Port Allegany Union High School - Tiger Lily Yearbook (Port Allegany, PA)

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Chr (Liqrr A.i!tt road. At first I imagined it was her Cicero hook, that inseparable companion of her high school years, but I soon dismissed that thought as erroneous. It was no doubt a primer in which she instructed the children gathered around her- I was anxious to question Hattie as to how she liked her chosen profession, and to talk over old times with her, but no time was accorded me, the transforming haze gradually shutting out this tropical view, and bearing me back to old familiar haunts. Again I saw a stretch of road, bordered with green and with rolling meadow's on both its sides, sloping upward gradually to high hills. On one side, shaded by tall maple trees, was a large, square, white farmhouse. I had seen that place sometime before. All at once I remembered. This was the farming community called Turtle Point not far from my home town of Port Allegany. Who of my old friends had flown so short a distance from our old High School? I was not long left in doubt. Hearing a Honk! Honk! behind me I turned in that direction, and there, steering a little Ford in a resolute manner, sat Edna Finn! There could be no doubt of it. After teaching in a country school a few years, Edna had consented to become the wife of a prosoerous fanner boy, from her own section of the country, and now she managed her husband and children in the same quiet, self-possessed manner, we had so admired in school. It seemed that she was the only one of our Senior quintet of girls, who had chosen a matrimonial career. I now' began to wonder about the fate of the two masculine members of our class, and was therefore relieved when the smoke curtain parted to show me R. K. Reznor, sitting in the private office of a large jewelry concern. Raymond had prospered in the business given him by his father, partly because of his genius for advertising. He was very original in this, printing his own placards, and adorning them with the graceful and fanciful curves and dashes w'hich he had practiced and perfected w'hen writing our Senior candy sale announcements on the black board in the study hall of the old beloved P. A. H- S. One old defect about Raymond that I was very sorry to notice was his propensity toward flirting. As a pretty girl passed his office window, he sprang up, ejaculating. “By George, there go -s a peach!” and followed her with his eyes until she turned the corner- I even found myself wondering if he still went to Coudersport to see his (boy?) friends there, as had been his custom when in High School. I was about to speak a few' admonishing words to him on this, his weak point, when the merciless blue haze again enveloped me. Again I saw an office, but of another descrjntion. It seemed made for work exclusively, having three desks in it. The largest of these desks w'as covered with all kinds of manuscript, and before it, deeply engrossed in drawing strangly shaped figures on a large sheet of paper, sat the last of our roll of Seniors- Joseph McCarney. Joe w'as the same Irish laddie he had always been, although his strenuous

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£hr (Li rr Tiljt quiet dignity, with the stamp of nigh knowledge on her brow. She held the chair of English in one of our renowned women’s colleges, and she filled it well, both physically and mentally. For time had not changed her much, the same tantalizing dimple remaining in her chin, and the same germ of industry in her wonderful head. I should like to have stayed to listen to the erudite speech on “The Victorian Age of English Literature,” which she was about to deliver, but the blue haze descended, obscuring my view, only to give way again to a dim, yellow, light through which I could see the outlines of a large, enclosed stage. Soon objects became more distinct, and I saw that I was in a large theater, with tier upon tier of faces, ranged before me and off at one side of the great stage a large grand piano. There was a rustle of silken curtains, and out upon the stage stepped a vision in white satin. I was willing to believe anything now, and saw, without surprise, that this vision was none other than my former classmate, Margaret Funcheon. She added a few inches to her height and really looked quite dignified, standing there before the awed multitude. Then she advanced to the p:'ano, from which soon floated out strains of music, the quality of which in beauty and inspiration had never before been equalled, since the days of Beethoven. No wonder the crowd sat awed and silent, listening with strained interest to every exquisite note. How often had we seen those magical fingers of Margaret’s, skilfully twirling a forbidden note or snapping disdainfully behind a reprimanding teachers back, without ever dreaming that they would one day set a world afire with enthusiasm! Fain would I have lingered, enjoying the triumph of this young magician of music, but the relentless blue haze again enveloped everything, only to lift again, after what seemed an interminable period of time, to disclose a very different scene from that on which my eyes last rested. Before me stretched a long, sandy road, bordered with tall palm trees. On one side of the read was a round stone well, against which three dark women leaned, gossiping eagerly, forgetting to fill with the water the tall brown jars they had brought for that purpose. Opposite the well, on the ether sidp of the road, I saw a white brick building, bearing on a spire at its top, the white cross of Christianity. Before this building was a square plot of ground, partly enclosed bv a bamboo fence. As I regarded this building, the front dcor opened, and out came a young woman, leading by the hand several small, black children. As she approached, I had a faint recollection of having seen her before. Then suddenly it dawned upon me that this was Ilattie McKenney! She had become a missionary to the heathen! My doubts vanished completely when I heard her ejaculate, “My Conscience!” as one of the little dark charges performed some rebellious act. As she sat dowm on a bench in the yard she drew out a little green book, and opening it, began to

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(Lite ILiurr i-ily mental labor had furrowed his brow and mad'' a small, round, white spot on the top of his head. After Joe had competed his drawing, he drew a leng, black cigar from his pocket, inserted it unlighted in one corner of his mouth, cleared a place for his feet on the top of his desk and proceeded to take his com-fort, first roaring threateningly at a small, weasel-faced office boy who had been sitting hunched up in a corner reading a dime novel. From the directions given the boy, I gathered that Joe was an illustrator and cartoonist for one of our leading daily papers. He had shown a disposition for this kind of work even in his early school years, so I wras not much surprised to see him engaged in it now. As I stood gazing at Joe and wondering whether that white spot on top of his head had been caused by hair tonic experiments tried on him, by his brother, Martin, I saw with wonder that it became larger and larger, until it was the only distinct object in the room. Then with a start I awoke from my trance and found that it was the round yellowr disc, opposite me on the w all in the hypnotist’s room that I had mistaken for poor Joseph’s bald spot. There beside me stood Dr. Van Glyck and my friend, looking at me with quizzical eyes. Do I believe in hypnotism? I would wager my last cent on it, for I have proof sufficient. M. L- T.—T6- CTnmmrurnnrut jlrmjram March .................................. Orchestra Invocation...........................Rev. Howell Sa'utatory........................Mildred Thoren Mvsic .................................. Orchestra Address Chas. Lose, Prin. Lock Haven Normal School Mrsic .................................. Orchestra Valedictory ...................... Ruth Meacham Presentation of Diplomas........C. W. Catlin, Sec. Benediction ................................. Rev. Griffith “O young Mariner Down to the haven Call your companions; Launch your vessel. And crowd your canvas, And, ere it vanishes, Over the margin. After it, follow it Follow The Gleam.” —Tennyson.