Butler High School - Magnet Yearbook (Butler, PA)

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14 THE SENIOR MAGNET blighted hopes, and misery—how the poor little letter was dotted with tears toward the end! Then the music stopped and the letter was addressed and sealed. Nora’s weary head dropped on her out-stretched arms, and soon hei shaking shoulders were rising and falling in regular rhythm. It was thus that Marquette found her. Then seeing the letter, she drew it gently from the sleeping girl’s fingers, and posted it. But when she returned from posting it, Nora was awake and in great anxiety. “Where is my letter?” she almost screamed. “I just now posted it—I thought I was helping you by sending it?” Marquette replied in astonishment. Nora sank onto the bed—she could do nothing now to prevent Patrick’s getting it—and was she sorry or glad ? She had awakened with the firm intention of destroying it. It had been that throbbing, almost hypnotizing music which had made her write as she had done. That music! That all powerful music! How often it had quieted her worries and fears into a peaceful slumber; how often it had made her forget her piled up troubles in the joy of merely living; and how it had inflamed Marquette, the unemotional, to declare, “With music like that, I could dance to fame in a night!” They had tried to find the maker of the music, time and again, but it had resulted in nought, for no one answered from the musician’s room. And no one seemed to know anything about the person, except that he was a man. Not even the landlady knew anything, which was most strange! Nearly a month later, the strangest racket was coming from the girls’ room. A man went to their door and opened it. He saw a pret- ty young girl jigging for all her worth to the most compelling jig played on a violin which was nowhere to be seen. Another pretty girl was clapping and stamping her foot in time to the music; and both were laughing the gayest sort of laugh. Ah! it was a compelling jig; and the big, goodlooking Irishman at the door couldn’t resist, so in he jigged. The music ended; the dance ended; Marquette stared; Nora rushed right into the strange man’s out-stretched arms. “Oh! Pat!” was all she said. “Well, here I been worrying sick about ye since I got that be-sprink-led letter of yours; and when I get here, here ye be jigging as joyous as if ye were in Ireland with a million o’ dollars on yer left hand, and a’ the lads in the land at yer right!” Needless to say, this was the supreme climax in Nora’s affairs, for she and Patrick were married at once. Then they sought out in real earnest the musician of the magic violin who really had brought Nora and Pat together again. Their efforts to sec him were rewarded. Pat broke in his door and found—blind and deaf —his old buddy who had saved his life twice in the Great War. Pat, with the money he obtained from the sale of a part of his land in Ireland, started in a grocery business and prospered wonderfully. He loaned his old buddy, who then was living with him and Nora, a sum of money which put him through a finishing course in violin study under a wrorld famed master. His sense of touch was also so developed that he heard and saw by it. Marquette, too, had her ambition fulfilled when she and Pat’s war buddy formed a team in which she danced to his playing. They are now universally famous, for Marquette’s talent bloomed under the inspiration of her partner’s almost living violin.

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THE SENIOR MAGNET 13 I Beg to Contradict You By 1nta Savander The rain beat against the windows. A Celtic maiden stirred the frying potatoes loose from the bottom of a blackened skillet. Perhaps, she thought with a sigh, perhaps now it was raining back in Ireland, too; and Patrick would be driving home the cows and King George would be walking at his side. Don’t imagine the lofty Britain would be driving home the cows of an Irish peasant! King George was the brightest dog that ever lived. And perhaps old Father Reilly would be a-ringin’ of the vesper bells down in the village church. Father Reilly—with his solemn robes and his tiny black cap, slightly frayed at the edges by time and the strong fingers of joyous children. And perhaps,—a step on the stairs, a lilting voice with a touch of irony, “Every morning, every evening; Don’t we have fun!” And she burst into the room! A conglomeration of red and brown—such sunny serge! Bedraggled, its true, but the light cf battle in the hazel eyes and the haughty high-tilted chin—“Nora Dougan, I’ve lost my job!” Her wet little hat maneuvered itself dextrously through the air and hung, gaily bobbing, on a hook beside the cupboard. Nora turned—her eyes wide, tne stirring knife held limply in her half-closed hand”—And your money, Marquette?” “Oh, the show hit the rocks and the manager beat it with the iron men, but Lola Pierson (she’s prettv keen, you know) let me have a fiver.” “Well,” and Nora smiled, “we have something.” And the potatoes crackled merrily on. This was the condition of the two lonely way-farers—one, Nora, who had left her Irish home and happiness in a fit of anger,—the other, Marquette, who made her toes twinkle for their livelihood in an uptown, second class theatre. When Nora had bumped hard into the wall of unemployment and friendlessness, Marquette had picked her up in a park and brought her home; that is, to her single room of a home. Here Nora had cooked and mended while Marquette danced to get food to cook and clothing to eventually mend. Time has passed; The jolly little “room of a home” is no more. Nora and Marquette, living in a cheap (oh, very cheap) room in a downtown boarding house, are both chambermaids in the Inn Hotel, getting a pittance in wages—and looking it. But their spirits were not crushed —much—! One day when Nora had been too ill to work, she had begun a letter to Patrick. A defiant letter, telling of her success, in glowing words. And as she began to write, from the floor above sounded suddenly a martial air being played on a violin. It rose and swelled, and slowly died, leaving its place to a melody more peaceful. The music became softer and sadder; sadder ’till the sensitive old instrument seemed about to cry in its misery. And as the music changed, so did the mood of the girl downstairs; and with her mood, the contents of the letter. The defiance shaded into truth, the truth into sad remorse,

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THE SENIOR MAGNET 15 Horatio Holds the Bridge Frank Demyanovich Many, many years ago, so tradition tells us, there lived in a distant country a man by the name of Horatio. This man became a hero by saving his town from destruction by the enemy. This is the way he accomplished his deed. To reach Horatio’s town the enemy had to cross a bridge. Horatio stationed himself in the middle of this bridge and held the enemy at bay while his towns people cut the bridge down back of him. Eventually the bridge fell into the stream carrying many of the enemy with it. These, dressed in their heavy armor, drowned. Now this story is concerned with a modern Horatio. When this hero first saw the light of day his loving parents affixed the signature of Horatio D’Artell unto him. Now this name alone should make a romantic individual of any worthless chap. But not this one. The only romances he ever enjoyed were the ones pictured by Horatio Alger, his worthy namesake. The reason for Horatio’s not being a modern sheik was that he was too fat. Yes, gentle reader, that is the truth. When only sixteen years old, Horatio already weighed over one hundred and eighty pounds, and this excess avoirdupois scattered itself over an area of five feet three inches from the ground. So you can see for yourself that it was no small task for any Juliet to hold him in her lap for the smallest part of a minute. Eventually Horatio was ostracized from all the select societies for this one great failing of his. To say that this fat worried Horatio would be putting it mildly; for he had tried everything on the market for reducing from Walter Camp’s Daily Dozen to fasting for days at a stretch. But did this help any? Not the least bit, for the only thing that Horatio seemed to lose was the hair from the top of his head. Horatio then tried jumping rope, but fell down and jarred himself so severely that he had to stay in bed for a whole week. Next he tried boxing but his opponent was so much more clever than Horatio, that Horatio had to sport his adopted colors, black and blue, for another week. Everything seemed to run against the grain when Horatio had anything to do with it, until at last he could not boast of one good friend as everybody seemed to make a laughing stock out of him. At first Horatio was happy, cheerful, and full of fun. He was kind to man and animal alike. But later on he began to get gloomy and would wander off into the woods by himself. Soon these trips into the woods became more numerous until it was not an uncommon sight to see him sitting by a stream admiring the works of nature by himself. Now there was one spot in particular that Horatio visited the most. This was a certain green spot through the center of which ran a stream. This stream wras bordered on each side by tall oak, maple, and chestnut trees. Horatio would sit on one of the rocks on the banks of the stream and gaze gloomily into the water as it worked itself in between the rocks. Nothing seemed to please him more than just watch the forest folks at play or work. Many a time he would watch a hare bound up from near the stream towards the