Madera Union High School - Blue and White Yearbook (Madera, CA)

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RTE OILS: AND WHITE 15 Charley and me was appointed the com- mittee to purchase the claim. We found the Perfesser cooking the grub we sent up—he was better already and af- ter a square meal his symptoms mostly dis- appeared. The claim was turned over to us and he left that very day for Snelling, riding on a mule—from the back he looked like Abe Lincoln, Charley says. The boys never said much that night— we was all broke and didn’t have no rosy prospects—but as Charley says, the Per- fesser needed it more than us. Oh, no, the claim wasn’t no good—never figured it would be. Ever hear of the Perfesser again? About a year afterwards, they brought a big bundle up from Stockton and when I opened it I was some surprised to see a big book by the name of ‘‘Foreign Philosophers.” I thought they’d made a mistake until I saw the Perfesser’s name on the cover. It was dedicated to “My Mine on Maxwell’s Creek, which has enabled me to write this book.” The Deserted Village LINTON R. MANTONYA. O Borden, fairest city of the west, Of all the county’s towns you once were best, Before Madera’s prosperous city rose And. brought your business to a speedy close. H’er yet the boundless acres of our west- ern plain Were broken by the plow and sowed with grain, While yet Sierra’s snowy peaks down . On barren desert fields with scarce a town, When yet no pleasant orchards spread their shade. No cooling groves a welcome refuge made For travelers in this new and unknown land, burning sand, looked And breezes swept the burning When firey whirlwinds scourged the dusty plain And all was parched and dry for lack of rain, The pioneers of Borden took their stand To change this desert to a fruitful land; And brought to light by steady patient toil The riches of our greatest mine, Madera’s soil. Soon fields of brown gave place to fields of green little tween And irrigation, watering all the plain, Brought with its welcome floods increasing rain, And thriving farms sprang up and pros- pered till A busy throng did Borden’s markets fill. A blacksmith shop was built, a village store, A fine hotel, a dozen homes or more; The busy streets a fine appearance made And all the countryside went there trade. And thus the village grew and prospered till Madera got her flume and lumber mill. But with the opening of the Sugar Pine Originated Borden’s swift decline, And Borden’s village sank into decay. Madera’s sunrise ended Borden’s day; And all of Borden’s bravest and her best Departed for the new born city in the west. Though many years have passed since Borden’s day, Madera’s boom seems to have come to stay; The products of a thousand farms markets fill And every morning finds her still. And now one’s eyes are greeted by the scene Of pleasant thr iving farms and fields of green, And here and there are shady groves of trees. One’s face is greeted by the cooling breeze That breathes the fragrant breath of new- mown hay; With orchards interspersed be- to her growing

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14 THESPURPRE AND WHITE enough to go home,” he says, “I’d give up writing the book. Won’t you come: jin? And I went in and there was nothing to eat there—I could swear to that, but them Greek books was there. And then he told me how he’d worked and worked and couldn’t make no money, and I was so sorry I got my hat and had business to attend to quick. When I got back to Coulterville that night the boys all joshed Me about my friend the Perfesser, as they called him, but I got up and made a speech and I’ve got just enough Irish in me to orate when necessary. “Boys,” says I, “this here feller’s sick. He ain’t gota thing in his cabin to eat and what’s more he won’t have because he ain’t sot no gold in his hand—you all know that. He ain’t fit for this kind of a life and he wants to go home and he’s got a mother and two sisters back in Boston. Now, boys,” I says, “don’t be pikers. The Perfesser has got to make a strike and make it quick. He won’t take no money from, us—that mine of his has got to pro- Grice I threw a bag of dust on the table and about six or eight of ’em followed suit. T guess they all- felt pretty sorry for the Perfesser when they thought about him. We discussed plans and specifications for about half an hour and then me and Charley Doughtery took the dust and hiked up to the Perfesser’s place. There was a light in the cabin—T suppose he was im- provin’ his mind. We went over by the creek and salted the ground all around, putting the dust down deep, so’s he wouldn’t suspect anything, The next morning me and Charley saunt- ered up to the Perfesser’s place as if we done it by chance. We figured to see him down at the sluice, but he wasn’t there and IT got kinder worried for fear he’d died, Charley pushed the door open. The Per- fesser lay in his bunk—had a fever, face all red, and he was too weak to get up— had a book in one hand but was too weak to read. “Morning!”’ I says, ‘How are you?” He says weak, “‘Can’t work my claim this morning—sick a little.”’ “Quinine and calomel will fix VOU eal Says, but I knew a good square meal and less food for thought was what he needed. “Tf you don’t object, me and Charley will be pleased to work your claim this morn- bel” SES Te “Why if you would,” he says. “It’s too bad to le t it rest— J know there’s gold there but I haven’t got at it yet.” “IT think myself there’s gold there,” T says, looking wise at Charley. We went out to the sluice and had a fine pile of our galted gold in the box pretty prento. It showed up fine and we run up to the cabin quick, Charley laughing to himself all the time. “Look a here, Perfesser,”’ says I, “You didn’t get down deep enough. Here you are!” He was so pleased he set up in bed and smiled and looked WE Major, il knew I had a fortune there,” he says. “Now I can go home.” “We’re some speculators,’ says I, “and will be glad to extend an offer of five hun- dred.”’ We'd fixed on that price as the highest that the combined wealth of Coul- terville could give for a worthless claim, and we felt quite proud, but the Perfesser’s face straightened out and he says, “It’s worth two thousand if it’s worth a dollar!’”’ “But, boys,” Says he after a moment, “seeing all that you’ve done for me, I'll knock off a thousand,”’ and he smiled like a real pheelanthropest. Me and Charley was dumfounded but ag I sez before, there ain’t no Trish pikers, and Charley was Irish, too. “We must confer with our associates,” says Charley. “Ts there anything that you would like to have sent Upsto you?’ “Yes,” he smiled. “Now that I’ve struck it, he says, “you can send up stuff for a square meal.’’ “Very well,’ I Says, and we done it. ® R The boys was a little harder to move this time—none of us had much—mining up there wasn’t sure—all pocket mining— but after a while we raised enough an@

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16 THE RURREE AND WHITE The meadow larks announce the coming day; The fields are clad in verdant beauty, where In Borden’s time the earth dry bare. But Borden, though your village may de- cay. Your ancient glory cannot pass away. Through all the the story shall told, How Borden’s pioneers, in days of old, Transformed a desert to the fruitful land, Where now our thriving farms and cities stand. was and years be A. Strike HAZHL OSBORN. “ZZL“ZZZip bang, I am going on a strike,’ said the old clock in the Assembly Hall. “Oh, don’t,” said the pendulum, “you aren’t a striking clock and it might not be good for you.’’ “T don’t care, I’m tired. I’ve been run- ning ten minutes fast for a whole day and I’m gcing to stop. Today just before noon a tall slim boy and a short boy came up with a big, long stick and pushed my hands up to twelve and | don’t like to rua fast, so there.’’ “Well,” said the tennis pennant on the all, ‘I’m, just about to raise a racket my- rf. The moths are just eating me up ive, and I haven’t had new letters on me for so long I’m terribly out of date. And the worst of it is that next week they g to play for me and maybe some- bedy else will win and I might have to change hands. I hope not. Oh, suppose I'd have to wear a ’13, or a 715, instead of pb Wedd “My head aches,” said the josh box from its corner behind the piano. ‘‘Hveryone semed to have forgotten that I was in ex- istence and the spiders built. webs all over me and I am so afraid of spiders. Then today I got a whole batch of jokes and such jokes! They made my head ache. One of them was, ‘“‘Could Mr. Burrell write peetry if Billy Wood?’ I suppose I suffer in a good cause but I pity the Josh Editor.” se ] any are goir “Hear, hear,” called the dictionary from the reference table. ‘‘I feel worse than any of you. I have lost two leaves today. 1 am in a peculiar position. I am not par- ticular and I don't care a particle for prac- tical philisophical philanthropy.” “Oh, help us,” groaned the latest edi- tion of the “Sporting News.” ‘‘Where did you get those words?’’ “Those are the words on the leaves I lost. I thought I’d see if I could remember. Teday I heard a Senior girl say something like that and a Freshman asked her where she got it and she said, ‘Oh, I swallowed a dictionary and the leaves are coming up.’ I think she must have swallowed my Missing leaves. Anyway I miss them.” “Oh I wish a few more of your leaves were missing,” sighed the ‘‘Pros and Cong’ which was under the dictionary. “I’ve been fastened down here all day. My sides are nearly crushed. A Freshman orator was looking for me today and she couldn’t find me. She was disappointed and so was I.” “Oh, you alf think you are go badly abused, but just look at me,” wailed the old Hneyclopedia Britannica. They all looked. “Am I not a pitiable sight? My covers are tern and battered. I used to be popular but this new Encyclopedia came along, and it looks so nice and new, that nobody likes me any more, and I hate to be slighted. Cobwebs and dust gather on me and 1] don’t like it. Oh, dear,” and it subsided with a pitiable wail. “I guess it’s my turn now,” croaked the old piano. “I am go out of tune I can hard- ly talk but you know I used to be a fine piano. They used to play classical music on me, but now, oh, now they play ragegy, rag- gedy, rag-time and they pound so hard and sing so loud; it seems my head will fly off. But I guess I’ll stop playing. Tomorrow there’ll be no “Steamboat Bill” or “Baby Doll.” “Aw, sick. bunch of grouches interrupted the waste basket. give me the chills. to you. you make me = MON Cut it, get some life in- Don’t be dead heads all yer life. Wot’s de matter wid yez? Yer think he- cause yer a little out of whack everything oughter stop. Ye’d oughter see what those poor Seniors have to do. Then ye wouldn't