Cass City High School - Perannos Yearbook (Cass City, MI)

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Miss Brock, in charge of the Domestic Science branch at Miss Carolina Carew's Academy for Young Ladies, emerged from the special experiment building after many tediously repeated experiments with a new salad fad of which she had heard Betty Marlew speak, and being as usual too tired to go to the rear of the building to fasten a door leading to the cellar which she remembered had been unbolted for at least two weeks fdespite Miss Carewfs severity concerning unbolted doorsl and being convinced that the cellar really contained nothing covetable anyway, Walked briskly away towards the Academy which, together with Olds- man College for young men, was nearly a quarter of a mile distant. When the ponderous oak door swung shut behind her all was still in the vicinity. It is late. Unheeded the soft moonbeams play at hide and seek among the leafless twigs of the shadowy hedge and the old Academy owl, laboriously tamed by Miss Carew herself, surveys with a proud eye, the vast domain over which he now reigns supreme from the dark intricacy of his favorite elm. But list! What group of darkly clad figures descend the side stairs of the Academy and glide noiselessly across the extensive lawn? Ay! And look again! Where another group steal from out the brooding darkness surrounding Oldsman and silently move to the big white gate to meet the culprits from the Academy! Well done, very well indeed! The Academy figures are all safely over the white gate and two by two they glide silently down the dimly lighted road into the dead of night. But, if you please, is it not a serious misdemeanor-ay, an unpar- donable crime for one of Miss Carew's girls to be found out of her private dormitory after 9:00 P. M.? Well, rather! The great owl sees but holds his peace. Ah, yes, but they are very young ! And is he not a wise old fellow? An hour later Miss Brock looked quickly up from the note-book in which she was making the day's last entry. Lin-n-ng-a-ling 1 The door-bell at that hour! What could it mean Y She hurried down the long corridor, reverberating with the shrill echo, turned the key in the lock and fearlessly opened wide the door. A special wireless for Miss Betty Marlew. Just arrived-from Europe. No answer required-fee paid. Good night. He was gone. Miss Brock stared at the big yellow envelope in sheer amazement. From England! What can it be? I must give it to Betty at once although it is a perfect shame to waken the child I She felt her way carefully flest she disturb the slumbering girlsl to Betty's door and inserted her pocket key, entered, to find-the room deserted! What? Betty Marlow not in her room at midnight? Impossible! Why, it meant disgrace for life! The spotless reputation of the Academy was ruined forever-but where could she be? In a fit of excited frenzy Miss Brock soon found, to her uncomprehendable amazement, that Betty

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Uhr Amrrimn liatrint A cold, raw wind swept over the western Atlantic. It chilled, to the marrow, the tall British sentinel who paced the frozen strand with a nervous, ill at ease step. It whistled threateningly around the monstrous cannon, standing as if ready to herald war to the restless sea itself, and shrieked shrilly through its cavernous iron barrel. It dashed the brine fiercely against the lone wireless station that towered, dark and gloomy, against the dismal sky and sent the great breakers rolling up on the deso- late shore. The weary sentinel paced on back and forward, to and fro between the wireless building and the great black cannon. Dismal surroundings-a biting wind-a cheerless watch! Fine night! called a cheery voice behind him. Balt turned, O, it's you, Yankee! It is kind of you to come- and then Clarence Balt, The Silent Sentinel began, for the first time, to wonder why this young American did come and watch with him during the long desolate nights, surely the bleak loneliness of the shore held no charm for him-and yet he always came, no matter how bitter the night or how horrible the rumors of war. Not once during his two weeks visit at the sentinel camp had he failed to share the cheerlessness of Balt's midnight watch. Yankee seated himself comfortably on a big dry goods box and watched the sentinel as he silently paced the barren strand. War-war- war! Suppose a German Zeppelin should appear directly overheard? And was not the faithful Balt even now watching tirelessly for hostile steamers? When the day of final reckoning comes, I pity the poor fellow who started this war, mused Yankee aloud and Balt, who happened to be passing the box, smiled bitterly. Pm afraid he won't appear. Then with genuine good fellowship Balt drew a small gold case from an inner pocket and offered Yankee one of his best Havannahs. As Yankee reached for a cigar the faint glimmer of a stray star flashed across the interior lid of the case and he saw distinctly the initials G, M. carved delicately from milk-white pearl and beautifully engraved on a silver eagle, the United States' national symbol! What could a man want of another's initials on his cigar case and of all things! What right had a Britian to 'cage' the American eagle? A cigar was thrust almost rudely into Yankee's hand. The questionable case closed with a hasty click and the solemn sentinel walked curtly away! Three minutes later Yankee, in a voice rendered uncertain with triumphant emotion, was excitedly dictating a message to America at the wireless station. The message ran something like this: Liverpool, Eng., Nov. 10, 1914. I have succeeded. Board first steamer for Liverpool. B. W. Pk ik Ik Pk fl' Scene, U. S. A.

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Marlew wasn't the only girl who had scandalously broken the sacred law. Six of the prettiest and liveliest girls from Dept. D were gone--gone! But where? Goodness only knew! What shall I do? If Miss Carew ever hears of this-oh dear! I just must find those wicked girls ! Flinging a warm shawl about her, she went out into the night. Her steps, Argus- directed, led straight to that big white gate! But stay! What tell-tale object lies just beyond the gate to tempt her farther? Eagerly she clambered over the gate and there, glistening like a thousand rare gems in the flickering moonlight, was a bursted sack of gleaming white sugar! Sugar! Aha! Perhaps, after all, the old owl isn't alone in his supreme wisdom. Silently, fleetly, Miss Brock speeds down the winding road, past the dark sombre houses whose slumbering inhabitants little dream that both Oldman's and Miss Carew's Academies are this very night disgraced forever by the rash merrymaking of twelve gay students! On she goes-and on. Mercy upon us! Would she never get there? At last she comes to the experiment building and sure enough, a bold, unshadcd light streams cheerily from a cellar window! Silently she creeps closer and there in the bare recess of the cellar twelve eager young faces bend over a chafing dish and the odor that fills the air is the odor of fudge. The crimson glow of disapproval is obvious on Miss Brock's face and an instant later she has opened the inner door and is standing in all the fierceness of her authoritative person before the guilty culprits. Oh, mercy I Disclosure, expulsion and disgrace confront each and every one of the fugitive fudge-makers! Helena Lane screamed, Jessie Clark fainted and Billey Grands, in his confusion, ran right into the very arms of Miss Brock! Oh, please Miss Brock, you won't report us to Miss Carew? We just- If I do, I lose my position for not bolting that cellar door,-you ought to get a severe scolding though, but in scolding a bunch like this-Oh! What's the use? That night for rather morningj pretty Betty Marlew slept with a queer looking yellow envelope under her pillow and dreamed of a far away land that, though in the war zone, held the realization of a long cherished hope-a dream of a dark, hungry sea and a lone steamer plowing its way through dense fog and mist but always just ahead was a bright, inextinguishable light. at at ak is ak Scene: Western British Coast. Two long weeks have lagged wearily by and on the British coast all remains unchanged, yes-even the wind which is still bleak and westerly. Yankee sits on the favorite box, idly clicking his boots together and racking his brain for something funny to say but with slender hopes of ever developing a turn for conversation in Bolt, who paces the frozen strand with that same restless, ill-at-ease step. Nothing has happened- nothing, it seems, ever will, only blood-curdling war rumors and awful, purpose-blunting suspense. Oh, thought Yankee, if a German Zeppelin