Greater Latrobe High School - Latrobean Yearbook (Latrobe, PA)

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14 ORANGE AND BLACK SCHOOL LIFE Yes, we're leaving these halls of learning, These rooms where we've had such good times, And our hearts call out in their yearning- Call out, in the following lines: We entered, you know, as Freshmen, Oh! they were the good old days, And we gazed with awe and wonder At the Seniors' dignified ways. And the teachers we thought were splendid, And their knowledge beyond belief 5 But our pride in them somehow weakened When the marks came out 3 such grief! When one is a Sophomore, you know, He's getting up in the world, And we had to be careful indeed, Or, in fact, we would have been spoiled. We were bright, and, of course we knew it, But our teachers we could not foil, So We settled right down to endure A whole year of hard work and toil. But as Juniors our real fun began As we chattered and smiled all day long Eager for fun and a jolly, good time And our work we performed with a song. Oh yes, of course, we had work to do,- There were treatises, themes, and reports: But they were not hard when we really tried, At such tasks we were all real sports. Then Seniors one day we found ourselves, So quickly had time passed away 3 We have made the most of this, our last year, By being happy and gay. But now the time has come to part, We must each go our separate way, These four pleasant years at L. H. S.,- These years We'll remember for aye. -M. E. M., '21 THE CLASS OF '21 Like a vessel ill port stands our Class, Twenty-one, Through the years it has sailed with its prow for the end, O'er the ocean of High School from Grammar School land And now all the crew disernbark on the strand. Way back in the 'teens when our ship iirst departed Some good things of High School were not even started, So our wonderful class set about school improvements, We even were first in all sorts of good movements. Our many improvements count up by the ton,

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ORANGE A ND BLACK 13 nace's strength returned slowly but his golden opportunity was lost. The artist had left Moscow. Disobeying his mother's wishes Ig- nace began a new life in the mines. He could not endure the poverty in which his mother was living. The small sum of money had dwindled and was insufficient to supply her needs. Months passed and Ignace became Wan and pale. The effect of the mines was gnawing his very life and strength un- til soon nothing would be left. His mother was bedridden through weak- ness and privation but still remained cheerful begging her son not to aban- don his music and not to give up hope. One day Ignace returned home with good news. Mother, the artist is again to be in Moscow. If I could but get one minute of his attention he might believe me worth aiding or even a genius. A genius, mother! Oh I should be careful in using that word. Ignace you must attend his per- formance. Perhaps there might be some chance of an interview with him later. Play your own masterpiece and the sonatas now. Oh, Ignace, Ignace. they are more beautiful than ever. Your very soul seems to cry out in those tones. And so Ignace went to Moscow after much persuasion, being forced to take the last pieces of mon- ey that his mother possessed. This would be a crisis-either failure or fame. The following evening found Ignace seated in the theatre among numer- ous musicians and artist admirers. The time of the performance was at hand. It became past time. Vifhispers spread that the artist had become suddenly Ill. Ignace, in a fit of des- peration, rushed madly behind the scenes. He gained sight of the genius upon a. couch in one of the rooms as the door was opened suddenly by an elderly gentleman. Oh, may I play in his place? Ig- nace asked frantically and the next moment was upon the stage under the dim lights. He poured forth his very soul into the selection that appeared upon the programs. Each one he knew thoroughly from memory and in their exact order. He ended the en- tertainment with his own masterpiece. The audience was awed and then be- came hilarious and wildly enthused over the marvelous sweetness and depth of his tones. The artist, some- what recovered, stood ready to re- ceive the wizard of the keys behind the scenes. Throughout the audience whispers of doubt as to the real ar- tist were heard. They were soon in- formed and a great shout was heard desiring to honor and see this artist. Ignace, frightened at his boldness in presenting false appearances and dar- ing to assume the place of such an artist, lied from the stage entrance. One wet and miserable day three months later found the son by the bedside of his invalid mother relating to her once more his story of advent- ure. Ignace, you will be forgiven for your deed but please play your mas- terpiece once more. Ignace obeyed with tears in his eyes. Two strangers were passing the wretched hut and both stopped at the sound of the music. A knock, and the door was opened by Ignace. O, my friend why did you flee in such a manner? The world seeks you the sound produced by upon ivory and ebony searched for weeks for Come now and be not and longs for those fingers keys. I have my superior. afraid. I will help you and the world will honor you. Ignace's mother was full of happi- ness and the longing of her soul had been realized. She lived only a short time but heard the first performance of her son before the eyes of the world. Ignace had traveled a long and rough path but his faith in his mother and his trust in God aided him in due time. -Elizabeth Duncan Walker, '21.

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ORANGE AND BLACFK 15 And add to the fame of our Class, Twenty-one. Our tasks seem gigantic as backward we gaze, And we ask how we've done it in growing amaze. So let us be glad while together we stay, For soon we shall drift from each other away. Our boat stands with sails blue and gold all unfurled, Just ready to take us into the world. But though each one goes from his schoolmate apart, We still shall be joined close together in heart, As longingly backward we turn our fond glance, And wave a farewell as our vessels advance. -A Senior. OUR CLASS ADVISER I am not a writer of high sounding verse: I write from the heart and not for the purse. Sincerely trusting that when I'm through These thoughts will be your convictions too. I know a teacher in L. H. S., Who is not four feet high, but not much less But, though she is not very tall, you know, When she steps in, things have to go. She's the queerest mixture of nature to me The same-yet different, and you'll agree That the starry brightness of summer skies, Have shared their luster to form her eyes. 'They hold a spell of mystic light When they look into yours, you just want to recite Everything correctly, from the Greeks of yore Through the French Revolution and then some more. Her voice is as soft as the mountain breeze, As it whispers softly among the trees. Yet it has a ring that makes you feel That the heart that prompts it is true as steel. Her brow is high and smooth and white As a bare white cliff on a winter's night Although piled with rain and snow together It remains unchanged through all kinds of weather. Her fairy-like form as she goes about Puts every selfish thought to rout. With sweet disposition and gracious mien This gentle creature is often seen. -G. O. H., '21, DEMOCRACY At the present time, we are con- responsible for its origin? When and tinually hearing about democracy, or, where did it begin? These and many perhaps one should say, about living other questions relating to this sub- up to the spirit of democracy. Just ject are worthy of consideration. what does the term mean? Who is The Pilgrims were the originators