St Marys Academy - Chimes Yearbook (Philadelphia, PA)

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Lead Thou, Kindly Light THE STREET on which the Sommers family lives is a typical American block set off by a staunch column of trees along the margin of the road. They were planted, of course, by the bud- ding city of Roseland. The typical husbands of this town are much too' busy with office business, the wives, with other people's business, and the children, with monkey business to fiddle around with sowing seeds. Speaking about fiddles, we find the young hero of our story swaying in time to the terrible tune of his violin. A mass of unruly blonde hair covers his forehead as he bends to catch the misplaced notes and to watch the long, slim fingers run the bow over each string lovingly. All of a sudden the hair jolts back in place and a pair of startled deep blue eyes glance toward the vociferous voice coming from the other side of the porch. Honestly, Bill, if you don't stop screeching on that violin, I'm going to commit suicide. Oh, Peg, don't be such a grouch. How do you think I like it when those silly friends of yours start yodeling all over the place? That's different, sniffs Peg. You're telling me it's different! laughs Bill, his blue eyes dancing merrily. You make me sick, Bill Sommers, and I'm going to tell Mother right this minute. A flash of red pigtails, a temper to match them and a slam of the door mark Peg's departure. Well, what was that little gust of wind ? asks Jack as he mounts the steps by two's and plops into the already dislocated lounging chair. Oh, that bratty sister of mine is always complain- ing about something. This time it's my violin practicing. ' Oh, you know how kids are! states the six- teen-year-old jack. Hey, talking about practice, let's go down to the baseball field. The two boys shuffle lazily toward the play- ground, crowded with the spring-sport-minded teenagers. They mingle among the boys, exchange hearty greetings and accept an invitation to join the game. Shouts of Wow, what a catch! , Boy, is this ball hard! and We certainly need more practice, are heard besides the usual jabber and PATRICIA HARTSOUGH, '51 juvenile jubilation. Bill pivots to answer a far- flung question and fails to hear the excited cries of his teammates until he turns around and meets the ball head on. He sprawls inert upon the moist ground attempting to push away the deep fog clouding his head. His brain seems to whirl and whirl. An outcry that the doctor is on his way eases the pain somewhat. Slowly he revives as he breathes in the sharp aroma of smelling salts and feels the deft fingers probing his head. Dully he opens his eyes. Everything seems just blank. His hands go swiftly to his eyes pulling and pushing the lids apart. He tries to think. I must be dreaming, but no, I can hear the whispered remarks of the people standing about. I can distinguish the doctor's deep voice mumbling to a few close bystanders, 'He seems to be all right. No skull fracturel' Bill's wild hysterical sobbing brings the crowd closer to him. I'm blind, can't you see, I'm blind! The audience, tearfully, steals off. Bill has his first ride in an ambulance. After a brief stay in the hospital he returns home. Somehow it is different as everything is now- but here, we will let Bill tell his own story: I attended the Blind Institute. I wasn't like everyone else and worst of all, people pitied me- even my own family pitied me. I becamc bitter and morbid and moped about my room not wanting to see anyone. My buddy, Jack, continued to visit me the first few weeks and tried to relate the latest happenings at school and the newest football plays for this season's games, but I took it as mere sym- pathy and felt he would finally grow tired of me. For what could I do that he did? I couldn't play football. One day, my sister Peg, who had been all sugar and spice these days, brought my violin upstairs. 'Play something Bill. You haven't been prac- ticing for ages.' Spiteful1y I threw the violin to the floor. You stupid fool,' I shouted, 'how can I ever play? I can't see the notes. Get out of here! You're

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Te ay are HE INDIAN SUMMER sunshine drifted through the multi-colored trees, creating a pattern of autumnal beauty. The creek flowed serenely by, broken only by the occasional ripple of a curious fish. The wide bridle path stretched before you and on either side the various colors of autumn, including a splash of late red and blue summer flowers, composed a masterpiece, a sym' phony of color. Wlioa, girl! The mare was restless. The crisp autumn air hlled her with a yearning to race, to match the speed of the wind. She was a tall bay mare, almost seventeen hands high, a picture of beauty and poise with a mane black as coal and a long graceful tail. She wanted to run and soon every fibre of your own body was Hlled with the same spirit and restlessness, but you checked your eagerness until you reached the straight-away. A long stretch of ground free from the hills and sharp curves, this was used for running horses. You knew that within, her powerful muscles wanted to stretch out but outwardly her impatience was shown only by the tossing of her finely chiseled head. As she pranced through the bridle path, her head high, she looked like a queen sur- veying her lands. Finally, as you round the bend, the huge pine tree comes in sight, the starting point of the straight-away. The mare senses it with you and quickens her pace. Before you let her free, you stop, dismount and nhigher your stirrupsf' Remounting, you walk her to the pine tree. She stands ready, awaiting only your command, upon which she speeds for- ward. The beauteous shades around you are seen no more as all blend into one green-brown mass. You thrill to the air biting your face and the a saw mms you Kulbleen Mane, '51 Doius Cooke. '54 stinging mane the wind has blown back. It brings tears to your eyes and menacingly seems about to tear you from the saddle. You bend lower hugging the mare's neck, urging her on to still greater speed. When she pulls on the bit, you let her go and she races ahead with almost incredible swift- ness. What a feeling of power and greatness comes with the realization that with the tightening of the rein and a pressure of the knee you can con- trol this fury surging beneath you! You glory in the feeling that you're almost flyingg at this moment you want never to stop. An encouraging word in the mare's ear is carried away and lost on the wind. Her beautiful, effortless stride carries you over the rough terrain. All too soon now you see through blurred eyes, the turn in the road that marks the end of the straight-away. You reluc- tantly gather the reins and tighten your knees. The mare gradually slackens her pace and the now calmer warm air dries the tears in your eyes. Once more the wall of green and brown takes the form of trees and bushes. The trail is no longer a long unbroken auburn line but gradually takes shape, an occasional weed patch or rut becomes distinguishable. You stop the panting mare and, loosening her girth, you run your hand along her sweating neck and tuck the wet fetlock in the headband. She nudges you affectionately and you give her the carrot she knows you have brought. With a final pat you leave her to rest while you sink under the great oak tree nearby and let the serenity of the woods engulf you. When the mare's breathing becomes easier, you tighten the girth once more and mount. You ride off towards the creek and the woods swallow you and the bay mare from view. A girl who never lirlenr In or .reekr for idle rbntfer, A girl who i.r attentive to every lilfle illdllff, Wfbo rerignr lverrelf to .rtudy wills liltle or no complainl, And drier her work for God alone and not io garner fume, A girl u'lm'.r uluwyx ready lo help will: any tails, You never have in max ber. just politely ark. A girl whair here to .rave her .mul and bring back :bore artray Ir the type of girl you're sure lo find at our own S.M.A.

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just like all the rest-'Poor Bill, he's blind.' Get outl' As if in response, my foot accidentally kicked the rejected violin and I timidly pressed my fingers over the smooth case. With it once more so close, I felt the old urge to play. For a long while I merely rippled the bow across the taut strings and then a clear picture of my favorite piece came to my mind and I started to play it softly. I was amazed as my listening ears keenly caught the beautiful drifting strains, sounding sweeter than ever before. A soft foot upon the carpet and I quickly laid my treasure aside and sat listlessly waiting. 'Bill,' said Mother gently, 'I was calling you to dinner but I guess you didn't hear me because of your radio.' Radiol What radio?' I asked. 'Why Bill, yoursl' But I didn't have the radio on.' 'Well that's funny, I distinctly heard a violin somewhere' Then Mother spied the fiddle and cried out happily, 'Bill, you were playing, weren't you? Why it was wonderful! It sounded-why-heavenly, Billl' I could distinctly detect the tears in Mother's voice. Yes, I was. But it couldn't have been that good after all these weeks of not having had any prac- 'tice. Oh, I understand. You're trying to make me feel I was great. Well, I won't have any of your flattery.' 'No Bill, honestly it was, it-well anyway, come on down to dinnerl' I don't want any.' 'All right-I'm sorry.' She went downstairs, I knew, deeply hurt. Why did I have to be so resentful to everyone's praise? Why couldn't I just be my old self? Everybody's changed. I fingered my fiddleg the warm strings calmed me. I began to play another song I knew and somehow it did sound more beautiful than ever before. Of course, it was my imagination, but yet- After a while the boys discontinued their morale-building visits. They were always inviting me here and there but I repeated time and time again that I was too busy. They merely asked me because they felt sorry for me and I would most likely become a nuisance. During this time I learned Braille and other means of seeing, and threw myself into my music without anyone's knowledge. I would sit for hours picking out the notes and, finally after many months of perseverance and toil, I accomplished melody after melody. Then it dawned on me to write my own com- positions. The beginning was most unsuccessful and I was tempted to surrender, but after thinking the plan over, I came to the conclusion it was worth while since I had nothing else to do. Every emotion I possessed created my first work and when I played it, thoughts of joy and peace came to my heart. I never thought of Mother's hovering eyes over one she loves and, without my knowledge during these constant sessions, a worried ear would be listening close-by to the pieces. One night a strange man came to the house for dinner, He was Mr. Morgan, a business associ- ate of Dad's. I shly answered his few questions and as was a custom, found the way to my sanctuary and settled down to my little concert. I commenced the latest piece which told the story of all my dreams and hopes of a happy future and my arm swung back and forth as if telling the violin everything for which my heart yearned. When it ended I jumped up startled, as the door burst open and I recognized the excited voice of Mr. Morgan. 'My boy, let me shake your hand. Why you're a genius! Now as soon as I can arrange it, you'll be on my talent show.' I stood there, dazed and unbelieving. Everyday I practiced and practiced. The night finally arrived. Everyone had a word of encouragement to offer and I took it gladly. Mother straightened my tieg Sis shyly kissed me on the cheek and Dad gave me a man to man pat on the back. The show began. I waited for my turn back- stage and listened to the nervous mumblings of the other contestants as they hastened off the stage. Then it struck. That terrible bitterness and fear. I ran to the talent scout. I can't go on, sir. I can't play in front of those people. They'Il pity me because I'm blind. Please sir, give me my violin. I'm going home. 'My boy, you can't walk out now. Have cour- age. They won't pity you. Why they'll wish they could play half as well.' No, give me my violin! 'We can't find it, Bill. It must have been mis- placed. Everyone's looking for it!' You've got to find it. I need it. It's my best friend. Oh, if only I could see.' 'Here it is. But, Bill, please let me say one thing before you run away. You were begging us