Jacksonville High School - Crimson J Yearbook (Jacksonville, IL)

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“Her little shoe!” she cried with a moan. “Oh, hurry! hurry! We shall find her— ------. Oh, no; not that. But hurry! But the lady! On and ever up she sped, and with one magnificent leap reached the pinnacle. She threw her splendid furs to the ground and reached out her ivory arms to the deadly blue vapors that stood ready to grasp her. She fell like a swaying lily, a smile on her glowing lips, calling aloud, “This is happiness!” . Thus they found her, whiter and colder than the snow. The little Sacronessa covered the still figure with a thick sable blanket and dropped by her side in tears. They bore her, with deepest solemnity and adoration, tenderly away to her father in his castle. Kissing the cold hands once more, he poured out his grief to her: “Oh, fairest Clothilde, it was happiness that thou sought! But, daughter, it was the death of ours. We, who live to mourn for you. hope some day to share that fleet-ing joy which you lost and won.” THE EVOLUTION OF A GIRL’S IDEAL Long ago, in the dim ages of my childhood I had an ideal. Yes, and that ideal was a man—a man, I say. Oh, he loomed up with that majestic splendor which characterizes the perfect man; the one man. Don’t tell me that girls do not consider this inevitable question. The shrinking maiden, with tender brown eyes, cherishes him and puts him away in her heart, while her frolicsome sister does not hesitate to talk and dream of him in the presence of her most chummy friends. The brown-eyed maiden may secretly envy this outspoken lass, but she retains her idealistic views and thinks of them always. Yes; I had an ideal, and it was ever present. Had I seen him? No, but he was marvelous. Big? Oh, perfectly immense, with dreamy grey eyes and shoulders, the envy of all men in general. Hair? Oh, a rich chestnut brown, with glints of gold in it, and he had a dimple in each cheek. He wasn’t effeminate. He was not!!! A man can have dimples and not look like a woman. T hey went with the smile. And oh, that smile! In the hazy twilight, I used to sit before the grate fire in those cold, grey evenings of my girlhood days and see him smiling at me from the glowing embers. The coals seemed to frame themselves into his face and laugh at me in the shadowy room. Dreams? Yes; they were dreams, but such beautiful dreams. I loved to prop my foolish head on my hands and look at this dream man out of half-closed eyes. I could talk to him then and tell him my troubles. But suddenly, out of the darkness, a voice would proceed from the kitchen as follows: “Elizabeth Ann, rouse yourself. You’ve been sitting there staring at that fire for one solid hour. It would take the “Knell of Doom or the “T rumpet of Gabriel” to make an impression on your dull brain. Here I am, breaking my back over this ironing board. Set the table, feed the pigs, 8

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died, yet the princess and her companion kept their lonely vigil. Over the beetling mountains a pale moon peeped, lighting dimly the white faces of the watchers. Sac-ronessa sighed and murmured: “Never will I leave thy side, dear lady, but for your health’s sake, wilt thou not come to our tent? Day will soon dawn and find us here. Come and get your needful rest. But Clothilde smiled and shook her golden head. Day dawned and the pale sun cast its myriad lights on the dreamers. The camp was astir, but everything was quiet. Strict orders had been given, and the royal retinue moved mechanically. The procession moved on. That night the lady pretended to sleep, but her eyes were never closed. The darkly fringed lids still kept their vigil. Paris, the wonderful, was reached. The silent procession moved slowly onward, ever onward. The dazzling lights were lost upon Clothilde. The city, now in its richest attire, was no more than a puppet to her. Her demeanor grew scornful and she whispered to Sacronessa: “It is happiness that I seek, not glamour and tinsel. It is the real in life, the worthy.” A handsome prince came with them. He would not be rebuffed. He came clad in richest garments, and hovered at the side of the princess. Were she a candle flame, he was the moth. He followed her with his eyes, yet never sought to press his suit. Sacronessa said to herself: Can he be happiness? He is worthy of her noble love, but surely he is not the happiness she seeks.” Yet, still was the lady silent. She watched the prince with covert, yet disinterested glances, and when at last he vowed his adoration for her, received a cold dismissal. Now traveled they on without the merry prince. They had reached the Alps and stopped to view the glorious peaks stretching away, up, up, into the deep Heavenly blue. The eyes of the princess flashed, and her ringing laugh resounded once more. “Ah, she cried exultingly, “this is joy! this is happiness! I must reach those pure heights and view the sordid earth below. I shall stand upon their magnificent summits. Come, my faithful ones! Come, you who have gone with me on this quest! I shall attain my heart’s desire.” Stay, Princess!” cried the little Sacronessa. “Attempt not that which is too mighty for thy fragile body. Never can you stand the toil, the strain, which will accompany the ascent.” “1'his is the end,” called back the Lady Clothilde, spurring her horse up the steep cliff. “Follow or not, as you will!” On they went, on and ever upward. The lady’s face glowed pink amidst the snow and ice, and her hair streamed down about her shoulders in a shower of gold. Grisil, thou art too slow!” she cried, dismounting and dashing up and up. Her costly garments wrapped around her slender figure in the cutting wind. But her strength increased, grew feverish, and she slipped o’er and up the icy rocks, stretching out her arms to the peak so far above her. She was now almost lost to her followers, and at last became only a moving speck upon the ragged glacier. On they went, following a trail of tiny footprints in the snow. Sacronessa began to cry and shrieked aloud as she hastily dismounted to pick up a small dark object half imbedded in the ice. 7

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go get a loaf of bread, and fetch in some kindling. Very reluctantly I arose to do her bidding. My poor tired heart seemed very-heavy. “Very well. But it wasn’t “Very well.” How I hated that long walk in the cold and the awful stooping for the chips. What if my ideal should suddenly peek around the corner? Would he die of mortification seeing me at such a menial task, or would he say, softly: “Lizzy Ann, Lizzy Ann, Wilt thou be mine? Thou shalt not fetch kindling. Or yet feed the swine. But sit by my grate fire And read me a book. While lunch in the kitchen’s Prepared by the cook.” But how could these comforting words solace with the cruel north wind whistling around the corner instead of my gallant one? Then another echo would float out on the breeze, “Lizzie Ann, be you euttin' down a tree for that kindling?” No, mother. I was picking up chips.” 1 he next day at school was one, big, continuous mistake; no lessons, but a vast radiance, out of which 1 jumped into the dull present when my name was called by the pedagogue. I don’t know.” And then would come that awful, awful answer: “Live demerits for inattention!” How could she designate such blissful moments as inattention? How could she? 1 he day would slowly drag by. My chum would whisper: “ Lisbeth, John Henry gave me this note for you. He wants to know if he can walk home from school with you this evening.” John Henry, indeed! My indignant young heart swelled with disgust. Why should he break in upon my reveries? But such was life. I am almost ready to conclude this sorrowful tale. My pride has had a fall. One week ago, I was sent to the city for some brown alpaca. My hopes fell when I found my second best dress was to be brown instead of blue serge with red emblems. I boarded the street car, and sat listlessly by the window waiting for my corner. Suddenly I heard a nasal twang in my ear: “ Picket, miss. Phis hain’t no spiritualists’ meeting.” I felt my poor embarrassed cheeks flush with shame. But horrors! there he stood!!! I felt my face go white, and then began a wild leaping around the locality wherein dwells my heart. There he stood, alive and by my side! Who,” did you say? Why, my ideal, my dream man, my own fireside comforter, the man who peeked at me when I was picking up chips. There he was—the smile, the dimples, the eyes, the hair, the shoulders, AND the brass buttons and twang. I handed him a coin, only to hear him say, disgustedly: I don’t want no bread check. Chee, but you’re absent minded, just like my wife.” I rectified my mistake, and he w-as gone, shoulders and all. Oh, girls, isn’t it awful to have your ideal destroyed? 9