Westmont Hilltop Senior High School - Phoenician Yearbook (Johnstown, PA)

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some fool woman will buy it and look freakish until it wears “Would you like to go on a trip with me, Mary Margaret? Oh. I guess I might ns well tell you. I’ve got to tell someone and Pm too big a baby to tell the one I should. Well, you’ve heard me talk of my cousin, Susan Cartley. It is she who sent me all those books of travel you have been reading, and she who wrote those fat letters with the foreign post mark that you used to bring me from the post office. And it was the telegram of her death that I received not long ago. “Cousin Susan was always different from the rest of us— she always wore the biggest bustle in town and spoke at meet- ings. She is a lot older than either Amanda or me. I always thought she was wonderful—Amanda didn't though. Well, she got married to a man in politics and finally he became a diplo- mat to Mexico and Spain. When she had been gone a little while she used to tell me of her trips and then when she had traveled a lot she would write me big, thick, interesting letters that read like a book. We were always friends. She was about the only relative Amanda and I had left, but Amanda and she never got along together or liked each other. She is dead now though and, Mary Margaret, she left me some of her money to travel with!” “Oh! Miss Abigal, that is just fine, and you have always wanted to. It’s just splendid! What does Miss Amanda say?” “That’s it! I’ve been just dying to tell her, but I couldn’t because I know she wouldn’t go with me. She wouldn’t use the money that was left to me, and especially when she and Cousin Susan never cared for each other—she wouldn’t think it was right. Then weeds would grow in the garden and some of our old friends might die and we’d not be here to go to the funeral. I know these reasons don’t seem important to you, but you know Amanda, they are to her! I guess 1 was born with a dissatisfied disposition or else I'm just plain unlucky, I don’t know which; but 1 do envy the person who can be so contented with little things. You and 1 can have a good time together, and you know an old lady like me wouldn’t like to go alone.” Amanda Ashburton took a rather round-about way to market that bright Wednesday morning. She walked slowly, which was unusual for her, and wore a perplexed frown, which was not so unusual for her. As she passed the Kennidy’s house she saw Mary Margaret in the yard hanging up the wash. “What’s the matter. Miss Amanda? You look worried.” “I am worried—worried and happy, too.” She smiled this time. “If you are going to market. I’ll hang up the wash while you run along and get a basket.” Soon Mary Margaret swung out of the house again, a list in one hand and a basket in the other. Then the young girl and the old started off, down the village street. Amanda seemed marvelously like a young girl this morn- ing. She giggled—actually giggled at some of her companion s frivolous chatter. Mary' Margaret looked at her sharply once—you could almost fancy her hair was curling about her face and her eyes seemed dewy bright. Then when they had walked along silently for a while a frown would settle again on her forehead. “I have a little secret to confide to you. It isn’t a little one to me—why I—I’m going to be married. “Miss Amanda! Oh, dear me! Not really? “Yes, it seems strange to you that an old lady like me would be getting married like a youngster, doesn’t it? I spoac you can’t imagine where I’d get a man to marry, either. Would you like me to tell you about it?” “Would I! Yes, when I’ve recovered! I have had more shocks within the last two days than I ever had in my life be- fore. Please tell me about it. And oh! I’m so glad for you. “Well, do you remember the picture among all those daugerreotypes in the carved wood box that you used to look at—this one?” She opened her big gold watch and displayed a small, rather faded picture of a curly-headed little boy with a curly little dog. “Well, he is this one, now;” she drew from her pocket a photograph of a middle-aged man with nice eyes and a tired expression. ... 4. “I don’t know whether you remember having seen the first picture before or not. He used to live in this town. His mother and mine were great friends, but they moved to Maine when we children were about fourteen. Here, when I visited up in Huxley, I discovered that the John Gilbert whom I used to know so well was the very same John Gilbert who kept the leather store there. But of course it wouldn’t have been lady- like for me to go to his store and remind him that I used to know him and still remembered him that much. When 1 had been home quite a while, 1 got a letter saying he had just found out that I had been to his town and he inquired for all the people who had been his friends.

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curtains and watched that same moon rise from behind that same hill for many a year. No, Abigal saw, instead, a desert stretching far and si- lently, where the heavens seemed so near and the dark-skinned natives glided silently through the burning sand. Abigal heard the amorous voices of the gondoliers, and the splash of oars in deep blue waters. Then Abigal saw Amanda eating a silent supper, blowing out the candle and crawling into a lonely bed leaving Chess, the cat, unfed. Oh! she must not be such a coward. Poor Amanda, she would miss her so! It is rather comforting to feel some one m the world needs you. Well, she would go to Amanda and have it over. Abigal drew a deep breath, set her jaw as firmly as was possible for her, and advanced to her sister’s room. ou here, Amanda?” she addressed the darkness, almost hoping that her sister had gone across the street to sit with old lady Weston. “Y— yes, I’m here, Abigul, come in. I have something to tell you. I—I—you—remember why,” she made a sound which was unmistakably a gulp—“we will have to quit getting eggs from Thompsons; they aren’t fit to use. I—I guess I’d better go to bed.” And she stalked out leaving Abigal to make her resolution all over again. As Amanda got ready for bed, she administered a stern scolding upon herself. “Baby, coward! Act like a two-year-old. A body would think I had done something to be ashamed of. Why Abigal will be glad, and it isn’t as though John wouldn’t be perfectly willing to have her live with us; then she would not lose me and she’d be gaining a brother.” Amanda resorted to the old argument. Then she fell to picturing poor Abigal in her lonely state; Abigal though timid, arguing with the fruit man who always tried to do” her; Abigal, the impractical, adding up her bills at the end of the month. Poor girl, she would miss her sister; but well, it is good to feel one is needed. When Miss Abigal saw Mary Margaret Kennidy turn in at the front gate, she called her into the garden. ’Morning, Miss Abigal—I just brought the mail up from the post office. No, only a seed catalogue or something, I don’t know what it is. Oh, but your mock orange smells lovely, but I’m most afraid to go any closer for fear I spoil the grass.” “Never mind, some day I’m going to have my own selfish way about this garden. I’m not going to clip the tree branches nor pull up the dandelions and the Sweet William is going to spring up and bloom whenever it chooses. And that nice or- derly hedge isn’t going to be trimmed like a poor little puppy dog’s tail, but is going to be high and straggley, and at night when the moon shines in my garden it will all look strange and new.” Oh, Miss Abigal, if it only could be something new! I know it is lovely here—mother says I’m wicked not to ap- preciate it and be satisfied; satisfied to get up and wash dishes, market and sweep, get dinner, wash dishes, then read some of your books and be more dissatisfied than ever. Today. Miss Abigal, 1 was washing windows when that big grey car from the house on Heming's Ridge passed. It was full of girls, my age, but you’d never know it. They had the most beautiful hair—all curly and sunshiny—and they went into Jake Hart- ley’s store with knickers on—like boys. Father was working in the potato field—he saw them, too. He thinks it is dread- ful. I don’t. I like it,—and they just go past again, leaving me here to do the same thing every day.” “Would you like to take a little trip with me, Mary Margaret?” “Oh, you know I’d love it. We had a wonderful time when we went down to Boston, hadn’t we? Why. I could have just stood on the street corner forever and watched the people go by.” They had had a good time. Miss Abigal had been there before, but she had never enjoyed herself more than she did that smeltering July day with Mary Margaret, unless it was the time she had met Cousin Susan there and had spent the day with her. She and Mary Margaret had walked up and down the busiest avenues, walked slowly and watched the peo- ple as they passed. They had stopped to gaze into every shop window, and had taken their time at luncheon. It had been quite a different day front those she and Amanda had spent together, those expeditions from which they had returned tired,—very tired and not very happy. Amanda always had great plans for her days in Boston. She hunted bargains re- lentlessly and never stopped to look in at windows unless to remark, “My lands, that’s an awful price for that hat, but

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‘‘I told Abigal about it but she had almost forgotten the Gilberts. I don’t know why I didn’t tell her that we kept on writing, or why I never told her that he was here to see me the day you and she went to Boston. After that I just couldn’t tell her, and there was really no need to. It made me feel ashamed of myself for. being interested in any man at my age and I knew Abigal would scorn such notions as mine. You know Abigal, she doesn’t have any interest beyond her cat and her books and her dreams. She doesn’t care a thing about housekeeping and doesn’t understand anyone who does. “But—well, John and I are going to be married. We have it all planned except how I am to tell poor Abigal. I am ashamed to think I’m a descendant of John Endicott and don’t even have the grit to do a little thing like that. It is hard though, and Abigal isn’t the person to live alone. We have only had each other and it seems, well, almost treacherous for me to plan to go and leave her as I am,—after all these years.’’ Mary Margaret ran all the way home. The passers-by turned to look after the flying figure whose laughing eyes told that she shared a secret, and a delicious joke which she was dying to tell. “What on earth ails you, child? Every time I look at you, you’re grinning like a Cheshire cat. Now what are you laugh- ing about?’’ her mother inquired several times that day. In the afternoon Mary Margaret baked a cake, a splendid cake, and took a sample of it to the Ashburton sisters. She cornered Abigal in the garden. Miss Abigal, have you told Amanda yet?” “No, I haven’t; I just can’t. I haven’t had any peace of mind since I decided to go abroad and I won’t have any peace until I decide not to. It wouldn’t be right for me to leave my only sister here all alone and go off and have a good time. I was selfish ever to have thought of that.” “Oh! Miss Abigal, please don’t give up your trip! You go and tell her, right now. Please do. Why, maybe she wishes you would,—perhaps she wouldn’t mind your going at all.” “No, I can’t tell her this evening. I’ve made up my mind not to go at all. That is, I have almost made it up, for 1 have planned and planned all my life, and dreamed ami dreamed of traveling—of seeing all the wonderful things which were put in this world for us to see. So many things for one short life! And oh, how many people don’t see them, don’t accomplish the thing they have always dreamed of—although dreaming won’t get you anywhere. I can’t accustom myself to believing that I won’t always be here, that I won’t have time for all the thoughts I want to think, all the walks I want to take, all the books I want to read, and all the friends I want to see.” And here I, one lucky individual, have a chance of realizing my one desire, and oh! I can’t seem to know what to do—and Amanda has been acting so oddly lately. I’m sure she knows there’s something on my mind. And we always shared every- thing—nothing has ever come between us. I wish I could pack up my troubles and sail away like that thistle seed yon- der; he doesn’t know where he is drifting nor where he will land—it might be in that mud puddle, hut not until he has first floated over the stalk of golden rod. It’s getting chilly; the melancholy days” will soon be here. Mary Margaret, and I must hustle or I won’t be spending them in Cairo.” The whippoorwills were whistling in the old elm tree, whistling—whistling plaintively, longingly; the branches of the sumac swayed in an occasional breeze, and a shadow passed over the moon. The rocker on the Ashburton front porch creaked steadily on. The frogs were croaking in the old green swamp; their lonely call, mingled with the heavy scent of roses, floated up to the Ashburton back porch. The swing suddenly stopped its gentle swaying. The bright moon twinkled between the leaves of the old elm tree and shone on the two motionless figures on the Ash- burton front porch. Then the sad voices of the whippoorwill and the frog were drowned by the lighter one of laughter. Miss Amanda sat down heavily, and Abigal continued to laugh. “Getting married? And to think how much sleep I lost worrying about poor you. Oh, dear me! If we had only looked long enough—our cloud was silver on both sides.” MILDRED WAGLE, ’24. ALL IS WELL THAT ENDS WELL It was evening of an early spring day. The w'orld was drenched in rain that had been falling for the past twenty- four hours. The “Western Express” had reached a level stretch, just a few minutes distance from the Mountain Trail.” There was a curve before the train should reach the Trail,” and beyond the curve lay a huge boulder that had been loosened from the mountain side by the heavy rain.