Vandergrift High School - Spectator Yearbook (Vandergrift, PA)

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THE SPECTATOR Poetry WHY WORRY Hello thex-e! why what’s wrong Jack, You don’t look the same to me, Your brow is puckered, your hair is gray, Why what’s wrong, buddy? I know what it is; I need not look twice, You’i-e down in your luck, And you make it concise. You’ve had tx-oubles, great and many, Since the time we all came back. From that field of strife and death. Of which e’en now no dread we lack. I heard you hastened home fhat day, To your mother and brothers dear, You found, alas, your aged mother gone. And your brothers too—many a year. t You went to your former employers And they hail no room for you, You went to othex-s, and then anothei-, But everywhere there was nothing to do. Fortunately you got a place, Though for it, you had no intex-est, You seemed to be in the way of all, Your deeds abx-oad, merely a jest. And now—but cheer up, Jack, Why worry, why spend your day With the past, that unfortunate past. When thex-e is the future to pay. You have been gassed in the ti’enches, For which your health is not now the best, But think of all the women and kiddies Whose lives, by your deeds, have been blessed. Think of the terror we have moved from the land Defeated the foe and vanquished the wx-ong We have dealt out justice, sevex-e and hard. But think of the joy we have brought to the throng. Again, I say, why woi-ry? Do away with those lines on your brow,

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24 THE SPECTATOR This new fort was situated on the same strip of land between the Allegheny and Monongahela rivers as was Duquesne. This fort was capable of sheltering a thousand men. A five angled moat surrounded the fort and on its walls were eighteen cannon. Its taking four years to build it, caused it to be considered a great stronghold for the British. In 1763 “Pontiac’s Conspiracy”, the best organized effort ever made by the American Indians to withstand the impressment of the white men was organized. Only because of the second arrival by Colonel Bouquet did this fort stand the five day attack of the enemy. While preparing for further attacks the Colonel ordered the erection of the little blockhouse in order to protect the moat on the northside where the river sometimes runs dry. Our little blockhouse is all that remains today of Fort Pitt and is the only monument of British occupancy in the surrounding country. —Annamay Risher, ’24. I LOVE TO LISTEN TO GRANDPA I love to listen to Grandpa, His tales are always so good; When he tells about himself In the days of his boyhood. Grandpa with the big white whiskers And a beard of snowy grey, Can always tell the best of stories When it comes the close of day. Grandpa sure has lots to tell you And its nothing but the truth, Stories of great adventures About when Grandpa was a youth. Soon my Grandpa will be leaving For a better place than earth, How I will miss those stories That he told me by the hearth. —Grant Marks, ’25.

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26 THE SPECTATOR Put light and hope in your eyes, You’ve lots to live for, I vow. I’ve had lots of troubles. I’ve had lots of falls. But why worry, buddy It’s happened after all? Come with me, a friend, I’ll help you through all strife; Without a doubt, without a worry. To mar so short a life. Why worry, life is sweet, The past is gone forever, And with the future we must compete, So why worry? —Juliet Costanzo, ’24. “POPPIES” Flowers with caps of crimson. Besprinkled with shining dew. Cover acres and acres of sloping ground Where a soldier died for you. The wind from the leeward flows softly At the close of the sunny day. And as the scarlet caps bend gently We seem to hear them say. “We mark the place where many a lad Was sacrificed at the Altar of war, Where others were taken from off the field Bleeding and wounded and sore.” “You ask why our color is not of white Why white is for peace you know, While we stand for battle and bloodshed And war that is filled with woe.” “We mark the places where soldiers met And brothers and sweethearts were slain, Where fathers killed sons without even a sigh And with only a tyrant to blame.” “Are we then not rightfully colored Or should our color be white. But who can stand pure and spotless In the midst of dread war and strife?” And then all is still on the calm cool air Their murmurs have ceased all too soon. And only a tender, sweet echo remains From the dead, that the Poppy might bloom. —Eugene Han-old, ’25.