Analy High School - Azalea Yearbook (Sebastopol, CA)

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heart. “I didn’t think it of you, French! You’ve got me, boy. Your knife trick I forgot. Doctor,” lie said, after a pause, speaking to an anxious-eyed old man who held him on his side, ‘‘Doctor, do you remember when we first looked upon La Fon¬ taine! And when I told you of my theory of this northern life; that it was the survival of the fittest! I hope you can see now that I was right. I cannot-” ‘‘Helbert, you’ll be all right again,” interposed the other. •‘Courage, lad, for you’re not hurt so badly.” ‘‘No, Doc, I’m not hurt so badly—maybe—but I’m goin’ just the same. And, Doc, it’s great. I never felt happier in my life. We are born to die, Doc; then why should we fear it! Life is an uncertainty and all must end; that’s what makes us value life, as I have said before, the uncertainty. I lived, and how I loved to live, but now in death I must find a greater thing. Forgive me, Old Man, if I seem a fatalist, and forgive me for not being more than what I have. But, Doc, after you have lived here as long as I , you’ll see that I am right.” ‘‘Now, Doc,” he concluded with a weary smile, “I’m get- tin’ weaker and I’ve a word for French Le Due—in private— so take the rest and leave us—Ood—goodbye, Old Man, until we meet again.” Some one coughed and Spike-eye sniffed and wiped his nose upon his sleeve and cursed a strong, sad curse just to him¬ self, and all passed from the room save French Le Due. For ,a time both men were silent and looked towards the fire and seemed to dream of something far beyond the coals— perhaps of where the guns hung on the walls, and the skins of otter, fox and cat—as did Maine’s. “French, it’s La Fontaine,” at last said Hell Delane, look¬ ing in the fire. “It’s of La Fontaine, and you and I wish to speak. I went to college, French, down in the States, and fail¬ ing in my work, I came up north an outcast—or at least I thought I was. I’ve fought and killed and sinned and cursed— and lived! God, how I’ve lived! Last spring, way down in Kiskanook, I met Fontaine, and since then I have thought I loved. But, French, as some one said tonight, we were never born to have a home, nor mate, nor love. We’re simply the dog wolf pack of the humans of the north—and I was the fool to believe I ever loved! And tonight! Well, of tonight we’ll not speak of who was wrong or who was right, for you got me 24

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care, for no one moved or offered up his chair. Delane and Spike-eye shared a fag and threw a log upon the fire. “Hommes, eet ezz ma femme—she come fer me, Le Due,” stated French to get their notice. ‘‘Make way ’long side the fire fer she eez col’.” ‘‘Dis way, Fontaine,” he cautioned, ‘‘Fontaine—” “Who in hell are you calling Fontaine, Le Due!” burst out Hell Delane, leaping from his seat. “Ma femme, my woman, Monsieur!” answered French Le Due in cool, even tones, looking the other squarely in the eye. “She ezz my woman—La Fontaine!” “The hell she is,” sneered Delane. “You low-down, lousy whelp of a French wolf—you mean to say that she is yours? Damn you, you sneaking coward, you would cut my throat the while I slept! I see it now. You’re the one that played that stunt on me at Berger’s place the other night. You thought, perhaps, that I might well forget in time—but no, I don’t for¬ get. I blamed Fontaine at the time, but since I’ve forgiven her.” Delane paused and, looking his man in the eye, he stared an even steady glare. How like a great brute he seemed, his lean thong-like muscles quivering along his half-bare arms while the features of his face stood in bold relief, cold, forbid¬ ding as though chiseled from steel; the one men feared as the Death Wind of the north. “You poor devil you, Le Due!” he said, almost piteously. “You said I couldn’t lift eight hundred weight at Berger’s place that night. And at the man’s own game I did. You failed, and tried me for revenge. Ha! ha ! you, though weaker, think you’re greater, eh? And that you’d blackmail me to La Fontaine? Ha-ha-ha,” and he laught’ed a hard, fanatical laugh that made the others shift from foot to foot uncannily. “Well, we’ll play the cat anr rat, will you and me! We’ll make a hell room of this place!” He leapt out for the other. Le Due waylaid his aim—and a knife spun on the floor, its handle downward—and then he fell. For a time he lay there silent and the others watched Le Due, who grinned a fiendish grin and watched the other where he fell “Ha-ha-ha!” Delane rolled over on his side and looked and laughed at him, the blood running from his lips, as he held the handle of the knife that stuck to the hilt just beneath his 23

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—it was my turn, for I had got the rest—and now I’m going, French, old boy,” and he whispered low and feebly, “French, all I ask is don’t forget the shanty near the Hudson when its mating time in spring, and little La Fontaine—your femme— the petite spirit of the house. So long—I’m happy—yes—I’m happy to be gone. ’ ’ To The Wind of Night By DON WALKER (Prize Poem) What spirit thou aroam tonight O’er plains and hills and vales; What spirit thou that in thy flight, Like a phantom passing through the night, Haunts all the outland trails? The sullen pines are wont to moan In sad satiety, And among the crags and rocky jags, Like fitful tunes from the piper’s bags, Still almost piously. Come gentle tunes, and each one sad, Like some forgotten hymn; 0 Wind of Night—thou spirit of flight Dost thou come, and the pale star light, To watch and sing for Him? 25