Butler High School - Magnet Yearbook (Butler, PA)

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CLASS OF JANUARY, 1932 25 note. Thrilled with the fireplace but otherwise disappointed, I then walked into the room on the right. It was larger than the first but built exactly the same with its fireplace directly across from the doorway, as in the other. Here, however, were huge, built-in corner cupboards, which led me to believe that this room had been the dining room. I hastened to investigate these cupboards, but imagine my chagrin when instead of ancient blue and white willow ware, my eyes fell upon some tin cups and a pan or two lying on the shelves. My heart gave an uncomfortable flop. It wasn’t that the tin cups and pans were such an unbearable disappointment, but they were new! Not perfectly new, but, at least not one hundred years old ! Had someone been in the house recently? I glanced about uncertainly at the shadowy emptiness, then hurried on to what I knew to be the kitchen by the stone floor and unusually large fireplace. The kitchen, too, was bare, and the doors and windows boarded up. I saw that there was a back stairway, but I hesitated to go up the dark, dank passage, for fear was gnawing at my heart. I turned back towards the hall but now my steps were lagging and cautious. You know,” I reminded myself tardily, it was never considered polite to meddle with another’s property.” But my collector’s instinct was stronger even than my fears; I couldn’t resist that circular staircase. It won’t hurt to take one peep at the second floor,” I argued. And anyhow, I’m not doing anything wrong. I intend to pay for anything I find.” I set one foot dubiously upon the stairs. If I felt that unseen eyes were watching me, it was only imagination. Every step creaked as I went upwards, and every moment I expected a face to appear out of a doorway. Yet I surprised myself by staying long enough to see that nothing of value was there. Then, just as I was about to retrace my steps down the stairs, I heard a noise. At first, I thought it came from the doleful attic overhead; t?hen I knew that I was mistaken, and that it was the rattle of the pans I had seen in the room below—should I go down and apologize for intruding? Should I sneak quietly out or remain where I was? What to do? I decided to resort to the second method and clung close to the wall as I crept down the steps. As I reached the bend of the stairs, I glimpsed a rough looking man in working clothes go out the door and down the path. My heart was thumping like a drum when I reached the bottom of the steps. If he should turn suddenly, he might still see me, so I hurried into the dining room to wait till he was out of sight and to view, if possible, his course from the window beside the fireplace. He was walking slowly and seemed to be enveloped in deep thought. He had gone to the spring, from which he was now drinking with the tin cup which he had produced from the cupboard. What should I do? I could not escape by the back door which was boarded up. Determining to face him bravely, I clinched my hands by my side and stood my post. I could hear footsteps now; and while I waited, a thousand thoughts flash-

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24 THE SENIOR MAGNET fantasy Marybel Conabee To say the place was lonely would be insufficient; it was solitary and desolate, in a part of the country away from nearby towns. The sole road leading to it was stony and twisted, and narrow enough to endanger even my shiny new Austin. Yet it was just the type of road to beckon irresistibly to an amateur hunter of antiques, and my heart thrilled when, emerging from a long stretch of woodland, upon a high mound of land, I caught sight of a great, rambling, gray stone house. It was deserted. What treasures might it not contain? 1 wanted to rush up the tiny hill to the house, but my progress was obstructed by a rusty, barbed-wire fence, strongly built and reaching to my shoulder. The house was too fine to pass by, however; too grand to allow one to sleep in peace after being permitted the opportunity of viewing it. My collector’s instinct led me to follow this fence in the hope of finding a gate. I was not disappointed; soon I came to an old-fashioned stile, which I crossed easily. It was lazy weather, so I now took my course slowly, gazing above me at the uncertain sky. The place was deathly quiet. By my side flowed a deep, quiet stream which was dark as the woods from which it issued. All at once I felt the ground softening under my feet and, gazing down, saw that I was almost at the brink of one of the finest springs nature ever produced. Above it on the bank grew a mammoth willow tree with its gorgeous, drooping plumes almost touching the water. Fancy led me to dream of happy faces that in years gone by had bent to drink of its cool, sweet mountain water. Perhaps, even, a romantic young couple had sat beneath this tree upon its roomy, inviting roots, and had read their future in the depths of the spring. Or perhaps it was a sweet old lady who had come here to dream of happy days gone by. All my desire to see the quaint old house came back with a rush. I ran up the path and took it all in at a glance. It was grand ! I stepped upon the huge slab of stone which had served as a step down from the porch and caught my breath as I saw dimly engraved upon it the date— 1773.” 1773 !” Surely not that old ! But what had once been proud, haughty pillars lay rotting at my feet, and the porch was in ruins. The house was certainly ancient. I stepped onto the porch cautiously. The door was gone and, passing through the open doorway, I found myself in the hall. On the left began the most enticing circular staircase imaginable. Inquisitiveness urged me to follow it, but doubt of its stability held me back, so I looked to my right and left to investigate the first floor. On the left I saw a bare room, square in shape. Almost opposite the doorway was a large fireplace of quaint old tile. Otherwise, the room contained nothing of

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26 THE SENIOR MAGNET ed through my mind. What would he say to me? Did he own this house? Why had it been deserted? What would he think of anyone who came snooping around like this? Perhaps this man’s ancestors had owned it and, because of financial difficulties, it had fallen to ruin; maybe this man was going to redeem it. The house was decidedly English and perhaps - - - All the ideas that had been running through my mind while I was investigating it, seemed to come to a focus in my brain. But before I could choose among them, the man stood before me. I could tell by the look on his face that he was astounded. He hadn’t expected to see anyone, let alone a girl, and the way he stammered and blushed quite took away my fear. Probably thinks he is caught just the same as I did, and quite as much ashamed,” I thought. So, quite fearlessly I took the initiative. To whom does this house belong?” I asked him. He looked at me oddly, dumbly. Well,” he began thoughtfully as if debating whether to even speak, I have been working upon that myself. You see, I think it ought to be mine, but I haven’t proved it yet. Say, maybe you’d be interested an’ would like to help me out?” And he waited anxiously for me to answer. Help him — well, why not? At least I’d find out to whom those tile fireplaces belonged. So I readily answered, Suppose you tell me your ideas and if I think them worth considering, I’ll help you.” The gaze he fixed upon me was peculiarly intense. First, you must promise to tell no one. I’m not working for everyone’s fun, but I must have someone to help me out a little, I guess—you see I can’t come here every day and somebody else might find it first. But—no, you won’t do, I’m afraid. You’re not strong. No.” After my earnest pleading, however, he finally consented and told me confidentially of papers he had found telling him something of the former owners of the house. It had been in different hands, he told me, but the papers he had found had concerned the original owner, a Tory ancestor df his, whose property the government had confiscated at the close of the Revolutionary War. He had hidden his wealth somewhere on the premises to conceal it and had died, trying to tell his son where to look for the gold. With it had been hidden the grant to the land, signed by George III himself ! No descendant had ever found this treasure and this man was the last of tfie clan. Half the treasure would be mine, he said, if I would help search the house diligently, for he was positive that it was still there somewhere. What was there about him which made me agree so readily? Or was it the lure of that George III signature which I was so anxious to see? To this day I don’t know, but I promised faithfully to help, and he left with the assurance that I would start looking the next day. The following week he was to meet me here to find how matters stood. He said that he couldn’t help me until then, for he would be working, in his spare time, on the papers he had already found. I was true to my promise. For six long days, from morning till night,