Girls High School - Yearbook (Reading, PA)

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The life in the great city he wished to forget. VVith the exception of the letters from her, it was one ceaseless round of care and worry. His am- bition alone kept him alive. Every spare moment he spent in the art gal- leries, studying the great works of the master-painters. His toil received its reward. Several of his pictures were sold, and the young artist decided to enjoy his well-earned vacation. During this vacation he had painted the miniature of her, his masterpiece. He could see her still smiling at him while he worked. When he wanted her to rest, she begged him not to stop. She was never tired of posing for him, she said. Gradually the portrait grew, and one day it was finished. Only a frame was lacking. Carefully the young man saved. and one day he pur- chased the little gold frame. Every tiny scrolled line upon it meant hours of work, but he did not care as long as he knew that it was for her. Then came the time when he had to leave. He assured her that but one year more was needed. Then he would be ready to battle with life with her as his comrade. His wonderful genius could not be hidden. The miniature which he treasured chanced to fall into the hands of one who recegnized its true worth. Through his influence the young painter left for Paris to study there under the great European masters. Rapidly his work advanced. His pictures were the theme of discussion in all art circles. The time had now come when he could proudly ask the colonel for his daughter. It seemed to him as though his great love for her had given him the power to become what he was. So he returned one day and found her the wife of another. That was all. He could not, would not, wait to see her, but left the little town at once never to come back again. As he left all desire of life, all ambition in him died. He never painted another picture. but plunged restlessly into the law. He worked hard, and work to him now was harder than before. Slowly, but surely, he rose higher and higher. His boyhood struggle and constant contact with humanity gave him the key to men's hearts, and he had been adjudged capable and chosen governor. The day after his election he had found her death notice in the town paper. The only surviving relation was a son. How her husband had died was of no interest to him. just that morning, among the last of those sen- tenced to die, he had seen the name of her son. A mad passion possessed him. He would at last have vengeance for what he had suffered. The son must pay the penalty of his wrecked life. Slowly the clock chimed again. He had been far away for a half-hour. The governor picked up his pen, paushed, then wrote slowly after the name Innocent The face seemed to smile at him. He rose, walked to the open fire-place, and dropped among the Hames his masterpiece. MARION RHOADS, 7

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His Masterpiece HE old grandfather's clock slowly chim-ed the half hour, the sound reverberating through the silence again and again. VVith a sigh the governor pushed aside the papers which littered his mahog- any desk. As he did so, his eye caught sight of the list of peti- tioners for pardon, and almost involuntarily his hand sought his private drawer. and he drew forth a miniature. For a long time he gazed steadily at the face of the girl. An art critic would have delighted in the beautiful madonna face so exquisitely portrayed. It Was, however, the expression of complete happiness and newly-awakened love which appealed to the silent figure crouched in the big chair, and called up the unforgetable memories of th-e past. As the governor studied the portrait, the magnificently furnished library, the embodiment of luxury and ease, faded away, and in its stead appeared the humble home of his birth. As far back as he could recollect his early life had been a repetition of the old story of a useless struggle with poverty. His father, a remarkably talented man, succumbed to the hereditary curse of drink. The little dark-eyed mother, after bravely fighting her best to have a home for her only child, one night left them forever. He had always been glad of that. Matters grew still worse. Finally one night, mad with drink, his father provoked a broil in a saloon, and met his own death in the ensuing fight. Although barely twelve years old, he suffered keenly from the public disgrace, and shunned the main streets. It seemed to him as though every living creature looked at him with pity, as the son of so worthless a father. The country doctor, a courtly gentleman of the old school, offered him a home. While living here, he was sent to school. lt was in the little old- fashioned school house that he first saw the laughing face of a tiny maiden who even then weaned her way into his boyish affections. A certain pride made him carefully brush his shabby clothes for he knew that the daintily- dressed daughter of the wealthy colonel would never notice a dirty drunkard's son. Fate, one day. brought about a meeting. Then for many, many days, he carried her books to school, and worked out the arithmetical problems which made the brown head ache. Time passed almost without their knowing it. She had completely gained the boy's heart. and in return had given him her love. However, he realized that it would be folly to ask the girl to be his wife until he could offer her something more than love. His ambition had always been to be a painter-to paint pictures that would set the world on fire. The little Southern town could offer no advantages, so one day he left for Boston, re- solving that in some way, he would gain the much desirtfl instruction. 9

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The Buried Treasure 66 suppose you fellows think that stories of buried treasure, too, are only fables, but I can prove the opposite by my own eXperience,', said james McCall, looking about him at the circle of young men. They were members of a rather fashionable club in New York and. as usual u hen gathered here together, they were engaged in a discussion, which from the seriousness with which it was taken up. seemed to be of the utmost importance: but it never was, On this occasion, some of them were scoffing at the possibility of any romance existing in the extremely prosaic happen- ings of the twentieth century. XYhen blames McCall. in whose nature none of them dreamed anything of romanticisin lurked, made his remark upon the subject, there was a chorus of skeptical murmurs. Then Robert Joyce. a yery practical young man, exclaimed. You don't mean to say that yon've found some, jimf, I'll tell you the whole story and you can judge for yourselves, replied Jim. Last week I went up to Maine to attend grandmothers and grand- father's golden wedding anniversary. Their house. standing somewhat apart from the rest of a tiny village. was one of the wonders of my boyhood days. A visit there was 1ny greatest joy. The house is long, low and rambling. and it said to have been built long before the American Revolution. The low-ceilinged rooms have woodwork of walnut, blackened with age, and all the furniture is massive, dark and old. - I decided to lengthen my visit to a week, for I had not been there for a long time, but l soon discovered that l am more easily bored than a few years ago. One day I was sitting in the library before the old stone Hre- place, trying to become interested in a musty old book. Not succeeding very well, however, I transferred my attention to the family portraits on the wall. One of these portraits was that of an ancestor. who was my boyish ideal of a pirate. llis hair is long and dark, his nose rather curved. his eyes dark and piercing, and his mouth concealed by long drooping mus- tacliios. A small hat with a drooping feather is perched jauntily on his head. but no other details of his dress can be seen. My old fascination for the picture returned and I mounted a portion of a bookcase to look at it more closely. Suddenly my foot slipped and l seized the picture to save myself from a fall. To my surprise, I saw it more aside as if on hinges, and then I saw an opening about half my height ii! the wall. l hastily climbed up to it and managed to get through with a little difficulty. A long narrow flight of stairs was disclosed. As I descended. the air grew musty: then as I turned a sharp corner and descended a much S