Vandergrift High School - Spectator Yearbook (Vandergrift, PA)

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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?”

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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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THE SPECTATOR 19 “Directly south. The Indians used to say that one hundred miles north of Dawson was a stream which ran through a mother lode, and which was paved with gold. Nobody believed it, but here it is. And look! See those two trees up there? I hereby rechristen this stream Twin Trees! What Ho! To Dawson.” And two nights later, as they settled to sleep only twenty miles out from Dawson, Irish turned over and called softly, “Kit!” Kit rolled over sleepily and queried, “Well?” “Kit,” Irish admonished wisely, “Alius follow your hunches to the last ditch!” And outside the Aurora Borealis flamed, augmented, then faded toa dim, ethereal glow........................ J. A. BREIG. THE FIRST TULIP ANY moons ago there lived on the plains a peaceful and easy-go-happy tribe of Indians. They had no real name but they possessed great wealth in their young braves and famous chief. The chief, White Rock, was known far and wide. His fame had been chanted by the ancient tribes of the Dacotas, by the young Sioux, and by others of great renown. Even the birds sang of his glory, the little animals of the forest gossiped about his splendor, and all nature seemed to know of the wisdom of “White Rock.” All were friendly witn this chief for none could be otherwise. in the harvest moon, full fifteen years before had been borne, a lovely papoose, Nono-shosho, the Spirit of the Dawn. She was now very beautiful, a tall slender maiden, the fairest of her tribe. White Rock loved her; Lone Star, her mother worshipped her. She seemed, indeed, the Spirit of Dawn to Lone Star who would ask the great Spirit to protect this fair maiden and to make her journey to the Happy Hunting Grounds, to the Land of the Hereafter, far distant and many moons away. It was in the early spring-time and everything around the camp was peaceful and in tune with the haunts of the new season. Trees were again robed in emerald dress, and the birds chirped all day long as they built their tiny homes. Grass grew in the open places and here and there the pink wild rose showed its delicate bloom and the never changing blue forget-me-not gently swayed in rhythm to the soft sighing of the timid winds on their daily journeys. All nature was happy again and so was pink cheeked Nonoshosho. She roamed the forests about her rustic home and not a bird far or wide was happier than she. She watched the braves leaving for the chase, she saw their returning and what they had secured but never did she think of that. Her mind was free, free as the clear waters of the brooklet which bubbled through the grasses on its never ending journey. One day when the braves had left for the hunt and the squaws were gossiping around their wigwams, Nonoshosho slipped quietly from her father’s lodge and with swift steps sped into the forest until she came to a mossy couch beneath a chestnut tree. This was her favorite play house or dream castle. It was here that she could converse with nature and learn the works which pleased the Great Spirit. Today she seemed more thoughtful than usual and her hitherto joyous laughter was quenched with tears. As she cried she thought of the words which White Rock had spoken to Lone Star the night before. He had told her of a youth with flying feathers who had asked him for the hand of Nonoshosho and that he had consented to the marriage because it would mean for him a greater glory. Nonoshosho did not approve of her father’s words but what could she do as his word was law. Still she wept nor did her tears cease when the golden lights of day lengthened into silvery shades of eventide. The Great Spirit of her fathers, who had been about her always, looked down upon her from the white moon, which shone so dimly through the trees. Pitying Nonoshosho he opened his great heart of love and poured his beams of understanding upon the maiden. Her tears ceased, she arose, her long green dress falling in folds about her and her white face gleaming in the radiance of the Great Spirit. When the morning sun broke in all its splendor o’er the village of White Rock, all was confusion about the lodge. Where could the Chief’s daughter be ? Far and wide they searched but always returned without the beloved Nonoshosho. To this day she has not been found, but under a great chestnut tree, from among