Sheridan High School - Syllabus Yearbook (Sheridan, IN)

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The Syllabus 2!) .................................. of Jeanette’s most cherished possessions was an old portfolio of sketches of this uncle. Many of them were mere rough outlines, some in pencil and others in water colors. She seldom showed them to anyone, but occasionally she took the collection out and looked them over. Jeanette sat down to get ready for the dreaded algebra exam, still pondering the question of the composition. It seemed more than unusually difficult to her brain to work out Mathematical problems. She thought if would be extremely hard to originate a new design when the market was so flooded with Xmas cards of every description now. If she could once get a suggestion she was sure that her ability was sufficient to enable her to elaborate it with something attractive. At last she laid down her Algebra with a sigh and yielding to a sudden impulse, went to the drawer and took out Uncle Don’s portfolio. She looked them carefully over. One she had not particularly noticed before now held her spell-bound. It was roughly done in water-color and yet there seemed to be much feeling expressed in the figures, Jeanette thought. In one corner was faintly written this inscription, “A design for Xmas card, 1889—“The First Xmas Tree.” She was sure that she had never before read those half-blurred penciled words. The year oi Uncle Don’s Death. It was improbable that this sketch had ever been worked up or used in any way at all. Against a glowing sunset sky was outlined sharply a single pine tree. At its foot was resting a man and woman. Upon the mother’s breast a baby lay. Near at hand stood a horse drooping with fatigue, as if wearied by a long journey. As she gazed at the glowing lights her heart almost quit beating. A sudden fierce temptation assailed her. Here was the very suggestion she so much needed. No one could possibly know if she availed herself of it. Few of her friends had ever examined the old yellow sketches, and, probably not a single member of her own family had read the indistinct inscription. In a sense, too, she asked herself did not the idea really belong to her, and had she not a perfect right to use it? As she pondered over the matter, it seemed as if there were a legacy which Uncle Don had bequeathed her with a portion of his talent, which she had evidently inherited. This thought of his could never be utilized by anyone else. He had died too soon to develop it himself. Then, why should she not do so? Almost immediately, she began, with great enthusiasm, to elaborate Uncle Don's idea. Her first draft of the sketch was a picture about eighteen inches square, and she then made a smaller copy, suitable in size for a Xmas card. Her finished picture certainly showed great talent and the lights in it were wonderful. Around the head of the sleeping child there showed a halo, whose rays shot up in the dark branches of the pine

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28 The Syllabus iidiHmiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiMiiiiiiiiniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiMim The Prize Christmas Card “Yes, the eighth grade pupils of all the schools in this town will complete. Jolly idea, isn’t it?” “Why what is the matter, Jeanette? Didn’t you see that notice on the bulletin-board in the corridor?” “No, Jack, I guess the thought of our Algebra exam tomorrow has queered me a bit. My head seems sort of wooden today, and I’ve visions of failing, for you know, Mathematics is my weak point.” The boy and girl were walking home together. Jack Dawson, as usual, carried Jeanette Blake’s books with his own. “Do tell me about this competition, truly I can’t wait until tomorrow morning!'’ “No wonder you haven’t the knack for Mathematics. It all runs to Ait with you. No one else in our grade can touch you at all in that line. Well, it said on the bulletin-board that all the Home and School Associations in Dorchester had united in offering a prize to all eighth grade pupils for the best Xmas card design. The idea may be sacred, or otherwise—anything appropriate to the season, but it must be wholly original. It must be submitted by November the fifth and joint committee of teachers and parents will act as judges. The prize is ten dollars and the sketches are all to be colored. Now, I guess I’ve given you every detail, Jeanette.” His companion drew a long breath: “What nice presents I could give with that money, if I won it!” “Of course you’ll get that prize!” he said. “You’ll try to, won’t you?” “No, I guess not. If it were a pen and ink sketch now, there might be some hope. But in the color line, you see, I'm pretty hopeless. But for you it’s clear sailing. Just go right in and win! Here are your books. I’m off for a game of football.” Jeanette went slowly up stairs. For a moment the hideous nightmare of the Algebra exam had ceased to haunt her. A dawning vision of success threw its rose-colored light about her pathway. Though not conceited, she could not help realizing that her ability was unusual. She came indeed, of a family of artists. Her father, it is true, was only a designer of wall papers, but his eldest brother, who had died twenty years before, would probably, had he lived, have become a noted painter. The walls of the Blake home were covered with Uncle Don’s pictures, and the children had been brought up to revere his memory. One

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30 The Syllabus iiiimtiiiiiniuiiiiiiiiiiiHiiiiiiitiiniiiiiHiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiitiiuiuiiituuuiiiiiiiiiiM tree, and contracted with the other lights of the beautiful sunset sky. The faces of the mother and child were strongly illuminated with these lights and they were very beautiful, while the figure of Joseph was left in the shadow. Jeanette was really surprised at her own success and the little picture grew under her hand. Never before, she knew, had she done work half so good. About forty pupils of all the grammar schools were competing and there was much excitement in every eighth grade. At length the day came when the sketches were to be judged. Five ladies, representing the Home and School Association, and four teachers, including Mr. Preston, the Superintendent of schools, entered and removed the veils. It did not take them long to come to a unanimous decision. Before an hour passed, Mr. Preston mounted the platform of the large auditorium where all were assembled, waiting for this verdict. “I have the pleasure of announcing,” he said “that our committee is unanimous in deciding that the prize belongs to the sketch produced by Miss Jeanette Blake of Melton Avenue Grammar School. Her picture is remarkable for the beauty of its colors, its correct lines, and is called “The First Xmas Tree.” Will Miss Blake please come forward and receive her reward.” Then Jeanette did something which gave every one present a thrill of surprise. With burning cheeks and beating heart she mounted the platform and stood by Mr. Preston’s side. But she did not reach out her hand for the little purse which contained the ten dollar gold piece. Instead she lifted for his inspection a scrap of yellow paper and said. “Mr. Preston, I cannot take the prize, for I fear it doesn’t rightly belong to me. Ever since I began work on that picture I’ve been stifling my conscience and trying to quiet its scruples. Part of the time, I truly felt that what I was doing was right. Today I can’t believe that the arguments I’ve been using are sufficient. So please give the money to the pupil whose work you think is next best to mine. This paper has given me the suggestion for my sketch. So the idea was not wholly an original one. I found it in an old portfolio of sketches done by my uncle Don, who died twenty years ago. It is exactly what I wanted and I couldn’t resist the temptation to appropriate it. Then I was almost sure to make myself believe I had a perfect right to do so. The idea just as much belonged to me as if it had been evolved in my own brain. You see he died long ago and his thoughts had never developed.” Here she choked, and her voice almost gave out, but she went bravely on.