Alameda High School - Acorn Yearbook (Alameda, CA)

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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

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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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The Acorn up, so many weeks before—and he had been astounded at the discovery. At the time he had felt justified in his deed; but now, day by day, he felt the conviction creeping over him that he had com- mitted the unpardonable crime—he was an outcast from all the world. No land could he ever call “home;” never again would he feel that delicious thrill which is alone produced by deeds of patriot- ism; and he became lowered, day by day, into the depths of black despair. He was leading a detachment of soldiers through a tangled swamp jungle, in order to overcome the Spaniards by a flank movement, when a scheme shaped itself in his mind by which he would be able to lead the Americans to destruction and at the same time reinstate himself in the favor of his countrymen. He would guide the Americans to a place where they would be directly in the firing line between the two struggling armies, and, thus creat- ing a divergence, would enable his own compatriots to charge, while the Americans withheld their fire for fear of hitting their countrymen. They were continually getting nearer to the roar of the battle, and, stopping the company, he werit forward to reconnoiter. He intended reaching the Spanish army and laying his plans before the commandant; but as he emerged between the firing lines he was struck over the head by a bolo wielded by a native scout. The Filipino gave him one look and ran on, leaving him for dead. He was not dead, however, for a low-hanging branch had turned the knife in the native’s hand and he had been struck senseless by the flat side of the blade. The American captain, who was left back in the underbrush, having waited the appointed time, made his way forward with his company and arrived just in time to assist in the final rout of the Spaniards. The spy awoke and deliriously made his way forward through the gathering dusk to the now deserted trench. Picking up a tat- tered Spanish flag, he staggered forward, singing a national hymn. Many times he stumbled and fell, yet he made his way forward till he came into the light of many camp-fires, around which the American soldiers were sitting down to their evening meal. Three sentries challenged him peremptorily, but he made his way for- ward, waving the tattered emblem of his mother country. Again he was challenged, but still he kept on. Three shots rang out simultaneously, and he leaped high in the air and fell sprawling, clutching the sod. He had made repara- tion for his deed—his penance was complete, and his soul was clean in the sight of God. A. C. BERINGER.