Commerce High School - Commerce Yearbook (Cleveland, OH)

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He thought and thought and did not get any further than when he started. Suddenly he heard somebody playing. He looked around and saw, not a few steps away, a man playing on a violin. When the man finished some pennies dropped from the windows above him. The player picked them up and went some distance further and repeated his action. “I have it. Why can not I do this? I can make a little money and after I have saved up a few dollars I can think of something better to do,” cried Philip. He then attempted to answer his own question by action, and he was rewarded with ten cents, after playing some melodies, among which we can be sure was his father’s favorite piece. “Collar buttons, candles, hair pins, combs.” The crier was a woman carrying a basket heavily loaded with the before mentioned wares. The poor woman was Mrs. Petrowsky, but how changed! Her beautiful hair was entirely white; her eyes had grown deeply sunken. The look of anguish stamped on her features gave full evidence of the miseries through which she had passed during the last five years. Her husband, in a sense, murdered; her only son snatched from her care; her very life made a burden by the oppressors, who had not been content with the suffering they had caused her to endure, but had not even allowed her the trifling privilege of departing in peace from her native land that had long became loath-some to her. The expression in her face, as she walked along, seemed to show that she had hardly any care for her life, but supported herself on her meager earnings only because it was a mechanical instinct. As she walked slowly along, crying out her wares in a sad voice, she suddenly stopped, listened, moved on a few steps, and stopped again, as if an electro-magnet was drawing her to itself, and the circuit alternately was made qnd then broken. What was it she was listening to? The beautiful strains of a violin came smoothly and gracefully through the air and fell lightly upon the ear arranging themselves into a beautiful and passionate melody. It was the favorite piece of Mr. Petrowsky. Then, as if the current had been turned on with a double fold volume of electricity, giving the magnet renewed power, she was drawn into the small court from whence the melody was issuing. She looked up as if to ascertain the cause of the irresistible drawing power and saw before her a handsome boy manipulating his violin. When he finished he looked up, their eyes met, they closely scrutinized each other. A look of recognition passed over their faces, then one of doubt and then again of recognition. “Philip! My son!” “Mother!” HERMAN KAPLAN, 1912. 105

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Suddenly the cry of a child rang through the night air. They stopped and stood stock still with fear of the possible consequences. A hurried attempt was made to quiet the child, when some had recovered their fortitude, but to no avail, for the woman carrying the child had fallen and in consequence the child was seriously hurt. Then, to save himself from suspicion, even though it might serve to make matters worse for the emigrants, the sentinel, by shooting into the air, aroused the other guards. The poor people fled hither and thither in terror, dropping their packs and bundles so as not to be retarded by them. “Philip,” cried the voice we had previously heard, and which belonged to Mrs. Petrowsky, “do not allow yourself to be separated fiom me.” But too late; they had been parted by the panic-stricken crowd in the twinkling of an eye. “My God!” she cried, looking all around her. “My only son. Philip! Philip! He does not answer. Philip! Where are you? Oh, my only son is lost. My cup of sorrow is full to the brim. My husband murdered and now my son separated from me. Philip! Philip!” But she cried in vain. Philip did not answer. Suddenly she perceived that the soldiers were close upon her. She ran frantically, crying out for her son. Suddenly she felt a heavy hand laid upon her. She turned. A soldier held her tightly. She struggled and cried frantically. “Let me go. Let me go. I want my son. He is lost. Let me seek him. Oh, please let me just find him and I will return to you.” But all to no avail. The soldier did not heed her. $ Two years later, on the lower easterly end of Manhattan Island, one of the five boroughs of New York City, could be seen large numbers of people moving to and fro on both sides of one of the narrow streets. Some of the people rushed along as if their lives depended upon their completing their journey in a given time. Others walked at a more moderate pace, but seemed to have some definite destination, while still others wandered along aimlessly. Among the last class of people was a well built boy about twelve or thirteen years of age, clad in poor Russian clothes, and carrying a violin case. It was our friend Philip. He sauntered along, seemingly without any definite destination, hanging his head as if in deep thought, and moving his lips, making a murmur, which, when he came nearer, could be made out to be a soliloquy. “----- Mother, I wonder where she is. I do not know where I can get any word from or about her. Those villains first deprived me of my father and now they have taken my mother. I will have to depend on myself. What can I do to at least get something to eat. “If I sell my violin, an act which will be very hard for me to do, I will then have nothing, after I have spent the little money that I can get for it.” 104

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3 £uiltp Conscience “T WONDER why Lucy Barrows always walks away whenever I attempt X to meet her, said a winsome girl to a group of college friends who were standing on the campus of the school. The girls made a pretty picture with the early morning sunshine lighting up their bright faces and showing them the embodiment of happiness. But at the mention of Lucy Barrows a cloud seemed to shadow their joy. The girls were perhaps no better than others, but they had prided themselves on the sociability of their college, and especially of their class. But for months Lucy had baffled all their efforts of friendliness, hence this shadow. “Don't all answer at once, continued the speaker, looking around at the girls. “I don’t know,” replied a tall, slender girl, with a characteristic shrug of the shoulders, “but never mind, Mabel, you are all right. Mabel Griggs was dissatisfied with this answer, but while she wrinkled her brow thoughtfully she did not pursue the topic. And as if to dispel the gloom, one of the girls changed the subject. Soon a bell was heard ringing, and the girls scattered to their respective classes. All apparently forgot the incident of Lucy's marked discourtesy. Lucy Barrows was a bright scholar, but as we have seen not very popular among the girls of the schools. This was partly on account of her selfish habits and jealous traits, and partly the result of Lucy’s own choice. One day, shortly after this discussion, the girls gathered on the campus and dressed Mabel as their snow-queen. They were laughing and shouting and evidently having a good time. Their shouts attracted the attention of Lucy Barrows, who viewed the scene from the window, and their display of love for Mabel redoubled Lucy’s obvious hatred for her. I don’t know what people see so attractive about that girl, Lucy muttered, and deep in her heart she treasured a feeling of resentment against the world. Lucy was really a pretty girl, but at this instant her face was disfigured with hate. “Examination day is coming and perhaps they will change their minds,” said she with a knowing shake of the head, and with a sneering, malignant smile she turned from the window. A week later, groups of girls, with thoughtful faces were seen going towards a large room at the farther end of Brown Hall, where examinations were usually held. “Wish I had studied my lessons,” said one girl in a regretful voice. “I am positive that I shall fail, said another, with a forlorn shake of the head. “If you think fail, you will fail, but if you don’t think so, you won’t fail,” answered our friend Mabel, who was making sunshine everywhere with her bright, cheery smile and hopeful voice. 106