Vandergrift High School - Spectator Yearbook (Vandergrift, PA)

Page 12 text:

3ht SUanfirra In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row That mark our place, and in the sky, The larks, still bravely singing, fly, Scarce heard amid the guns below. We are the dead; short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders fields. Take up our quarrel with the foe! To you from failing hands we throw The torch; be yours to hold it high! If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders fields. —John McRae.

Page 11 text:

THE SPECTATOR Vol. 5 FEBRUARY, 1923 No. 2 Published during the school term by students of Vandergrift High School. EDITORIAL STAFF EDITOR-IN-CHIEF................................. Harold Schuler ASSOCIATE EDITOR ................... Joseph Breig LITERARY EDITOR..................... Madaline Shaffer TREASURER....................................... Audley Rearick BUSINESS MANAGER ..................... Louis Gartzman ADVERTISING MANAGER .................. Robert Bowers PUBLICITY MANAGER..................... John Radcliffe FACULTY ADVISOR ................................. Edith Steel ASSISTANT EDITORS SCHOOL NOTES.........................................Margaret Loring SENIOR NOTES................................. Margaret Cline JUNIOR NOTES ............................... Elizabeth Smith SOPHOMORE NOTES ....................... Viola Knappenberger FRESHMAN NOTES ........................... Henrietta Wolford ART EDITORS ................................f Sarah Frederic Robert McClure ATHLETICS.............................................Harriet Cuthbert EXCHANGES ................................... Edna Klugh SILLY SAUCE.............................................Naomi Snyder ALUMNI NOTES............................... Nellie Wiggins We wish to thank Miss Hammill and the girls who type our “Spectator” work.

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T H E SPECTATOR 11 VIVE L’AMERIQUE 1VE L’AMERIQUE! Vive! Vive! Vive! This from a small French lad, who sat at the side of the road at Genneville, as the “Soldats de l’Amerique” passed by on their way to Chateau-Thierry. Attracted by the tone of the lad’s voice, Sergeant Patrick O’Reilly stepped from the ranks to look at him. The boy might have been ten years old, but he hardly looked eight. Out of a pale face, crowned by a wavy mop of chestnut brown hair, shone two bright, almost black eyes. His right leg hung distorted and useless from the hip down. In a gust of sentiment, Pat touched the lad’s head and ran on wtih tears in his eyes, to regain his place in line. The lad sat transfixed with joy. He, Perrichou Rousseau, orphan, child of the gutter, starveling had been patted on the head by an American soldier. One of the— “Move along, dog!” a harsh voice broke in on his reverie, “Sapristi, must I use my club,” and the “gendarme” aimed a kick at my Perrichou, who nimbly avoided it, and limped away swiftly, leaning on an old barrel stave. “Milie pardon,” he muttered, but foremost in his mind was the image of the soldier. He would follow the troops, he might find his “Soldat”. Placing two fingers to his lips he sent out a shrill, plaintive whistle, once, twice. Around the corner, three blocks away, bounded a furry shape, and racing up the street towards him it came, a large, curly, black haired “mongrel” dog. “Allons, Pierre!” cried Perrichou shrilly. The dog redoubled his speed. As soon as he reached him, Perrichou clambered nimbly upon its back. Turning its head in the direction of the fast disappearing militia, he kicked the dogs flanks. “Giddap!” he cried. “Two minutes yet,” whispered O’Reilly, now Captain O’Reilly, if you please. The word was whispered down the line—A bugle sounded. “Over the top, me hearties,” cried the redoubtable Irishman, “And the best of the day to ye.” The great advance was on The troops had been moved up, and brought to the temporary hospital, where Perrichou, now a favorite of the whole company, went hurriedly with Pierre. His eyes were searching every cot.