Vandergrift High School - Spectator Yearbook (Vandergrift, PA)

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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

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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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20 THE SPECTATOR some soft green mosses grows a tall slender white flower, wonderously beautiful. Its white face seems waxy in the moonlight, gloriously pure in the sunshine. The green leaves cling in fine folds. It grows in the forests and in well kept gardens. Often can be seen the tiny dew drops, like tears on the white petals. And so came to earth the tulip, given by the Great Spirit who wills that all shall be joyous, and all his people happy. —SARA FREDERICK, ’23. A RIDE ON A RAFT EE, wished I’d a went with Aunt Kate to Swissvale,” muttered a small boy, seated on a large rock on the bank of a muddy pool. The child waa dressed in a worn blue dotted blouse, and the knees of his trousers were patched with bits of blue calico. Golden hair was seen peeping from under his dusty hat, while his blue eyes were watching a frog on the opposite side of the pond. “Why Tommy Greene,” exclaimed a little girl sitting on the sand with her feet in the water. This was Grace Jack, commonly known in the “alley” as Grade. “You jist ought to be ’shamed of yourself. A big boy like you, frettin’ cause you hain’t allowed to go a-visitin’ folks. My ma says ’at when I grow big I kin jist go any where’s that I please, an I kin wait that long.” “Spect I kin go away then, too,” answered Tommy in a tone of disgust,” but gee whiz! I’m gettin’ awful tired waitin’ to grow big. My brother Alex said it took him an awful long time to grow big, and besides I get so tired jist sittin’ around.” “I don’t,” returned Grade. “Well, if I played with them old rags 'at you call dolls, I don’t reckon I would get tired either.” And poor Tommy Green looked like a disgusted sailor on a stormy sea. The two children sat quietly for a short time until a small piece of bark floated past, then Gracie joyfully suggested: “Tommy I know what let’s do, let’s make a raft.” She looked at the boy with eyes wide with inspiration. “Gee Gracie, you’re almost as good as a boy,” exclaimed Tommy as he came down from his thi'one and sat beside her. “There’s some boards up in Farmer Brown’s, ’at would jist go swell. We could swipe a couple and not hurt them a bit, and put ’em right back.” So Tommy went to do the “swiping” while Gracie gathered up her scattered family of battered dolls. In a few minutes Tommy returned with sufficient material to build their raft. They laid the boards on the smooth ground, and Tommy took from his blouse a coil of thick rope with which they tied the boards together. Then they pushed the raft into the water. Both children stood speechless on the bank. At length Gracie cried, “Oh Tommy, it’s sprung a leak.” “I know,” replied Tommy, “But remember in that story how Robinson Crusoe plastered his’n wif mud?” Gracie did remember and they plugged the leak. This accomplished, Gracie got an old rug, a chair, a table and an old box to furnish their grand boat. When it was changed Gracie announced, “And we’ll play we’re sasassity people.” They climed on board and Tommy pushed the raft out in the middle of the stream with a long stick. They sailed downstream for about ten minutes when bang! they bumped against a rock. This sudden jolt knocked the table over, and spilled two of the dolls overboard. “Oh,” screamed Gracie, “My dear little children.” And as she scrambled to the edge in hope of grasping the dolls, she tilted the raft, and head first, she, also went into the water. Tommy jumped in and assisted Gracie to her feet, the water being only knee deep. Then they rescued the unfortunates and walked ashore. As they walked up the hill on the way home, they looked very much like two drowned rats. “What will ma say?” questioned Gracie through a shower of tears. Tommy did not reply. They slipped softly into the house, and that evening, Gracie notified Tommy that she never wanted to ride on a raft again. And as you could readily guess, Tommy heartily agreed. —RITA KAHL, ’24.