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

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THIS BIOGRAPHIC AGE Or Life as It Might Have Been A model biography such as any girl might write fwith the and of a, dozen class-mates collaborating, each with her respective pet anecdote, joyous or sad, long or short, but all authentwcj CHAPTER I UP FROM THE CRADLE N November 25, 1914, a great misfortune occurred in the Berger family. It was Thanksgiving Day and there was no turkey. Indignant and outraged, my brothers demanded the why and wherefore. From a reliable source they learned that in lieu of the gobbler a little sister had arrived. How disappointed they must have been at the substitution! It was, however, the only sister they had, hence their supreme sacrifice of the dayg to do without turkey. Only two things differentiated my infant days from those of a thousand others. One was Mrs. Flynn, an old Irish-woman hired to perambulate me every afternoon. Alone, she talked a great deal of baby talk to meg with the result that my baby speech was decidely Irish in flavor. The other phenomenon was an adventure in learning to walk. When I was eighteen months old, Mrs. F. one day brought me in from a promenade and absent-mindedly set me down while she removed her hat. On my feet indeed, I gave a joyful shout and proceeded to display a hitherto-unsuspected ability. I ran straight from one end of the room to the other, with a sur- prised and laughing family at my heels. Viola! And so avoiding the crawl- ing, tumbling age, I learned to walk. CHAPTER II BACK TO FATHER-fthere usually is onej A distraught father rushed into the American Consul in Vienna. He was destined to be my grandfather. It was not this however which accounted for his frenzy. My son! He has been kidnapped! Stolen! Oh, you must find him! When sufficiently quieted, he told the Consul he was Herzig of Vienna, at which they all looked upon him with more respect. His younger son had been kidnapped by his tutor and taken to America. An alarm was immediately sent out, and a letter dispatched to the Consul in New York, with instructions to search for a black-bearded man, five feet seven inches tall, and a boy of ten, Edward Herzig, brown-haired, four feet tall, and wearing a black velvet suit and a sailor hat. Another letter went to some cousins in New York, who were to take care of the boy, should be be found there. Page Seventy-:com

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And they did-in a battle with sides ridiculosuly unbalanced. Aunt Leticia, grim as a marshall, with Mr. Gray-against Howard Lattimer and the calm Mr. Jackling. The law was on Lattimer's side-and Lattimer would give her nothing. When she had proudly, quietly conducted the men to the door, the room was silent but the crackling of tar on the hearth, and the faint song of the iron kettle. A pile of letters she sorted, each graciously inviting her to stay at a relative's home. One last letter she held firmly at the last. Yes, Monk,', she said to the old spaniel lying by the fire. I have been granted admission. You don't understand? It means this, Monk, the State Asylum has had the kindness to receive me. On what grounds? In- san4+I was insane to have signed over my money to Becky dear--I wonder, Monk, if you can come too? The firelight caught and made brilliant one tear that had fallen on Monk's head. Just one. Margaret Grennan, B7 HOPE A stormy sky--and a moon- And the world is a far off place. I am dreaming up' there in space, On the wings of fancy. The clouds are like black cloaks Where danger lurks-unseen. The moon with its silver sheen Is the Spirit of Hope. And I am a speck of dust, Blown by the winds of the air- Helpless. Then why do I dare To be happy? It is the moon. Roxee W ard, B5 Page Seventy-rim .

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And thus my father came to America, was met at the dock by the Con- sul, and taken to his cousins' home. As he did not want to return to Vienna, he lived on with them as their son, for they had no children of their own. Tutored until he was sixteen, he was then ready for college. But Edward did not care to go, and when he found out that he was expected to, he decided to run away. Early in the summer of 1897, if yoir had been loitering near his cousins' home, you would have seen a boy quietly open the door, look to right and left, and scurry quickly down the street. And although he cor- responded with his cousins, he never saw them again. He now set out to do what he had always wanted to--travel. He worked at odd jobs for a year or so all over the United States. While in the South, he received a letter one day from his elder brother whose wife had a sister in New York. In the letter was a picture of the young lady, with whom Edward at once fell in love. Immediately he journeyed to New York, met my mother, and two years later they were married. CHAPTER III FRIENDS ALONG THE WAY I-School-mates. Hattie was her name. She sat in the same double seat with me, and she had braids. Small affairs, but tied with ribbons behind each earg and her little head was correctly bisected by the parting from nape to crown. After sitting with me one whole day, Hattie took me aside and whispered: Who's your most 'nintimate friend? I had no idea what kind of friend that was. Haven't you got one? queried Hattie. I shook my head. Let's us be 'nintimate friends! suggested Hattie, and I, though small in knowledge was large in faith, and willing to be anintimate friends of hers This meant we were to walk about the school yard at recess with arms tightly clasped, and to be everlasting confidantes and examples to each other. II-Old John the Coachman A slight figure, a furrowed face, kindly brown eyes twinkling, that was old John the Coachmanf, He drove the little children to and from Sunday School in a wagon drawn by two brown horses. Td some whom he fancied, he gave the privilege of sitting on top with him, all the way home. He liked my sister and me, and often let us ride there when the weather permitted. Sometimes he allowed us to hold the reins, fwhen almost all the other children had reached their respective doorsj. For even though he passed and repassed our home a dozen times, he always kept us till the very last. More often than not, old John had some small surprise for us,-a bar of chocolate, a book, a little box of candy. One Sunday it was some balloons, and at the end of the trip, longer than usual because of heavy at- Page Seventy-eight