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Page 32 text:
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Patriot Stall Editor-in-Chief, HARRIET MONTGOMERY Associate Editors Class Editors Mary Mack KATHRYNE KESSLER KATHRYN HANCOCK Harry GLASSON CHARLES THOMAS Hitpa Howe Art Editors. EsTHER ARNOLD FRED CULP Gro. SCHLETER Business Manager, FRANK LEMP Assistants WILFRED GEILE HENRY WAJENBERG Mary TECKEMEYER CULLEN BARNES m=] HE publication of an Annual is a departure from the custom of other years. As is 1] always the case with a new venture, there have been many obstacles to surmount in RASA its accomplishment. It was not without a realization of this that we undertook this es Hq] work. We felt, however, that a year book would mean much to us, not only now, but later. We felt, furthermore, that we would gain valuable experience from the meeting and surmounting of any difficulties that might arise. Special thanks are due to Miss Quinn, for her invaluable aid. She has contributed much of her time and effort to the success of the book. In addition to those whose names are mentioned in - connection with their work, we are largely indebted to Miss Volland, Miss Andrews, Miss Davi- son, Magdalen Fettig, Doris Geile, Merle Dannatelle and Earl Harrington. To these, to all con- tributors to the book and to our advertisers we are indebted for any success our book may achieve.
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Page 31 text:
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looked down the mountain. A thin column of white smoke was seen rising from an open space. Prompted by curiosity, he put on his hat and walked leisurely in that direction, and soon saw it was a band of gypsies. For a time he watched from behind some shrubbery and saw them eat their morning meal. Suddenly, from one of the wagons there stepped a slender girl; the loveliest girl he had ever seen. Picking up a tin pail, she ran gracefully to a spring near by and, stooping, filled the bucket with the sparkling water. As she held it to her lips, drinking, James Carey caught his brush. What a picture she made! the shining pail in her hand, her great black braids hang- ing over her girlish shoulders, and her gypsies dress making a splash of vivid color against the deep green of the trees. The color of her cheeks was heightened by the color of her dress, and a red scarf was loosely knotted about her head. He determined to have her pose for him. Advancing to the group around the wagon, he asked permission to paint the senorita’s picture. | The gypsies deliberated among themselves; but when it was made clear that they would be well paid, their consent was given. The girl came back from the spring, and Carey asked her if she would pose for a picture. In a low voice, she said she would; and at the voice the man started. This girl could not possibly be a gypsy by birth. That day the sittings began, and day after day the girl and the artist came to know each other better. One day, when the picture was finished, Carey asked her to pose for another. He gave her the costume which she was to wear. ihe next day she came dressed as he had re- quested. As she took the desired position, her head was turned slightly from him. He gave a cry and passed his hand over his eyes, for there, against the olive of her skin, just behind her ear, was a faint red scar. She turned and looked at him, questioningly. He seized her hand and excitedly told her of the disappearance of his little sister fifteen years before. ‘‘She had a scar like that behind her ear, and her eyes,— she had black eyes,— her mother’s eyes,— your eyes!”’ “T have here a picture,” the girl said, slowly, “that I found one day when Anton, my uncle, dropped it. I showed it to him and asked him who it was. He snatched it from me and angrily said it was none of my business; but I found it again under his coat where he had been resting his head and I took it.” “Let me see the picture,” said James, eagerly. The girl drew from her bosom a faded picture of a sweet-faced woman. The eyes were strangely like her own, and the hair was of the same inky blackness. James glanced at it, and his hand trembled as he held it. Handing it back to the girl, he seized her shoulders. ‘“This is your mother,” he cried; ‘“‘my mother! The picture you have in your hands disappeared the same night you did. You must have been playing with it when you were stolen. You are Alice Carey, my sister; my little sister!”’ That evening a message flashed over the wires to a little cottage in Aaron: Mr. JOHN CAREY: Will be home Wednesday. Will bring Alice. JAMES CAREY.
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