Vandergrift High School - Spectator Yearbook (Vandergrift, PA)

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THE SPECTATOR 17 THE SPIRIT OF THE WILD VERHEAD in a leaden sky, the declining sun heatless, cheerless, giving out sickly rays, discouraging and heartless. Westward, a bank of heavy, black rolling clouds; awesome and terrible, a background for lurid flashes of jagged lightning. Eastward, the icepack, rearing its hoary locks and jagged countenance far above the ground. Ahead, to the north, boundless space, unknown and unfathomable. Behind, the forgotten Southland, trackless except for the line of a sled, stretching, it seemed, into infinity. All this, the man saw as he stood and gazed, and even as he looked, a straying snowdrop twinkled before his eyes, and roused him from his revery. He walked quickly to the sled and bent over. “Wake up!” he called cheerily. “We are going to have a storm.” From the blankets a wan face smiled up into his. The smile revealed gums that were spotted and blotched. A weak voice answered, “Wish I could help, Kit.” There was wistfullness and yearning in the voice, but also courage. “Don’t you fret. We’ll get to Mullen soon ami then the doctor will have you on your feet in a jiffy.” But big strong Kit Lake had to turn quickly to hide the traces of moisture in his eyes, for he knew that his partner, little Irish Connell, was very sick. Not for worlds he thought, as he busied himself with the tent, would he have this spunky man know that they were lost in the boundless wastes of Alaska They had started, grubstaked, from Dawson for the gold fields two hundred miles distant, a matter of seven days journey with good traveling. Two days out Irish had falen ill with scurvy, and Kit had at once determined to take him to Mullen, a settlement not far to the north. He had turned bravely from the beaten track, but now, after three days, he knew that he was lost. But he must get his partner to civilization. Only vegetables would save him. A dozen potatoes, or—but where could one get potatoes in this wilderness ? He gave it up, and hastened to get all snug for the storm. He had stopped at this point because of a big dead tree which lay in his road. He must have firewood, so had not ventured beyond it. Soon he had a merry blaze crackling in the sheet-iron stove, and Irish ensconced comfortably in a chair contrived from the sled. He took out a stick of baked beans, frozen stiff, and chopped of a goodly hunk. He still had plenty of provisions, he reflected, as he melted snow and placed the stick of beans within the kettle. After he had tossed the dogs a meal of salmon, he closed the tent flap and the men attacked the meal. Irish, as always, was cheerful, in spite of his sickness. “How far to Mullen?” he asked eagerly, when they were well started on their meal. “We should be there soon” Kit replied, but for the life of him, he could not prevent the note of discouragement from creeping into his voice. “Kit,” Irish was earnest, “For all your college education you can’t fool me. We’re lost. I’ve suspected it all day. Now what’re we going to do about it?” Kit was silent. He was gazing into the eyes of Black-beard, his favorite dog. He saw mirrored there all the secrets of the wild, all the unfathomable thought and ambitions of a dog. “I wonder,” he murmured, “if a dog has a soul. It seems that Blacky’s trying to tell me something.” “It’s a hunch. Ride it!” Irish exclaimed. Just then the dog got up, looked mournfully at Kit, and pointed his nose to the west. “Kit!” yelled Irish, forgetting his pain, “When the storm lets up, you go west. It’s a hunch, and hunches never fail!” “I’ll do it,” answered Kit. “And now let’s hit the hay.” Long that night Kit lay awake, listening to the swish of snow and the sobbing of the winds, whispering to him of things which he could not grasp. Then sleep came........... He woke suddenly. The storm has ceased and a strange light quivered over the tent. He arose and went outside. Above his head the Aurora Borealis sank and rose, shooting out pale streamers of fire, then subsiding to a dim glow, mysterious and impalpable. The dogs were restless, as always when the Midnight Sun flamed overhead. Kit quieted them, then went back to his bunk and slept, while over him hung the brooding influence of the Aurora.

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16 THE SPECTATOR Then the princess seated herself beside her and told her of Christ and of God, the Father of Christ. “The golden sun, high in the blue heavens, the emerald green fields, the verdant woods, the moon, the stars, you and I are all his. I am going to seek him. Will you come along with me? It is lonely traveling by one’s self and I should so like to have you with me.” The other girl looked at her with big, luminous eyes. “I will go with you” she breathed. “I will be your companion from now on until death. Let us go!” And the two continued on their way. At last after many weary months journey they came to the country where Jesus was supposed to be at that time. They inquired for Him and found that He had gone way into the adjoining land, several days before. They followed Him on and on until when He entered Jerusalem on Palm Sunday they were still a five days journey behind. Nearer and nearer drew the time of the crucifixion; and nearer and nearer Jerusalem struggled the weary girls. Through all their disappointments they had bom up bravely, always with the hope of seeing Jesus soon. At last, on the fateful Friday, they entered Jerusalem and arrived at Calvary just as their Master died. Sunhead looked long and steadily at the calm white figure above on the cross; stayed there until darkness drew down over the land. But her eyes saw nothing, her ears heard nothing, for her heart and soul were numb with agony, and her brain could think only, “Too late! Too late! Too late!” So fearful, so terrible was the look on her beautiful face that her companion did not dare disturb her. Then as Mary and the Disciples came and took away the dear body, Sunhead cried out, and sinking to the ground buried her face in her hands and sobbed. As the pale moon came up over the sleeping city of Jerusalem, she arose and said to her companion, “Come!” and without a word she went with her. Together they glided past darkened houses, past shadowy vineyards and sleeping palm groves on until they came to the tomb of Jesus. Here they sat down and mourned for the Master they loved so well. . Far into the night they wept and on through the next day. But on Sunday morning, as the sun arose in glory from its golden bed, a great light shone from the sky and an Angel of God descended to the stone door and rolled it away. As he did so he cried to the sad drooping maidens, “Lift your heads and be glad, for Christ is not dead but on this morn shall rise again.” Slowly, increduously, the little princess and her companion lifted their heads and as they did so they changed to beautiful plants with long slender stalks on the top of which were great, sweet scented blossoms. And the angel called them Easter lilies because they had blossomed on Easter day.” Thus my guide ended his story and we stood for a long time in silence looking out through the twilight to the east where a great silver crescent was showing over the dark rim of the world, and I thought, “What a beautiful legend about our most beautiful of flowers, the pure, white Easter Lily.” —MADALENE SHAFFER, ’23. SPRING VOICES “£aw! Caw!” says the crow, “Spring has come again, I know; For as sure as I am born, there is a farmer planting corn. I shall breakfast there, I trow, long before his corn can grow.” “Quack! Quack!” says the duck; “Was there ever such good luck! Spring has cleared the pond of ice, and the day is warm and nice, Just as I and Goodman Drake thought we’d like a swim to take.” “Croak! Croak!” says the frog, as he leaps out from the bog; “The earth is warm and fair; spring is here, I do declare! Croak! Croak! I love the spring; come, little birds, come and sing.” —JOSEFHINE SHEPI.ER, ’22.

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18 THE SPECTATOR The next morning he was away shortly after dawn, into the vast plain which was the west. They traveled without stop, except for meals. Kit was compelled to go ahead on snowshoes to “pack trail” for the dogs. It was hard and slow going, even to his power-ful muscles. Irish chattered gaily, for, now that they were on the trail of a “hunch” he was happy. A week passed. Their food was low, but still they traveled westward. Irish was raving now but he raved only that they keep going west. In three days they had not a scrap of grub left, but still, inexorably they traveled westward. Kit felt that he was walking in a dream. His legs refused to move, but still his indomitable will kept him going. Through a nightmare of swirling snow and sleepless nights, he trudged on, driving the dogs only by word. He was too weak to use a whip. He felt as though he were fate itself fearless, irrisistable, indomitable. He stumbled, rose, and fell again. Dimly he realized that he had stumbled over something hard. He struggled to his feet, and, gropingly, like a babe, he made his way to the sled. He rester a moment, then staggered to examine the object. It was a man. As in a dream, he wondered where the man’s sled was, and what had killed him. He looked well fed. Kit raised his arm, only to find the entire body move with it. He was frozen. As he raised the man, he noticed that underneath was a package. He tried to raise it. It was fastened. Suddenly he knew. It was the man’s sled, covered with snow. Blunderingly he cut the strings, and found food. In an hour he was well rested and fed, and though still weak, he examined the contents of the sled. He wished he could wake Irish, but since he slept, Kit let him rest. At the very bottom of the sled-load, he came across a sack. Without interest, he cut it open. He thrust in his hand and drew out a hard, round object. A potato! Next morning Irish was rational, and both felt better. Kit stuffed his partner with potatoes until he threatened to get up and lick Kit. “But,” said Kit, “What I want to know is, —where is Mullen?” “Don’t know. Don’t care. Just travel westward.” And they did. Two days later they felt that surely they were insane. It was morning, just before the sun rose, and they suddenly saw the entire horizon lift up like the sides of a saucer. They had never seen a mirage, so were puzzled. Then, as it continued to rise, Kit saw, straight ahead, a small stream. “We’ll get to that stream, anyhow, and get a drink of good water. Snow melted in a pot is not much good,” Kit observed. When they got there, two days later, Irish was well enough to take his turn at driving. The sack of potatoes had worked wonders. They first started a fire, then commenced to make some, good coffee from the pure sparkling water. As Irish bent over to dip up a cupful of the “prohibition,” as he called water, he stalled then let out a yell and began to dance wildly. Then suddenly he was laid out on his back, with Kit astride, and was sputtering and choking over a mouthful of crushed potatoes. “Hey!” he yelled, when he had got his mouth cleared. “What the—glub, glub!” By a supreme effort he rolled free from the muscular Kit, and was gesticulating excitely toward the stream, when Kit again charged him. He eluded his partner, and having cleared his mouth the second time, advised Kit, with some strong adjectives, to look in the creek. Kit looked, not once, but thrice, then again made a dash for Irish, but this time to grasp his hand in a grip which made that worthy young gentleman howl with pain. “Irish, I sure thought for a while that you had gone off again!” he exclaimed. When Irish could get his voice, he said, “Old man, Rockerfeller is a blame dub compared to us. That’s Fading Brook, that the Indians used to talk of. Say, I’m crazy. Anything’s nothing, I’m not, the world’s not, the moon is a perforated egg-crate, and we’re bang-up millionaires. The bed of that creek is virgin gold by the nugget. It must run through a lode somewhere. We’ll take enough back to Dawson to get a big grubstake, and then we will come back and work this claim. “But where is Dawson?”