Alameda High School - Acorn Yearbook (Alameda, CA)

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aS he , Shining and white in the light of the day, Cutting the fields from the river away Lies the wanderer’s road. Far, it gleams, in the sunset light, ‘Til it turns a curve, and is out of sight, Climbing the hills of brown. Calling forever it twists along, Singing always the same gay song As it winds away from the town. Who would learn of a far country Where fair green hills slope down to a sea, To a sea of turquoise blue; Where white-sailed ships beach on the sands, Bringing the treasures of foreign lands Back, o’er the sea, to you? “Those who would learn, come, follow me, Leave your dull homes, and away with me, For I'll call until you die.” So it sings as it runs away, Nor ceases to call with the close of day, And men harken to its cry. Once you hark to it, always you wander, Always follow, nor stop to ponder What is the way of the road. Shining and white in the light of day, Cutting the fields from the river away, This is the wanderer’s road. Janet Brown , June 718

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“By Jove!” I exclaimed, “I didn’t realize he was as young as that. | should fancy you are alarmed about his being out on this thoroughfare alone ;” and I hastened my steps, for I had visions of dashing horses or speeding motors crushing the life out of the poor little chap. Mrs. Merton looked up at me as I said this, and seeing that I had now become really worried and anxious, her face paled and her voice quivered as she said, “You see, now, Mr. Pierman, how frightened I am. And I am so much more anxious because he isn’t mine. He is everything to her. Oh, she will be wild—wild if anything should happen to him. Oh, dear me!” I tried to calm her, and told her I felt sure we should find him safe and sound somewhere. But as we passed block after block, with no sign of him, my anxiety was not lessened. On the contrary, my companion was very quiet now, so quiet, in fact, that I looked down at her, and to my consterna- tion I found she was struggling hard to keep the tears back. Now, a weeping woman always sets me on edge, for I never know what she is going to do next; and on this occasion it was the last straw, and I blurted out, “Please don’t do that—don’t you know, ah—can’t you see that—, ah—oh that it won't be any use—that it won’t do any good?” “You s-stupid! I can’t h-help it,” she wailed. ‘‘S-suppose I should n-never see dear little T-Ted again—I d-don’t know what my sister—.”” But the last was incoherent as she sobbed in her handkerchief, no doubt thinking me a most inhuman wretch. But I was provoked. “Of all beastly situations!” I muttered, swinging my cane viciously in air, vowing never again to help a weeping American woman find a three year old Teddy; and I stalked ahead. But just then we were nearing a stately resi- dence in South Park Row, when, surprised by a little cry of delight, I turned and saw my late companion flying thru the gate and up to the steps. There she stooped and gathered something into her arms. “Did zee poor lil fellow come home all by his self, and didn’t he get runned over at allie—well ducky boy ,” came wafted on the air to my astonished ears. “See, Mr. Pierman!” she called holding up her prize. ‘Here's Teddy!” I gasped and nearly lost my balance, for in her arms, arrayed in a s carlet coat, was—a curly, brown, lap-dog! ! Pearl Nichols, °17

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The Cripple ej H MON DIEU! Pierre, I cannot let you go! Say thou wilt not leave me, Pierre. You may never return! Please, as you love me, don’t go!” “But, ma chere, our country needs me. She is in great dan- ger. It is my duty to—” “To kill men, bien? To see how many of the good God’s men you can kill in one hour? So that’s your duty—Bah!”’ Somewhere in the distance a bugle was heard calling the men to leave. Pierre hastily picked up his gun, kissed Julie, and was gone. Julie remained motionless, then holding out her arms in the direction Pierre had taken, softly began calling his name, “Pierre, Pierre, forgive me, I did not know, I did not realize how brave you are, Pierre, to go out there to be shot at, as you will shoot at others. Oh Pierre, forgive me!” Slowly she sank to the floor, and cried herself into a stupor. She was aroused sometime later by the sound of drums and the steady tramp of marching feet, among them her Pierre’s. All unconsciously her tears ceased, dried by a sudden fire of Patriotism. Little Julie would scarcely have known it by any name, but its effect was instantaneous. The slight shoulders squared proudly as had her Pierre’s, the soft chin set at a firm angle. Tramp, tramp—now they were passing, and a miracle! She did not see Pierre. Yet she felt no disappointment, for suddenly, each marching figure seemed as dear as her own lover's. Ah, les braves garcons! Dieu les garde! Tramp—tramp —tramp—the staccato sound died away in the distance. Before Julie’s eyes were spread the fields heavy with ripe grain. She and her neighbor women must bend to the task of harvest at early dawn—the soldiers of France must be fed. Julie did not need to check the passing days by the calendar. Each one registered on her brain long hours of endurance in which must be accomplished tremendous physical tasks. Night would find her too weary to ease her throat of the sobs that choked her. Yet always in the midst of the heaviness burned that sturdy spark of courage, of faith, of loyalty. As the year passed, letters from Pierre became fewer, finally stopped. Yet she had news of his regiment. Did not she share with the villagers the excitement of reading the bulletin-board hung daily on the door of the church of Our Lady of Sorrows?