Charlotte High School - Delphian Yearbook (Charlotte, MI)

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DELPHIAN, C. H. S. NINETEEN SIXTEEN from the public eye, and succeeding, as it were, behind the ample form of his wife. Mrs. Mulhany w ' as talker of the family and filled the position well. Her better half, as she called him, had been coolly informed that he should take a day off and attend the foot- ball game, and sure as life itself Mulhany ar- rived decked out in his national colors, also those of the school. About his plug hat was carefully festooned a green ribbon, shamrocks adorned the lapel of his coat, Mrs. Mulhany be- ing a believer in local color, and behold Mul- hany a changed man. Why so much excitement over a football game? Hush while I tell you. Today Michael Mulhany, 21 years of age, son of Mr. and Mrs. O ' Shaughnessy Mulhany, Sr., was to play his final game of football. He was captain of his team ; handsome, manly and whole-hearted ; a true son of his mother. He had led his team to victory upon every other occasion, but this game meant more to him than any of its pre- decessors. He was playing to win the hand of the girl he loved ; a pretty-sweet-faced, rollick- ing Irish lass, with eyes as blue as the lakes of Killarney, and cheeks of peaches and cream and hair as black as the heart of Cromwell. In a moment of mischief she had told him that unless he won the game she would become the wife of his rival, Pat McGee, and contrary to her expectations Michael had taken her at her wiord, and today was to battle for her hand. Game to the end she stood by her rash require- ment, and now the crucial moment had arrived. She had little doubt as to the outcome of the game, for Michael had worked four long years for this very moment. Through these years of unceasing toil and study he had laid too firm a foundation to be shaken at this late day. Were his men as strong as he? This question troubled her not a little, but she turned a smiling face to him as he came up, bringing several classmates to be introduced to the fam- ily. Proud of them, Michael introduced his mother and father as if they were the king and queen of the Emerald Isle. His brothers and sisters, nine in all, as the best parcel of young- sters on the continent, and Margaret O ' Hara — well we leave that to the imagination of the romantic. As the game was called, Michael kissed his mother, shook hands with his father and smiled beamingly upon the children. Then turning to his little sweetheart, he said : Shure an ' its a hard task, Mavoureen, but I ' m sure to come out on top. Good luck to you, Mickey; I hope by all the saints that ye win. With a cheery smile Mickey made for the field and in a moment were heard his encour- aging cries to his team-mates. That ' s it, Slim, fight him boys ; all ready now, let her go. The first of the game was played with a show of equality. They were well matched, and fought with pep. Mrs. Mulhany was beside herself with anxiety. Michael was guarded by a man, almost rivalling Jess Willard as to pro- portions and he was doing his best to annihilate the boy. But Michael stood his ground. ' ' Michael, Michael, don ' t weaken ; think of St. Patrick and foight like an Irishman. Turn- ing to the guard, she cried in a menacing whisper, Ye black hathen, sure an ' I ' d wallop yes wid me bare hands if I was me boy. ' ' One person on the field was silent, her face was white and set, but hope was strong in her heart and something of her confidence vibrated out to Michael, and together with his deter- mination to win, made him grit his teeth and muster the courage within him, gained from a long line of Irish fighters. He fought a battle that day, never to be forgotten. With muscles tense, jaws set, watching every movement of the pigskin, with eager, alert eyes, he seemed possessed. His team was weakening while the other side appeared to gain strength. The score was tied and 40 yards to go. Amid the cries of the spectators he gasped out his signals. Suddenly in a tense quiet the two teams sprang into action. The dust was blinding when it raised the ball and Mickey was two yards down the field and his opponents straining every nerve to overtake him. Only 38 yards to reach the coveted goal, but his strength was fast waning. His eyes glaring fire, his head thrown Page twenty-seven

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DELPHIAN, C. H. 8. NINETEEN SIXTEEN its rainbow tints. He was forced to return home and t ake np the burden of supporting his mother and his younger sister. He began the work of teaching music rather bitterly, for this was not his destiny. He was meant to be a darling of the gods, not a hum- drum teacher of the violin, with anxiety about the fuel and the rent, hanging like the sword of Damocles above his head. At first he felt that he could yet compose, and occasionallj he caught faint snatches of a mystic melody. But they were more and more indistinct, and finally he heard them no more. They were drowned by the jangling discords of his life. But in that darkest hour which always pre- cedes the dawn, there was born to him out of the travail of the passing years a vision. It was dim and indistinct at first but gradually it grew clearer and brighter until he could follow it like a guilding star. And he knew that from his 0 ' ai spirit and his own life he could evoke siieh harmonies as had never yet been called forth from a violin, no, not were it the finest that had ever come from the workshop of a Stradivarius. And so he began to practice these new melodies of the spirit, but he found them hard to master, harder than the most difficult of compositions for his violin. For they were the melodies of unselfishness, of love, of the return of good for evil, of sweetness and serenity amid the clashing din of human life. But the difficulties did not daunt him and he persevered and became more and more pro- ficient with every passing year. The way grew brighter and the path less thorny all the time, and he discovered that to teach rightly is to give, and that only those who give taste the purest joy that man can know. He was becom- ing an artist now in that finest of all the arts, the art of living. And behold! He heard again those other melodies of yore, and one day he wrote a beau- tiful song which touched the hearts of thou- sands and which made him famous. But what mattered to him now the plaudits of the world 1 He had heard the music of the stars. For His Colleen (By Adelaide Hart, ' IS.) Mrs. Mulhany smiled genially in the late autumn sun. Her ' s was a smile of good-fellow- ship and happy disregard of the conventional- ities involved in the naeeting of strangers. She was placidly talking to the lady who occupied the seat next her on the bleachers regardless of the haughty glances of the lady and the amused smiles of those about her. Shure an autumn day is a lovely tii e to be a-bringin ' of a woman loike me from her house- hol d duties to watch a fisht full of crazy ga- loots chase the length of the field with a ball and thin be afallin ' on one another as if it ' twas made of gold, instead of bein ' composed of the same material as me old pig, Pat. Shure a lot of humans act the same as that same crit- ter. Many a pig ' s hid ' hind of a two-legged, smilin ' -faced nonentity that the Lor ' s origin- ally intended for somethin ' else to be placed on another planet, but got mixed in the rush. Whist or I ' ll box yer ears, can ' t yez hear me a- talkin ' with the lady ; where ' s yer manners ? There, Kathleen, O ' Shaughnessy will save you some; if you don ' t, you young spalpeen, I ' ll turn yes over my knee and make ye sing. This whole speech was made in one breath, the last part with cuffs and jerks at a young, jolly, red-headed, freckled-faced culprit, mingled with pats and mothering glances at a weak little girl in her lap. Today Mrs. Mulhany was out on parade ; green feathers adorned her cocky hat, a coat of the revoluntionary period hung about her matronly form in folds, and the smile which she bestowed upon the earth in general and her son in particular, warmed the otherwise chilly landscape as the rays of the sun, while her hearty words seemed as a jolly norther, crisp, full of comradeship and love. At her side sat a meek little man, trying hard to keep Page twenty-six

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DELPHIAN, C. H. S. NINETEEN SIXTEEN back he ran with the grace of a deer. A tackle darted in front of him, he dodged easily. His pursuers gained on him every moment. The goal seemed far away. The pain in his throat choked him ; his sides seemed tearing, his knees were weakening, when he heard the encourag- ing cry of his mother : Holy St. Patrick! he ' s gone mad; that ' s the boy, Mickey, me darliu ' ! Then faintly to his ears, as he sped on, came the appealing note of Margaret O ' Hara, For me, Mickey, for me. Renewed strength seemed to be injected into his body, and with another effort he threw him- self across the line. Cheer upon cheer rang through the crowd. Nine for Mickey, Nine for his mother and father. Then Mickey raised his tired head and croaked hoarsely, Well, boys, let ' s see how it ' ll sound to give nine for Mrs. Mickey! The Seasons (By Ermintrude Martin, ' IS.) A cloud of petals drifting down Before a gentle breeze, To fall upon a verdant ground Prom blossom-laden trees; A throng of yellow butterflies. That float and whir and dip; Some fleecy clouds in azure skies; A bee poised o ' er the lip Of sweet narcissus ' golden cup, With pollen-gilded coat, While he on nectar sweet doth sip; A song-bird ' s single note, From out a bloom-encircled bower, Doth cheer his little mate, Who far below among the flowers On four eggs sits in state. Some yellow asters by the road, The gentian ' s fringe uncurled; The harvest of the seed once sowed In Springtime by the world; The frost has stained the maples red. The beeches clothed in gold; The plants have many songbirds fed From stores of seed they hold; The leaves drop slowly, one by one; The nuts at last are ripe; And thru the woodland sounds the gun, Where once the blackbirds piped. A smoky haze hangs every day; The sun serenely shines Upon a world now red and gay. With dimmed horizon lines. A plaintive bird-note thru the still Of the oppressive heat; Which, from the basswood on the hill. Is hung with perfume sweet. A noonday quiet rest o ' er all, O ' er forest and o ' er field. And to its noiseless, drowsy call All nature needs must yield. Within the cool, dark forest shade The leaves hang wholly still; There comes from out a dusky glade The laughter of a rill. Which rambles lightly to and fro, Like bird-songs thru the rain, Or voices heard long years ago, And to be heard again. The trees stand leafless, sombre-black. Against the dead-white snow. The naked branches eerily, Wave stifly to and fro. They cast fantastic shadows In the cheerless, cold moonlight. And Luna now is hidden By thick black clouds from sight. The snow, a blanket thick and white. Lies softly on the earth; Serene is this December night. The season of Christ ' s birth. The black clouds, edged with silver lace. Pass, and again revealed Are the broad and snowy reaches Of highway, lawn and field. Page twenty-eight