Analy High School - Azalea Yearbook (Sebastopol, CA)

Page 31 text:

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.

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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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®rabuates W. Alfred Stillings Ruth Churchman Phair Eleanor S. Stillings Wilma K. Overholtzer Elsie Mildred Moore Gretchen Evelyn Tabor Mildred Ethlyn Tabor Lulu V. Wightman Roland S. Carrothers George Herbert Johnson Clarence J. MacKenzie Laurence E. Dayton Philip Lyle Mobley Harvey H. Chinnock Earl V. Erickson S. Albert Martin Eleanor Florence Jewell Dorothy L. Tully Helen Hunt Morford Ella Ruth Harbine Edith B. Ramsey Elizabeth A. McMullen Califern Powell Lee F. Walker Harry J. Borba Fred L. Anderson Lorin Alvin Cranson Genevieve C. Lowary T. Jerome Ames Louis M. Purser Senior Class Flower — Red Rose Senior Class Colors—Red and Green Senior Class Motto—“Sail On, nor Fear to Breast the Sea.” —Longfellow.