Alameda High School - Acorn Yearbook (Alameda, CA)

Page 27 text:

Where was the boy she loved, at once brave and gentle, the boy with the fine gaze meeting her own with tenderness and reverence ? Between the watching of the boiling chocolate and the setting out of the little cakes on a snowy napkin, Julie’s mind followed strange paths. War, then, killed not only body, but spirit also? That the body of Pierre has returned was by no means to say that his spirit had returned with it. Then came to her the sudden conviction that the women who mourned dead bodies of sons, brothers, husbands and lovers, were not as desolate as she! Yes, death was sometimes kindly in its sentence. In upon her thoughts there broke Pierre’s cheery whistle in the measures of an old song. Faith came back to Julie in a flood. Pierre, her prince,—body and spirit were not dead, he was only crippled. Hers the task to win him back to old ways of wholesome living, and new avenues of usefulness. Now she must go back to him. With steady hands she poured the chocolate and passed out to the porch. Pierre drank and ate greedily. There was something almost beast-like, yet infinitely pathetic in his action. And as Julie watched him, a new senti- ment came to shadow the old affection and the new disappointment. It was the consolation of a maternal brooding and an unshakable conviction in her power to win him back to old ways. Her gaze wandered over the field, again ripe with grain. The harvest must be gathered; this time Pierre would work with her, perhaps but for a few days! Who knew when the bugle would sound that would summon him away again? Tomorrow—and other tomorrows! Julie’s faith shrank from contem- plating them. Strange things lay in store for all France. Who was she that who should shrink from treading the wine-press of duty? “It is not for nothing that the good God hides the things of the future. For me, it is surely enough that I may trust in Him.” The sun set in red glory, shadows lengthened, the whippoorwill called through the gloaming; sleeping birds chirped last staccato notes. The quiet became a benediction, a healing to the girl’s sorely wounded heart. And as for Pierre, the peaceful scene so full of home and home-ties brooded over him with soft wings, waving him back to the old ways—Ah, that he might with honor remain! And that desire marked the beginning of Pierre’s regeneration. —Martha Hyde June °17

Page 26 text:

To-day little Julie approached the church with a strange premonition tugging at her heart. She would see Pierre soon, perhaps even now the train was near that should bear him home. Just a glance for confirmation, not knowledge. It was so, mon Dieu! It was so. Julie fled past the weeping, laughing crowd to fling herself at the foot of the quiet altar. Just for a moment did she kneel in an ecstacy of thanks- giving; then true to her feminine instincts, she flew home to make herself beautiful for her Pierre. Down from its hook came the gay fete gown; the little high-heeled shoes of which she was so proud were shaken from their wrappings. Now must the fine hair be combed and the snowy kerchief crossed about her white throat, and last, her rosary flung over her head. Her fingers trembled as, partly from long habit, and partly from the surging up of joy within her heart, Julie sank to her knees before the mirror. Though her fin- gers deftly told each bead and her lips moved in the familiar words, her eyes were fixed on an earthly vision—her own prettiness. The hardships of the year had but served to accent her developing maturity. Pierre had left behind him a bud of France; returning he would find the rose. And Julie was glad, glad and proud of all she had to give him, him her gallant soldier lover. From her open window there came to her ears sounds of rejoicing and, strangely mingled with it, a woman’s broken sobbing. Julie noted the ringing clatter of two people walking in step, and the halting thump of a crutch. Oh— that was why the woman sobbed! Julie’s hand caught at her throat. Sup- pose Pierre came to her crippled! Just for an instant the spasm of fear laid hold of her, then she shook it off, and rose with the squaring of her shoulders that had become second nature. It was no matter how he came, Pierre was Pierre. On the vine shaded porch Julie waited. It was not to be thought that they could have witness of their first meeting. Down the street swinging with the old time nonchalance came Pierre. Now he turned in at the gate; now he was here. What ailed her, faithless one! that at the first sight of his face her heart turned cold, and she shrank under his kiss with something akin to hatred! Now that the first greetings were over, she must set before him a cup of the hot chocolate and the little cakes that he loved. ‘One moment, mon ami, while I prepare them for thee.” Into her spotless kitchen Julie turned as toward a sanctuary. That was not Pierre, that roistering, bold-eyed man who had just now claimed her kisses!

Page 28 text:

Autbition To still the pain that rends man’s restless heart, To kindle in his eyes the glorious light That once glow'd there—I would t’'were mine to start The spirit in his breast that yearns for Art, For Poetry’s sweet sounds and sad delight, For Music’s subtle wonders of relief From earthly things, from an eternal grief. To ask what more of God has man the right; Or, having it, what more 1s there to want? But the whispering voice of Silence still shall haunt Man always, til his now gain-blinded eyes Shall see again the beauty of the skies, Until within his veins he feels the flow Of Genius! Ah, if only I could know That he once more shall see the sparkling dews, And in their beams the face of every Muse! Then shall the soul resume its heritage, And guide our youth to loved and honor’d age. Russel Medcraft Dec. ’