Hunter College High School - Argus Yearbook (New York, NY)

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THE FATHER NEW Czar ascended the throne, and it was ordered that this solemn event be observed through the cities and towns of Russia by fitting celebrations, tokens of the people's joy. Little Marie sat in her comer, moping. It was the third and last day of the Coronation Celebration and more than anything else in the world she wanted to go to the town, four miles away, to see the fireworks and all the splendor. She knew there was no possibility of her going. Everyone was much too busy to take her. Yet she hated to see the dark creep up slowly and gradually extinguish the foolish little hope that would persist. To be taken to see the celebration meant a great deal to the little girl. The Russian winter is long and monotonous. Nothing ever happened. Oc- casionally Marie would get hold of some fairy stories, but this was so rare that her thirst for romance and light and beauty was never really appeased. From the time her father had first told her that there was to be a Coronation Celebration, from the time he had first prophesied its glory and brilliance she had been able to think of nothing else. Her whole being was filled with the desire to see it. So now, on the evening of the third day Marie sat in her comer watching the dark come slowly, all the childishness draining out of her face, her hands at her throat, trying to keep back the sobs. The candles, placed in the windows of every house in all the Russias in honor of the new Czar, flicker in the faint gusts that come through the cracks of the door and windows. They throw strange fingerlike shadows on the bare walls and are reflected again and again in the row of brightly polished copper pots hanging above the huge brick oven. The elaborately sanded floor glows in the ruddy firelight. Marie's mother, a big woman with great natural intelligence written on her high forehead, shrewdness in ber eye, and strength in the well-developed. muscles of her arm, stands over the fire stirring some broth. Except for the crackle of the flames and the sound of the iron spoon grating against the side of the pot, the room is still. Footsteps crunch on the gravel outside of the house, and mother and daughter raise their heads. The door swings in on its hinges, and Marie's father and three stalwart brothers enter, weariness showing in every line of their bodies. The boys, like their mother, are tall and strong. The father is a small man. He teaches the little boys of the neighborhood and leaves the tilling of the land to his sons. His eyes are dark and round and scared, his nose thin and acquiline, his sensitive mouth almost hidden by a long beard. This, surely, is no fit mate for the mother. lt is true that Marie's mother despised weakness and she often teased her husband because he was so small and puny. Yet she loved his gentleness. She felt a fierce pride in his learning, and even in his lack of sense for the practical. The father was a scholar, and this austere uncultured woman was proud of it. Now as he came in slowly, he was utterly weary. The little boys had been very trying and his head ached miserably. Page Six

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They all sat down at the table and the Father droned out the prayer. The candles in the window glirnmered tauntingly. They signified all that he was opposed to. Yet he was forced to light them and place them in the windows of his house. His? God! how tired he was. Soon supper was over. It was quite dark. Blessed be the darkness for then the weary may rest. The Father was too tired for even the beloved books. He went over to his bed and began to pull off his long boots. Presently he felt two buming eyes upon him and looked up. His breath came short. He neven could hear to see any child unhappy. To see his little daughter looking at him so miserably, so hungrily, upset the man tremendously. What could be wrong with the little one? The Mother had seen the thoughts flit across his mobile face and as always, read his heart. Marie wants to go to the Celebration, she said. You remember, we had promised to take her but there has' been so much work lately, that I could not. There was a pause. Every fibre in Marie's body was taut. Then silently, the little man pulled on his boots again. The mother pro- tested. Do not take her, Father. You are tired and besides, it is quite late alreadyf' But Marie knew that her father was going to take her and the world grew suddenly beautiful. She ran to fetch her best holiday cape and shawl. With trembling fingers she arranged them carefully. The blood danced in her veins. How she loved these holiday jaunts with her father. On such trips he made an ideal companion. She knew that under the cover of the friendly darkness he would lose his usual timidity. Then he would confide in her all his hopes and ideals, and she, not understanding half he said, would nevertheless get a glimpse of his deep love of mankind and his ardent faith in it. She took a joyful pride in these confidences and it was with a happy heart that she ran to join her father at the door. Goodbye! Goodbye! and they were on their way. At heart the Mother was glad to see them go. Have a good time, she called after them, and climbed into bed to dream her unimaginative dull dreams while Marie and her Father were actually on their way to see the Celebration. As the child skipped along happily beside her father she could not imagine how anyone could sleep on such a night. The warm velvety Spring air caressed her while the friendly moon lit the way and the stars twinkled companionably. The little candles in the windows of the houses beckoned, Onward, onward to the Coronationf' Their radiance seemed to sanctify her pilgrimage and make it holy, for little Marie could not know that those same white candles bore the curses of the people upon them. Indeed, to her the whole world seemed transformed by the magic of the night. Tonight as the tall young grass waved in the wind and softly whispered greetings it seemed the understanding, mystic, fairy-world that was her father's rather than her mother's common-sense one. And it came to pass that in his little child's joy the Father forgot his weariness. He told Page Seven