Analy High School - Azalea Yearbook (Sebastopol, CA)

Page 33 text:

Puppy Love By LAWRENCE CARRILLO Jim paused, started, paused, then, setting htis chin with fierce determination, rushed into Miss Smith’s room and stood before his surprised—almost frightened, English teacher. “Please give my story back!” Then because Miss Smith looked puzzled he went on, “That story! That prize story! I want it back. I don’t want to have it published! I’ll give back the prize. I—I—I’ll—” “James Goodwin!” Miss Smith started from her chair and stood before him. “What can be the matter with you? Are you in your right senses?” The high school which Jim attended had offered five dollars as a prize for the best short story. Jim had tried, won the prize and also the honor of having his story published in the school paper. Now at the last moment he wanted the story returned— no wonder Miss Smith thot he was out of his senses. “Why that story went to press two weeks ago,” Miss Smith went on, “And I shouldn’t wonder if they had all the papers printed by this time. And supposing they didn’t—why the paper would be a failure without the prize story in it! And—and—and —why James! What can you be thinking about? Just think of all the trouble you would make. The prize would have to be awarded to someone else. And really don’t you think it an honor to win the prize? Don’t you feel proud to have your story publish¬ ed in the paper?” Jim was a square-jawed boy, and his face wore a determined expression when he answered. “You don’t understand, Miss Smith! You—you can’t understand. You see that story was true—and—and I don’t think she would like to have it published! You see we quarreled and I wrote the whole love affair—quarrel and all.” Miss Smith regarded him in a new light—there was some¬ thing like a twinkle in her eye. “Well, James, you had better speak to the Editor. You know she is running the paper, not I.” Both the Editor and Manager were called into Miss Smith’s room, and a lively discussion followed. Bill Jones, the manager, 31

Page 32 text:

As he thought of her, his hard-set features softened, a soft light illuminated his commanding eyes, and a fond smile stole to his firm, resolute lips, and he spoke softly to himself, “Heaven will be no heaven to me if I do not meet my wife there. At last the weary band reached Lonesome Camp. Andrew Jackson, worn out with the trip ' s hardships, hurriedly made his way to his home, with joyful anticipation. But the store seemed so quiet as he entered. He opened the door which led fiom the store to the rooms in which he and his wife lived. An awful terror and sickness seized him as he looked upon the tear-stained face of a neighbor woman. “Where is Mary? What ' s the matter? he cried as a grasping, clutching fear gripped his heart. The woman with sighs and moans sobbed out the short story: Mrs. Jackson had suddenly been stricken with fever and had died. Everything was blurred and dark before the eyes of the victorious general. The strong man fell to the floor, unconscious. For days and days he hovered between life and death. At last he rallied and his life was al¬ most out of danger, but he did not care to live. One evening Peter entered his room. He was the first visitor the doctor had admitted. “Well, old man, you are elected Governor. Your little fight at Horseshoe Bend turned the trick. You had better hurry and get well so that you can fill the chair. “Tell them that I will be governor under no conditions, what¬ ever, the sick man feebly but resolutely said. The visitor’s face was one big question mark. “Why Andy —, he protested. “Go, right now, I will not be Governor. That ' s settled. Tell the rest of them. As the visitor left the room the sick man staggered from his bed to a chest of drawers. From the top one he extracted the little prayer book which his wife had owned and loved so well. From between its pages he drew forth a miniature of his wife. He gazed long and sadly at the beloved face. Falling into a chair by the table he tried to read, thru blinding tears, the favorite passage of his wife ' s prayer book. Then clasping the little book in one hand, his face fell upon the likeness on the table, and An¬ drew Jackson, the wild, rough, daring man uttered a choking groan of agony, Peter and the other friends of Andrew Jackson were sorely grieved and bitterly disappointed at his refusal of the governor ' s chair—both for his sake and for their own. But Jackson did not forget his promise to those who had worked for him. In later years, as the President of this nation, he found enough “cozy corners with which to reward his old friends at Lonesome Camp. 30

Page 34 text:

did not say much—he was evidently waiting ’till he got James alone. Such a bonehead! To spoil the whole paper—and wait till the last minute to do it, too! The Editor was different. She had spirit and showed it. “Why James Goodwin, I’m surprised at you! I’ve got my opinion of a boy that would do such a thing! I suppose the poor girl really cared for you until that quarrel and just as likely as not you quoted everything she ever said to you. No wonder your conscience hurt you, mine would too. Why, I wouldn’t have that story in my paper for anything!” The decision of the Editor was evidently final. Anyway that evening the manager sent the following telegram to the publish¬ ing company:— “Do not print prize story. Am sending another by mail as substitute.” In leaving the telegraph office, the Manager noticed James Goodwin across the street. James had a smile on his face and seemed to be very happy. The next day Jim went fishing. What cared he if the trout didn’t bite! He was at peace with himself and the rest of the world—and he was light-hearted and conscience free, and that went a long way toward making up for the fish. Such fisherman’s luck! He caught five bullheads and one small trout. The creek was evidently “all fished out.” On any other day this would have made him mad and cross—but today— he should worry if they didn’t bite! “I wish I had someone to talk to,” thot James. “ I didn’t know it was so pretty and cool down along this creek bank. Just look at that bunch of ferns, moss and wild violets over there, I mean that bunch at the foot of those redwood trees. Talk about your cultivated flower gardens, you’ve got to get out here in the woods if you want to see real flower gardens and ferneries.” Jim walked on. A bush rabbit hopped across his path. Farther on a chipmunk scrambled up a tree and shook some dead leaves and branches down on him. Everything seemed happy! A flock of black birds flew in from a neighboring grain field and settled in a dead poplar tree. Their bright feathers glistened in the sunshine and their strange chirping filled the air with weird music. A tree toad, clinging to a willow trunk, started a solo, evidently meant to drown the gurgling of the creek, but finished with a lot of hoarse croaking. 32