Emmerich Manual High School - Ivian Yearbook (Indianapolis, IN)

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MISS DAVE Say, Pen, you can ' t guess whom I saw this evening, said Harry Fields as he walked into the dining-room. No, of course not, answered his wife at the side-board. Well, (with a bow) Miss Margerite Dave, or formerly, Maggie Davis. She didn ' t use to be so proud and mighty, but since she ' s an actress, she is above speaking to common mortals. As I was coming past the hotel, whom should I see but Miss Margerite descending from a cab. I know she recognized me, although we have not met for many years. ' Good evening, Miss Davis, ' I said, as pleased as could be to see an old friend, but she opened her black eyes in polite surprise and passed into the hotel. I can well remember the first time I saw her; I was then grocery boy at Pat McGuire ' s. One cold morning when deliver- ing at the same hotel into which Miss Dave swept less than an hour ago, I noticed a poor girl with a torn red shawl wrapped about her head and shoulders, with hands and face purple from the cold, standing before the kitchen door talking earnestly to the head cook. There was then no haughty pride in her face or manners, but timid humility. I put my groceries on the table slowly and so heard most of the conversation. She was twelve years old — her name was Maggie Davis — her mother had died recently, and her father was a drunkard — oh, wouldn ' t he give her something to do, just so she would have a place to stay and keep warm ? Her large dark eyes were filled with tears, as she looked wistfully into the cook ' s face, so after a few hems and haws, he concluded to take her a week on trial. I suppose that week must have been satisfactory, for she stayed month after

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FIRE-LIGHT Sitting alone in the evening In a large old-fashioned room, Before a fire fast dying, With naught else to dispel the gloom. Through the trees outside, -which autumn Had stripped of their summer ' s dress, The wind was sighing and moaning, Like some one in distress; It stirred the leaves in the corners Where they ' d stowed themselves away, And shook the rattling casement Till ghosts seemed holding sway. ' Twas an ideal time for dreaming As I sat in solitude, And strange, fantastical shadows, Soon gave to my fancy, food. As the flames shot upward and vanished, I saw in their fiery glow Reflections of happy moments And faces I used to know ; As they flickered and danced on the ceiling And transformed all things old, They lit up the faded hangings Until they seemed ' broidered in gold. The coals formed fairy castles, In which I reigned supreme, But the flames soon made them ashes And left me a vanquished queen. And as blessings are always brightest Just as they take their flight, The fire mouldered into ashes And left me alone in the night. MABEL G. WALTERS, June, 1900.

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month, first working as dish washer, but later she was allowed to dust and help arrange the best rooms in the house. As I was daily at the hotel, I soon became well acquainted with the little black-eyed, black-haired beauty, and before a year had passed, we were the best of friends. She was cheerful and lighthearted, always ready for a good joke, or to play some prank on an unsuspecting victim. But she was most happy and enter- taining when imitating some one. In the evenings when work was over, I would often go to the servant ' s hall, and there would be Maggie, the center of an admiring group of servants. Sometimes she would be singing a Scotch love song, an Irish or negro melody, to the amusement of her audience; sometimes a sad, sweet song or hymn in such a way as to bring tears to the eyes of her hearers. She had a sweet, clear soprano voice, capable of all the inflec- tions necessary for good imitation. At times I found her seated before a table pretending to eat the imagined dainties set before her, in a very mincing manner, saying, ' Yes, indeed! ' and ' No, my dear, ' and smoothing back her own glossy curls in clever imitation of an old boarder, Miss Manly. Then she gave orders in a blustering voice, and tilted back in her chair, holding a news- paper over which she glowered as naturally as if she had been Mr. Fletcher himself. One Thursday evening especially I remember going into the room and seeing Maggie with a towel tied about her waist, balancing a tray on the five dainty fingers of her right hand and leaning with the other on the table. ' Yaas sah — waal — waal, I really doan know, sah, ' she was saying with the greatest mock solemnity. The head cook roared and shook with laughter. He had a grudge against Jim, the colored waiter, and to see him thus mocked, tickled him more than anything else. Maggie, seeing her chance, laid down the tray and began beating an imaginary batter, singing in a thick, coarse voice a favorite song of the cook ' s, giving all the strong, steady rises and sudden wavery falls so accurately that it was impossible to keep a straight face. Dart- ing across the room, she exclaimed in an angry voice, ' Git away, you hussy, if you wasn ' t so lazy an ' good for nothin ' , the sauce wouldn ' t be lumpy an ' dark. I don ' t see what would become of this here place if it wuzn ' t for me a-lookin ' after the meals an ' things; and what are you a-grinnin ' at, Miss Maggie? Seems to me if you wuz out there a-sweepin ' off the walk you ' d be a-doin ' more good in this here world. ' The cook, unable to stand it any