H S I: ;V () R ai A G N E 7 BILLY EVENS THE SCORE Helen Hindman It was three o’clock Labor Day, when a carriage drawn by a team of shiny black horses crossed the Oakmont and 1 larmarville bridge, and swung onto the hard, yellow streak of road that wrapped itself around the curves of the Allegheny river. The inmates of the carriage were of the 400 of Pittsburgh and it would pay us to stop for a few seconds and get acquainted. Mr. and Mrs. Madison were silently enjoying the beauty of the passing scenery, while Marian and Billy were thinking of the coming party. Marian’s wide, gray eyes were often and a little anxiously turned toward Billy, her young brother, who was tightly wedged between Mr. and Mrs. Madison. He did not return Marian’s appealing look, but sat there kicking the toes of his oxfords against the baggage at his feet. I lis mother glanced up and said, “Billy, what are you doing to that baggage and your new shoes?” She spoke mildly enough, but he at once turned his attention to some of the numerous objects that a boy of ten or twelve usually carries in his pockets. Something was undoubtedly wrong. Constraint hung in the air and none was more conscious of it than Billy. He could not forget the past evening when Marian had slipped into the house next door and found Billy and the young daughter of the house blissfully enjoying a box of caramels in the farthest corner of the veranda. Of course she had spread the news and poor Billy’s feelings were quite raw. All were quite ready for dinner when the carriage drove up to the door of the brilliantly lighted mansion, the home of Dr. and Mrs. Borland. The carriage was immediately besieged by laughing groups of young and old, and the whole family were joyously borne into the house. After dinner the girls were eagerly discussing the eligible young men present, and deciding which one they preferred. One announced that Dr. Borland’s son James had arrived a few moments ago and had brought Bruce Webster with him. Marian was silent, thinking of Bruce Webster, who had left his home town and had gone in quest of his fortune, before offering his love to her, the girl of his dreams. The day of his departure, Marian had returned home, after watching the train whiz itself away into a dot on the horizon. They had written long, newsy letters—and quite often a whimsically tender little note from Marian would cause him to keep his goal constantly in mind. For two weeks Marian had received no news of Bruce and this fact caused the one cloud on Marian’s happiness. The last weary guest had left the dance floor and all was quiet, when suddenly, shrill screams rent the air, issuing from the wing occupied by the young ladies. A floating white creature entered at the window. It slipped silently toward the girls, then retreated a few feet. Then it came forward, then retreating, coming nearer each time to the terror stricken girls. Bright eyes glared from deep sockets in a head which was shrouded in white. As the apparition glided through the room, a faint rattling of bones and clanging of chains was heard. Marian broke away from the terrified group and raced madly through the hall. People appeared as if by magic and the frightened girls were soon calmed. The strange apparition had vanished. Nothing remained but a wire extending trom the window to the center of the room. Understanding dawned