Vandergrift High School - Spectator Yearbook (Vandergrift, PA)

Page 13 text:

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.

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 14 text:

12 THE SPECTATOR “Where’s my captain, was his constant query. “Where is O’Reilly?” suddenly put in a newcomer, “He’s not here!” A great light shone in Perrichou’s eyes. “I go,” said he, “to find my captain.” He did. Lying in a clump of low, dense underbrush almost hidden from sight, was O’Reilly, moaning with pain from grenade wounds in both legs, and a slight scalp wound. Placing him on the back of his canine follower, Perrichou half staggered, half crawled back to camp with him, where he collapsed. A short time afterwards, the Armistice was signed, and in the first load of wounded veterans to arrive at New York were Perrichou and his captain. Two months later, the two stepped out of the Allegheny Hospital entry in Pittsburgh. Pat, who had adopted the waif, who was to be known as Perry O’Reilly was well and happy again. “Now, what do you say, Perry?” “VIVE L’AMERIQUE”, grinned Perry. —A. R. M., ’23. A STORY I HAVE NEVER FORGOTTEN ERE you are Miss Ruth. Take it up to Mrs. Wilson’s tonight as she wants it for the ball tomorrow. And I’ve promised her!” Emmy Ruth folded the delicate fabric away in its cardboard box, wrapped the tissue paper around it, and left the shop. Her heart was burning. Two hundred dollars for a ball dress, and she was going to the Sons of St. Patrick’s dance that night in the cheap second-hand thing she had scrimped and saved to purchase. And Pat would be there. What would Pat think of her? She knew the dress looked ridiculous on her, and Pat had almost told her he loved her. On the way uptown an awful temptation assailed her. Mrs. Wilson did not want her dress until the next night. Emmy Ruth could wear it herself; it fitted her to perfection; and she could deliver it early the following morning. And she did so want to look well at the dance, and win Patrick’s admiration! Almost unconsciously her feet took her out of the elevated at her own station, instead of staying on and waiting till she reached Mrs. Wilson’s home. In another minute she was flying down the stairs and was on her way to her boarding house. “I’ll do it! It doesn’t do any harm. And I’ve a right to look decent for once,” she muttered to herself. The Sons of St. Patrick’s dance was under the patronage of a number of west side social leaders, who were interested in civic reform. The “Sons” was a new organization with an “uplift” tendency. Emmy put on the dress and surveyed herself in the cracked mirror of her hall bed- room. She hardly knew the radiant girl who looked back at her. Originally, she had wavered between wearing the dress and just putting it on, but there was no irresolution now. Hastily slipping her old coat over it, she went out and took the car down town. The dance hall was crowded. Upon a sort of dais at the end of the hall, near the musicians, the society leaders were congregated. Emmy saw Pat in a moment. He stared at her in amazed admiration. “Emmy” he muttered drawing her arm through his. “Say we’ll take the prize for the best fox-trotters for sure.” “Are there prizes, Pat?” glowed Emmy. “Sure, fifty berries for you and me. Come in handy, won’t it, little girl?” Emmy could hardly believe Pat had said that—“little girl”. “And we’d best win that fifty,” said Pat. “That’ll come in handy for you and me. Why Emmy, there ain’t a girl in the room’s a jack on you for looks.” “Come on!” They circled the dance hall, watched by the judges. €t was as Pat had said—Nobody looked like Emmy and certainly no one danced like Pat. At the interval the prize winners names were read out. Pat had entered Emmy and they won, not the first, but the second prize, of twenty-five dollars. When they went up to the dais to receive it, however, Emmy nearly fainted with horror, for there delivering the prizes, as large as life, stood Mrs. Wilson, and Mrs. Wilson was staring first at the girl’s face then at her gown, and then at her face again. Emmy wished she might sink through the floor. “What’s the matter darlin’t?” asked Pat,