Vandergrift High School - Spectator Yearbook (Vandergrift, PA)

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THE SPECTATOR 13 as he saw her home. “Too hot for you in there?” “I-I guess that must be it, Pat. I feel out of sorts like,” grieved Emmy. That night the awful vision of arrest passed before her eyes. The delicate pearl grey dress was quite unmistakable. She cried into her pillow bitterly, she would lose Pat now, go to jail, unless she could induce Mrs. Wilson to forgive her. At half-past eight she rang the bell of the great brown stone house and timidly asked if she could see Mrs. Wilson. A moment later that lady swept into the hall. Please, Madame, it’s your dress from Madame Stahl’s,” faltered Emmy. “Why, you’re the girl that won the prize last night,” exlaimed the other. “Madame, I-I want to beg—” “You tell Madame Stahl I’ve decided to take the other dress and I’ll be obliged if she will send it up by twelve o’clock,” said Mrs. Wilson. “She told me that this was an exclusive model, and I saw one like it yesterday. Emmy raised her head and suddenly seemed to see a gleam of humor in Mrs. Wilson’s eyes. Was it there? Or was it imagination? “Oh, yes I’ll tell her, Madame,” she panted, and hurried out of the house with her parcel. —ANNA STIPHANIC, ’24. TREASURES HEN I come to think of it, today, three years ago, Hen Deal returned home from overseas. I think I’ll tell you a little of his history. Just about one month after war was declared, Hen enlisted. Having some training before going to camp, he was made a lieutenant and as this officer he spent his entire time overseas. He was decorated twice for his bravery, the first time by the French and the second time by the Americans. On November 1, 1918, just ten days before the Armistice was signed, he was wounded and removed to a hospital. Here he recovered with no ill effects and returned home sometime in June, 1919. But now I must hurry over and see what he is doing. There he is at the door! “Hello, Hen, how are you?” “Fine, how’s yourself?” “I don’t feel so bad myself but what have you got laying all over the floor here, it looks like an army camp.” “Well, it’s this way George, today being the anniversary of my homecoming from Europe, I was just going over my war relics. Say, I’ll tell you what I’ll do; I’ll go over everything I have here and tell you about them from beginning to end.” “This is just what I want. Let’s have it.” “George, I wouldn’t take barrels of money for this trash, as it appears to you—for they are treasurers to me; treasurers that will be dear to me all the rest of my life. I will begin my story with this small Bible which my dear mother gave to me when I left for camp It was a sad beginning and I felt quite sure that I was leaving home and friends forever. The only thing I have as a remembrance of camp is this ring which I picked up in the mess hall one day, evidently lost by one of the boys. I wore it all the time I was “over there”. Every time I pick this little medicine bottle up it makes me laugh, as it was given to me the second day on the ship. The ship was a floating hospital, as about half of us were seasick that day. “We were seven days going across and believe me I was glad when I stepped on land again. We were hurried into trains and rode about 150 miles to a French Camp, where we stayed for three weeks. At last the order came to move. We were carried from the camp to the trenches in trucks in the dead of night. Everybody was given orders to keep all lights out, but it being moonlight the trucks could be easily discerned. Everything went well for half an hour, and then came the first scare. Some Geiman, about a thousand feet above our heads, let drive with a couple of bombs. Our truck was hit and I was thrown about thirty feet but escaped uninjured. The truck was quickly removed and the dead carried back; the driver and the man sitting beside him having been killed. We piled on the next truck and rode safely to the trenches. The only remembrance I have of that trip is this piece of the broken windshield. “In the trenches I collected many relics. This German Medal of Honor, I snatched from a captured German officer while he was passing through the trenches. On my first trip over the top we captured two German trenches with little loss. Here I

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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,

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14 THE SPECTATOR obtained this tiny revolver which can be held in the hand undetected. “My first real escape from death happened when I was sent over the top with three other boys to learn how the enemy were behaving themselves and to see what we could do for them. We received our necessary information and when returning they gave us a few shots. On exploding, a piece of shrapnel hit about two inches from my head, striking a German helmet and pushing it in the ground about a foot. I hurriedly picked the piece up and put it in my pocket and that is what you are handling now. “Many months I went through this life, during which time I collected enough medals to make that belt you see. A German officer’s helmet, and a gas mask of German make were the largest articles, but one of the most valuable of these relics was this pair of German binoculars which are of the very best make. Just focus it and look at that flag down the street and see how large it appears. “At last on November 1, 1918, I went over the top for the last time. It was raining ‘knives and forks’ and the night was inky black. It was ideal for an attack. But unfortunately, the enemy thought so too and we met them on the center of the field, in deadly combat. We were too close to use guns so we used our bayonets. I got my first man but as I was preparing to strike again I felt the sharp sting of cold steel as it pierced my back. A deadly fear seized me and I became cold as that blade hit my back. Then I knew no more. I became conscious in the hospital. A beautiful American nurse was sitting at my bedside and she told me how the Americans had been victorious in the battle in which I was wounded. I recovered after lying about six weeks with nothing to do but keep still. I tell you it w s an awful bore. That little French pocketbook was given to me by the nurse with whom I had become quite friendly while in the hospital. I lost all trace of her till last week when I received a letter from her asking me to go up and see her.” “And I’ll bet you’ll go too. I wondered why you were acting so queer for the past few days. But you never mentioned anything about these medals which were given to you.” “Well-er-er—” “Yes, I understand you don’t like to speak of your own bravery, but Hen, I congratulate you on your 100% Americanism.” “Thank you, George, but I just look at it this way; that I did my duty like millions of other boys. But these relics, as I said before, will always be treasures dear to me.” “But say, Hen, I should think that you would consider that little American nurse the dearest treasure you obtained—er—of course you hadn’t said anything about obtaining her, but-a-you do care for her, don’t you?” “Well, I-I suppose I do, and she did say something about-er-er-a-feeling lonesome and I-ah-well, I am lonesome myself and-a—” “I know how it is, Hen. We all fall sooner or later.” “Well, Hen, I surely did have a delightful afternoon but I won’t be satisfied until you have secured the best little token of the Great War that anyone could desire.” All Hen said was, “Wait and see.” —KENNETH STROSTER, ’23. THE ADVENTURES OF BILL SMITH PREFACE ILL Smith, explorer, adventurer, and traveler, needs no introduction. I only wish to assure the reader that the happenings here recorded, as related to me by Bill Smith himself, are absolutely authentic, and are vouched for by the highest authorities. I have been especially appointed by Mr. Smith to record his adventures, and am the sole and only one so appointed. All others are frauds. Therefore, my reader, when you would doubt, remember I beg of you, that “there are more things in heaven and on earth than are dreamed of in thy philosophy.” And be it also mentioned here that Mr. Smith has personally assured me that the so-called “Baron Munchausen” who has created a flurry lately by his accounts of travels in distant lands is an imposter, has never been outside the state where he was born, and is no Baron, but a simple country dweller with an ingrowing imagination which he is turning to good financ’al account. —The Author.