Peabody High School - Peabody Yearbook (Pittsburgh, PA)

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3O THE PEABODY me to gain. I sought for it as the Angel Spirit bade me do. 1 found it here. I pass from the earth but I do not die for the spirit of Eternal Youth is in my soul and Paradise shall be, because of it, doubly sweet and wonderful. The tired eyes closed for the last time-eves that had searched the world at the bidding of an angelic spirit of his dreams, eyes that had seen all phases of life and had chosen this, the last, as best, and as the friend tenderly crossed Dourai's hands on his breast a dry, choking sob shook him. Ah, yes. Dourai, you have found Eternal Youth and Peace, he whispered to himself. .-. , --1- 1 THE PHILOSOPHY OF RAGS Margaret jane Brooks. A To my neighbors, he is just an ordinary ragpicker-an aged negro who rides in a rickety old wagon drawn by an equally rickety white horse-while he drones in his uncertain monotone, Rags-old bottles-old iron-to-day. Ra-a-gs. People bargain with him, they call him ignorant, and think he has no feelings. The little children throw things at him and call him names --he is just a ragman to them. Do you want some old bones? they cry, and when the old man stops his horse they laugh in derision. Put your horse in your wagon! they shout, and the old man rides slowly off, shaking his wooly gray head from side to side. Sometimes a particularly daring urchin hurls the question broadcast, VVhat do you dress your wife in? and the unsuspecting negro chants his everlasting refnain, Ra--ags. To them, he is just a ragpicker-he buys and sells rags. To me, he is something more-he is a dealer in life---with all the philosophy of existence tucked away in his little wagon. He has pretty rags and sensible ragsg rags with the taint of the tenements fresh upon them and rags with the faint per- fume of milady's boudoir still lingering about them. They are his treasures and the ragpicker touches each with a certain tenderness as he recites to me their history past and future. From his rags the old man knows life. Here is an old cedar chest strapped to the back of his wagon and he tells me in his quaint way that this is the prize of the day. There is a curious mixture of humor and pathos in his voice as he drags from the chest a bundle of gaudy colored clothes of a century back. There are ball dresses with the tight bodices and puffed sleeves of by-gone days and here on the front of a pea green silk is a brown coffee stain where some long forgotten Befau Brum- mel spilt his'lady's refreshments. There is a faded blue with the hem torn where perhaps some soldier caught his spurs, and down in the bottom of the box, a lady's fan with ,lanice carved in the delicate ivory. There is only one slipper-perhaps the other lies hidden in another box of keepsakes-

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THE PEABODY 29 I can not sympathize with it. vet, because you once helped me, when I was in need, I will do what little I can to aid you, not to find Eternal Youth, for that is beyond my power. but to find peace and happiness, the other half of that which you seek. Ninety miles from here, back into the mountains, I own a farm and cabin. No one lives there at present. As I have no use for it, if you would like to stay there, you may consider it as your own. Your only neighbors for miles will be the hills and forests, the birds and animals, the sun, the moon, and the air. Go and spend your days in peace there and I will see that you lack nothing that is within my power to grant. I thank you, friend, but it can not be so. Greatly would I like to do as you advise but Dourai never has nor never will be charity to anyone. It is not charity I offer but the just repayal of a lawful debt. Remember, Dourai, how, when my good name was at stake, you offered for my use your once plenteous fortuneg how to save me from disgrace and poverty you risked your all? Ah, I remember if you do not. I will be the debtor, not you, Dourai, if you accept my offer. Not because you owe men anything but because my heart grows old and tired and I long for the peace you speak of I will accept and go there to your cabin among the trees. to end my days in peace if God so will it. Dourai soon after took up his abode on the woodland farm. His friend had made provision for his food and clothing, and this, together with what Dourai was able to raise put him in a place of envious comfort. Often, in the days that followed, he walked along the forest paths, drinking into his very soul the wonder of God's handiwork. Often, too came the stirring call to leave it all and seek again in lands afar the Fountain of Eternal Youth but as the days and months lengthened into years he came to sec that here- he was best oft' and to be content to end his days here. Still, there lived within him the hope that somewhere, somehow, his vision would be fulfilled. Not that he was not happy, for surely no man that loved and reveled in the magnitude of nature as he did could be otherwise, yet, despite all this, this this hope was ever present. Then, after three years had passed by and Dourai began to feel that his stay on earth was short he had another vision. His friend, not hearing from him for so long felt sure that something was wrong so he came to see, and seeing Dourai's condition, and knowing that days alone were all that were left to his friend, he stayed to care for him and be with him at the last hour after which the soul takes flight and iourneys to those vast mysterious regions of the outer world. Dourai dreamed. and. just before he past into the final adventure he woke and spoke for the last time to his old friend. Ah, friend, I see the end, he said, and his voice tho feeble, was calm and sure. Remember, friend, the dream that once I told you of? The Spirit has returned and spoken once again to me, My quest has not been in vain I find. Unknowingly I have gained all that I sought. 'Youth-Eternal Youth-is of the heart, the soul. I-Ie.re, among the virgin trees I have gained peace of mind and happiness. Only the last-Eternal Youth-remained for

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THE PEABODY 31 some buck's reward snatched as a youthful dancer tripped her way upstairs. They do not look like rags under 20th century' scrutiny and they aren't. They are memories and someone has forfeited those precious remembrances- perhaps-I am not sure-to purchase a few paltry necessities of life to-day. I do know there is a world of philosophy in that box of old-fashioned clothes. I piled the dresses back. almost with a feeling of awe, and the old man held up a paper flour sack bulging with rags. Over the top a disfigured china doll stared with bright blue eyes at the world around us and from a rip in one shoulder, a tiny stream of sawdust poured. Carefully the old man lifted it out and I pulled forth a little patched coat and a pair of well worn shoes. In the pocket of the coat I found two bits of paperg scrawled on the one-two loaves bread and a box of matches. On the other- Anna Mary in a jerky boyish hand. In the same bag was a smaller one filled with bright colored patches and a half finished log cabin quilt. I did not understand and the old man shook his head. What had happened to the maker-had she died? I could almost see the old lady-she must have been old--as she related to the chil- dren about her knee. the history of these patches, and now- Squeezed into one corner of the wagon I found a torn and bent chiffon hat-some shop girl has been happy for a day. The ragpicker smiled,-he knew life. He told me that he liked to imagine how a beautiful girl would look in a hat like that but he always remembered in time the girl who had sold it to him. Life is like rags the old negro said-part of it is good, clean, and worth while like the newspapers he gathers to be made into car wheels. Another part is hideous and worthless, camouflaged by the brilliance of a day--like the chiffon hat in the corner of the wagon. He held up bits of glittering finery-the tawdy contributions of a society butterfly and he spoke briefly. They bring me nothing, he said. Life is full of useless things. You laugh at the ragpicker-my neighbors do. They think of him only as the man who will buv up their worthless rags--but th-at he is a philoso- pher--ncver! I laugh because the old man has taught me the philosophy of rags. He knows that for every bit of rags which he gathers there is a history -a philosophy. He knows that there is a sermon in the dirty little patched shirt he found in the gutter in the slumsg he knows that there is something in the clothes we cast off which tells character as plainly as the clothes we wear. But the old man folds his bag neatly and prepares to go. He looks at his well filled wagon and his eyes fill with tears as he turns to me. The day has paid me well, he says. VVe shall have a Merry Christmas, after all. He climbs to his place on the seat and his eyes rest for a second on the chif- fon hat. Perhaps he wonders if the shop girl will- have a Merry Christmas too. The white horse rouses up and with an effort the creaking old wagon moves forward. A sturdy youngster hurls a rotten apple at the retreating figure-he is just a ragman. From afar the music of his appeal drifts back to me-RagslRa-gs.