Analy High School - Azalea Yearbook (Sebastopol, CA)

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He had gone but a short way when the vaquero rode by, his silver saddle gleaming in the sun. The old Don could not fore¬ bear shaking his fist at him, and, seeing this, the vaquero turned and said: “But, Senor, did you not say no matter whose cattle the lasso fell on?” And with a hearty laugh he rode swiftly on. “That is the story, my friends, of old Mendez, the tightest man in California.” There was silence for a few minutes after Don Pedro had finished his story. The fog had enveloped everything in sight, and the moon shone through, piercing the haze only in spots. Then, as if suddenly recalled from the dream of Mendez, the little group arose, and, with murmured “buenas noches,” went to their beds, the traveler to his well-earned rest, the monks to dream of future conquests of heathen, little dreaming that within half a decade a new race would conquer this fair land, leaving their conquests and civilization only a memory of the past. 3ln garths of JUar Somewhere the night wind calls, Somewhere a comrade falls Deep in the reeking walls Of trenches—yonder. Somewhere fond prayers arise; Welling mother eyes; Tears melt with longing sighs From hearts that wander. Somewhere a nation’s guide, Pilot on wild seas wide, Peers from the calmer tide Through loud waves gleaming. Somewhere a kindly shrine With brother-light divine Shall soothe the broken line Victorious streaming. Rise, then, thou land of gold, Laden with might they hold, Forget greed’s gain untold; Love’s call is grander! —Laurence E. Dayton, ’ 18 .

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pie trick of annexing some of his neighbor’s cattle that ranged on the hills above the town. But who would do this little job ? He couldn’t, for Senor Mendez had too much dignity to be seen in the wee small hours of the night with some of his neighbor’s hides dangling over the saddle. Again he solved that problem, for in Yerba Buena there lived a happy-go-lucky vaquero who had done several small jobs for Senor Mendez of the same order. Next day Mendez ' summoned the vaquero to his house, and after talking weather and the price of hides for a few minutes, asked the rider if he would like a new silver saddle. “Surely,” he replied, “but how am I to get one without money!” “Well,” said the crafty Mendez, “take your lasso tonight, and, no matter on whose cattle it falls, bring me twenty hides, and a silver saddle will be yours. Do you understand!” “Si, Senor.” And the vaquero rode off whistling . The next night when all was still he rode out on the range and separated twenty cattle, roped, and, with the ease of long practice, bad them killed and skinned before the sky had paled, and was riding to the house of Mendez. All was well and good. Mendez, true to his promise, gave the vaquero his saddle with silver trimmings and l ' eceived the hides, which were then placed in the storeroom. That morning Mendez’s cows did not come home. His rid¬ ers failed to locate them, until, driven to desperation, Mendez looked high and low. Still no cows could be found. When evening arrived and the missing cows did not show up a flood of light dawned upon Mendez, and he rushed from the house to find the vaquero. He found him in front of the store, showing his new saddle to several envious ones, and rushed at him in a towering rage. “Where are my cows?” de¬ manded the old Don. A rather shame-faced grin came upon the face of the rider as he replied: “Their hides are in the storeroom, Senor Mendez.” It didn’t seem as if Mendez could get madder, but somehow he managed to do so. He raved, ranted and raged and poured blasphemies upon the rider’s head. The little group had soon grown to a crowd, they, soon learning of the fate of the Don’s cows, roared in laughter at the joke. At length, unable to stand the laughter, Mendez ' turned and stalked homeward with all the dignity lie could summon.

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Pinto Come on, Pinto, let’s be driftin’; The clouds are a-gatherin’ and th’ wind’s a-shiftin’; Soon it’ll be gettin’ pow’ful cold, And, Pinto, we’re both a-gettin’ old. You ain’t th’ top-hoss nag You uster be, For Time’s got your brandin’ tag, The same as me; An’ th’ years have passed us by— My back’s a-crook; No use, we can’t deny The’ ol’-time book. You’re nothin’ more than a trail-worn nag An’ so darned skinny your back’s a-sag; But don’t worry, we’ll soon go ride Fer the Big Range Boss on the Great Divide. We’d better move a bit; You’re stiff, I know, But then we’d better git, Cause thar’II be snow— Then goin’ ’ll be awful bad; An’ if we stay, ’Fore long we’ll wish we had— Let’s drift away. But soon upon that cheerless trail, The sad winds all amoan, A horseman and a pinto, with old and tattered hide, Sped fast upon the seething gale To the land of the Great Unknown, To ride there for the Range Boss upon the Great Divide. —Don Walker, ’20.