Momence High School - Monesse Yearbook (Momence, IL)

Page 26 text:

26 JUNIOR YEAR BOOK. it went hand in hand with pain. A sorrowiullness crept, as if unawares, into the thread of the song. A darkness, unbroken by one faint gleam of light, obscured all else. With icy clutch¬ es at their hearts, they listened spellbound. At last, mournful, inexpressably mournful, the sound died away in one long note, rising and falling, fading away like a tired soul sinking to rest and the house was hushed in a deathlike stillness, a silence literally felt. Soon the applause broke thunderously forth, flowers rained upon the little figure standing there so motionless. For a brief second she stood thus, until, with the blank look entirely gone from her face, she turned toward Robert and smiled a wan little smile. At last, with great roses and violets falling about her in clouds, she let her violin creep slowly down her side until it rested on the floor—then she slipped softly down beside it and lay there, a pitiful little heap of white—Anita, too, was at rest. BEFORE TAKING THE GERMAN EXAMINATION. (A tear-stained fragment found by the janitor.) The German is coming, this afternoon, The sun is setting for me, O! Farewell to yon all, I know I will fail, Good-bye to your old friend, Bert, O!

Page 25 text:

JUNIOR YEAR BOOK. 25 Here the child lay for days and days motionless and silent—At last with returning sensibil¬ ity, she cried unceasingly for her mother until thinking she had been merely stunned and was now recovered, the hospital authorities allowed her to go and with a sort of hazy cloud over her mind which she herself could not understand Anita went as in a dream to the old home and once more entered the familiar little room. Her quick eye sought the corner where she had been wont to receive a tender greeting but to-day she saw it was empty. Intuitively she knew all. Forsaken by her child, friendless and alone, the long struggle had ended and her mother had been taken away. With a low moan she flung herself upon the pallet. For hours she lay there. Not a sound escaped her. Occasionally a tremor swept over the slender form and was gone. At times the fingers clasped convulsively about the pillow where last the dear head had rested. Twilight came on and but a faint streak of golden light shot in thru the open doorway, gilding with splendor the squallor which the deepening dusk so mercifully concealed. At last she slowly rose, took her violin and began to play There was an old, old look on the face of the child and she gazed with wide unseeing eyes into the murky shadows of the room, playing on and on. With no one to hear, only the beloved instrument to comfort, she poured out her story; the happy, happy days of so long ago, vague, mystic, memories of her babyhood. Then sorrow, desolation and want; sickness and privation. All the longing of her little soul for that which is bright and beautiful. All the darkness and dreariness which had been granted her and still the wonderful music flowed on and on and on. Meanwhile Robert Allsworth, alarmed by the continued absence of his little friend, in¬ quired of the kindly old Irish woman on the corner as to Anita’s home and resolved to seek her out. Picking his way among the heaps of refuse which always abound in such quarters he had sought all day with no result when, just as he was about to give up the search in despair, the clear notes of a violin fell on his ear and he was held spellbound by the beauty,strength and tenderness which constituted the few opening measures of Anita’s song. Listening, as she poured out her tragic story, he knew at once that he had found her and with some nameless fear tugging at his heart, he entered the little hovel before which he was standing and spoke to her. He seemed to possess some strange subtle influence over the child Without a word she followed him to his own home and in all the days of fever and delirium which im¬ mediately followed, only he could govern her wild ravings and fanatic impulses. Upon her recovery her mind was a blank. She lived only for Robert. Her great brown eyes followed him as long as he was in her sight and only for him would she ever again play. Then, all she could produce was that wailing symphony which she had first played there alone in the old home. One night, as the famous leader was about to take his place and arrange the music for that evening’s performance, he felt a tug at his sleeve and upon looking down, saw to his con¬ sternation that Anita had followed him to the Opera House, before which she had so long ago stood and cried her wares. She held her violin clasped tightly to her breast and in her large appealing eyes, upturned to his face, he read the beseeching request to be allowed to remain by his side. No one could have the heart to refuse a child in her condition and upon his gladly granting her wish she crouched at his feet like a faithful dog and drank in the music of that evening’s Opera. Toward’s the evening’s close, a sudden resolve shone in the great leader’s face and with a quick movement stooped and lifted the child to her feet saying softly “Anita, play for me!’ ' She sighed deeply, fixed her yearning eyes upon her protector’s face and began. After the first few notes a hush, awful in its silence, swept over the audience. Whatever it was. it spoke with a moving sweetness and the great hall was filled with music of such awful tenderness and strength that it seemed absurd to connect it with so small a performer. Sweet as it was

Page 27 text:

MRS. ALICE KALLANDAR