Vandergrift High School - Spectator Yearbook (Vandergrift, PA)

Page 22 text:

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.

Page 21 text:

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

Page 23 text:

THE SPECTATOR 21 THE GOOD LOSER ARIE Antoinette Smith was in a quandary, thei'e was no doubt of that. Her usually calm brow was knit with anxious thought and her lips actually drooped at the comers. The question was a weighty one; namely, —should she accompany Thomas Jefferson Jones, the well dressed and popular president of the Burmingham Colored Dancing Club, to the annual ball; or should she go with Ivanhoe Ripley, also well dressed and popular, besides possessing all the glamour of newness, having but recently come from New York, the mysterious and mighty. To be sure, the credentials of the latter had not yet been produced while Mr. Jones was of as royal birth as Marie Antoinette herself, for did not his father own the Jones Emporium, undoubtedly the best store of the negro quarter and her own father, Mr. Washington Smith, was part owner of the Pastime Moving Picture house. Miss Smith decided to await development and let her suitors load her with the presents which she knew would be forthcoming as aids in the choosing of her escort to the ball, which was still two weeks distant. “Deah me,” she concluded, “Thinkin’ certainly am ha’d work. Heah comes mah gen’emen friend, Mistuh Thomas Jefferson Jones, drivin’ his pap’s deliverev wagon. I so’t of rekon he’s gwine to stop foh me. Thank the Lawd I’se got on mah new yaller silk what mah ma made fo’ my sixteenth birfday.” “Howdy, Mistuh Jones, how is yoh-all findin’ yoh-self today?” Marie Antoinette flashed a brillant smile upon Thomas Jefferson who was immediately transported to the seventh heaven of delight. “Howdy, Miss Smith, I’se fine, how’s yoh-se’f? I’se gwine out to Rastus Black’s place. Won’t yoh-all come along?” “Sho’ly will, Mistuh Jones, yoh-all suttin-ly am a polite fellah. Is yoh sho’ yoh can manage this heah hoss?” Thomas smiled tolerantly upon Miss Smith as he assisted her into the wagon and followed when she was finally seated on the high and rather precarious seat. “Ho, ho, Miss Smith, I’m the original Broncho Bill when it comes to drivin’ this hoss. He am a little wild but I makes him do as I say. Le’s speed up when we git out on the wood road. Sho’, yoh-all ain’t afraid?” Marie Antoinette shivered delightedly and both were silent until the wood road was reached. “Now yoh-all hole on tight an’ don’t be skeered. Remembah I’m drivin’ an’ not even that Pegasus hoss could git away from me. Giddap, Bill!” With a grand flourish of the whip Mr. Jones prepared to show off both himself and his steed before the eyes of his lady love. However, Bill, being a young horse and unused to the discipline of the whip and soon beyond the control of even the superior of Broncho Bill. The April rains had made the unpaved road a sea of rich, black mud and the yellow silk of Miss Smith’s dress soon resembled the leopard of unchanging spots, while she herself was almost white with fear. The bespattered Thomas Jefferson clung to the reins with a courage bom of desperation. At last Bill, of his own inclination, stopped and his two shaken passengers paused a moment to collect their thoughts and arrange their almost ruined plumage. At this critical moment an automobile, undoubtedly second-hand and considerably worse for the wear, drove up, guided by the skillful hand of none other than Ivanhoe Ripley. Ignoring the obvious, he politely inquired their trouble. Marie Antoinette, angered by the ruin of her dress, was the first to find her tongue. “Nothing much happened, Mistuh Ripley h’cept this heah thing, which calls itself a man, tried to show off an’ while he was doin’ it, ruined mah puffuctly new dress besides half killin’ me. I’m tellin’ him heah an’ now that I won’t go to no dance with him. I’m particular ’bout mah company.” The tactful Mr. Ripley immediately offered the use of his car and Miss Smith stepped aboard. The two drove away with a loud clanging of tin, leaving Thomas standing in the middle of the road. The next day Marie Antoinette announced to her friends that she intended to accompany Ivanhoe Ripley to the dance. The crafty Mr. Jones merely shrugged his shoulders, meanwhile cultivating the friendship of Mr. Ripley, who although rather puzzled at first, simply concluded that