Alameda High School - Acorn Yearbook (Alameda, CA)

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The Acorn good will. His sense of right and wrong was very well developed, and unmerciful justice was one of his strong themes. A man of truth and honor, he had never been known to break his word, and when once he vowed a vow no circumstance or incident could make him yield, whether in the right or in the wrong. When he left the town his departure was not regretted by the men, for many had been brought to justice by his efforts. Then he journeyed far into the North, preaching here and there to the cattle- men and miners , ever in his path of duty. The missioner had come to a narrow log that bridged a roaring mountain torrent. Directly across the river was a lumber camp and a county seat, which was to be his place of action for the com- ing months. The sternness of his nature had been deepened by his often unsuccessful contact with his fellow-men. It was late in the afternoon, and the sky was black and cloudy, casting a look of deso- lation and sorrow over the mountain scene. On the opposite bank sat a man, weary after the hard day’s work. He was gazing into the waters, tired of it all. Tired phys- ically, mentally, morally—tired of the dread of capture. He was the one who had fired the shot in the mining village farther South ; yet how clever was his disguise! He glanced up a little nervously when he heard the approach- ing footsteps; he saw the missioner, and the nervousness deepened to fear; he saw the look of recognition in the eye of the other, and the fear changed almost to hatred. They had never been friends. The missioner fixed his keen, steely eye on the man, accusingly. He spoke with cold determination. “John Mathewson,” he said, “you have been a fugitive from justice for six months. I thank God that I have the opportunity to send you back to it. There will be no chance for escape this time, either.” The hatred in the eye of the other deepened, as in desperation he saw that there was no way of persuading that missioner that the identification was incorrect. He straightened himself up to his six feet of manhood, and looked down on his accuser with almost a sneer. “T’d like to know how it is you consider me in your power, you little snip of a man!” The missioner glared. “The Sheriffs within a few hundred feet can easily overpower you,” he said. “The reward is all the inducement they ‘need to per- suade them. I intend to identify you directly. You shot a fellow- man, crushed out a life, and you must and shall pay the penalty ! The penalty, yes, the penalty! Had he not been paying the penalty day by day with remorse and the fear and anxiety of the hunted? Was more penalty justly his? : Then, again, came the feeling of hatred for the man who was about to betray his secret, mingled with his strong and youthful love of life and freedom—of freedom more than life. Justice in the court of law in the home town would mean imprisonment rather than the death sentence, would rob him of his freedom instead of his life. Yet how he loved his freedom, even more than he loved his

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Vol. 14 ALAMEDA HIGH SCHOOL FREEDOM, OR--? ; FFF There had been a game of cards, an accusation, a quarrel, a threat and angry words; there had been a flash of steel, a shot, another, and one of the men had fallen over in the dust, never to rise again. It was in a little mining town in the mountains, and before the crowd of rough miners realized what it all meant it was too late. Then they had seen the survivor mount the fleetest broncho in the village and ride away into the night and the darkness swifter than a meteor across the black sky ; and when he was already miles away someone had raised the head of the man who lay in the dust, and the Sheriff came hurrying to the scene of the battle. No one seemed to blame the slayer, not even the Sheriff himself, for the manner of the man who had been slain was known to all. Still, the duty to the law was to bring the offender to justice—at least, to bring him to trial and to a short term of imprisonment for his act. So, after a little delay, the Sheriff and his men scoured the neighboring mountains and plains, and offers of reward for the safe deliverance of the guilty man were posted. The Sheriff was looking out for re-election. 3ut the weeks passed by with no trace of the one who had fired the shot, and the affair was almost forgotten. Yet they missed the fugitive, for, despite his fiery temper and his untamed passions, he had been a general favorite in camp. The weeks lengthened into months. ee a At the time of the shooting there had been a man in town who was trying to uplift the rough miners about him. He was a mis- sioner, and preached night after night to all who would listen. Although sincere in his aim to lead the world nearer to the King- dom of Heaven, and never swerving from his path of duty, he did not appeal to the men, nor had he been able to win them over to his beliefs and standards of morality as a more sympathetic nature might have done. He was a man of the keenest perception, and could peer into the very soul—and not always with kindness and

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The Acorn life! The glory and grandeur of the mountains, the wildness of the scenery, the work of hauling the great logs, and, above, all his leadership and popularity among the men! Imprisonment would be far worse than death! Then, as he looked at the waters, a thought entered the con- fusion of his brain. How easy, oh how easy! But it was the thought of a coward, and he hastily put it aside. He glanced at the missioner, waiting coldly and sternly before him. ‘The hatred again, oh, what hatred! Another thought, an- other easy way! The bank was slippery, and one touch would send him to a watery grave, and who could tell the tale and prove it was not an accident? But another human life, could he be accountable for another human life? “Come,” said the missioner, “you see there is no escape.” He started up the bank, but suddenly his foot slipped—there was a splash, and—he had fallen into the river. The man on the bank saw it, dazed. Now had come his chance for escape, and he was in no way accountable for it—for this death it was purely accidental. Yet he could save him, save him from the angry torrents by his massive strength. His freedom or a human life—which ‘was it to be? A life, a life, could he be responsi- ble for two lives, rather than one? Could he have the dreadful thought that two had met their death because of him? Yes, be cause of him, for he could save this second if he would. And suddenly the black clouds in the West parted, and the brilliancy of the setting sun lighted the soul of the man, bringing peace, hope and happiness, as he leaped into the river to save the life of the man who was‘to rob him of his freedom. GERTRUDE BROWN. REPARATION FFF He was a spy, scorned and despised alike by friend and foe. Moreover, he was not a willing traitor to his country, for he con- sidered that he had been forced to do the thing. “Adverse cir- cumstances,” that ever-present excuse of the weak-willed man, was his mental justification. Well he remembered the day that he had entered Manila with the victorious American army. Every incident was stamped indelibly upon his brain. He recalled the glances of hate and scorn with which he was received by his sur- rendering countrymen, and he remembered what a sickening clutch he had felt at his throat as the colors of his country, of his be- loved Castile, were lowered to the ground. A native woman had grasped a small American flag and had trampled it to the earth; and he, though he shared her sentiments to the utmost he had been forced to assist in her arrest. Yes, he was a Castilian of the bluest blood, and he loved his country passionately. Hs was merely tolerated by the Americans. They had no use for spies, they had said, when he had sneaked in and given himself