Alameda High School - Acorn Yearbook (Alameda, CA)

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The Tapestry Forest HE LITTLE BOY was very tired. The long gloaming hour in which he had been accustomed to slip away to his tower-room, high up with the birds, and play softly on his violin, was a strange new time now, that slipped in through the half-open windows, filling the corners with grey ghosts, and sending him to croueh before the fire in the bleak library. The warm flames, leaping gaily in their cage, made the wierd shadows draw back a little. The shadows were only cowards, he knew, that the music of his violin sent flying away, but now he was unprotected, for his father had taken away his fiddle and told him to be off and study. Had he really burnt it? Or had he only threat- ened? But the Little Boy's heart was very heavy as he thought of how carefully he had searched without finding his violin. He had searched the whloe house, except- He scrambled to his feet and ran down the long hall where the shadows were so black. Who knew what the whiteness moving in the corner by the stairs might be? It might hide the goblin man that his nurse had warned him of. With his hands on the knob of the door he paused, casting a fearful glance back down the shadowy passage. No, the goblin was not coming this time. He might venture in, The little door creaked as his furtive hand pushed it open. The room was very grey and lonely in the winter twilight. His mother's study! How very seldom had the room been entered since the day his sweet, young mother lay white and still on the sofa, while the flames in the fireplace flickered lower and lower, and at last died away under the rush of the lonely shadows. The room was the same, but strangely different, he saw, as he looked about him. The tapestry on the wall still showed the same green forest, with the brown butterflies among the trees, the couch with its soft cushions was still drawn up before the fireplace, but the grate was cold and there was no nook big enough to hide his violin. He sighed and turned to retrace the long dark passage before his father eame to catch him there. But as he touched the door-knob, the faintest breath of rose-leaves reached him, bringing a sudden memory. He had been a very little boy when he had come into the study one evening just at candle lighting time, to find his mother lying on the sofa, all alone. The faint scent of roses hung about her as she put out her hand to him and smiled. He could feel the softness of the silk of her robe as he nestled down beside hen. ' Little son of mine, she had whispered, you'll be all alone, soon. VVill you find the tapestry forest, sweetheart, I wonder? And he had run away to play, and when he came back the petals of the pink roses that had drooped over the couch lay in a fragrant shower on the floor and his mother would not answer him. The Vague perfume was gone again, but it left a great lump in his throat. He went across the room and climbed upon the sofa, snuggling down among the cush- ions. Some way it seemed to bring his mother nearer, and he missed his violin less. The big tears slipped down his cheeks without softening they ache in his throat. Gradually the mystery of the room wove a soft spell about him. He had watched the trees waving in the light breeze for quite a time before the brown butterfly came hovering past him. It sailed so slowly that he could not resist the temptation to chase it down the long forest aisle that opened so invitingly Page Sixteen ' THE ACORN

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before him. Despite its slowness, the butterfly flew high, and finally vanished among the tree tops. Forgetful of everything but the woods and the butterfly, the Little Boy ran on down the soft wood path, until, all at once, he found himself in a rose garden, pink with flowers, golden with sunshine, all a-flutter with gay butter- flies, and best of all, a little girl with yellow hair and a dress as pink as the roses, was filling her sunbonnet with the fallen rose petals. She looked up at him with- out surprise and smiledr. b HelIo! she said. ' ' Smitten with sudden shyness, the Little Boy could only stand and stare at her dumbly. She returned his crutiny with grave, brown eyes, until she was recalled to her work by a soft petal falling on her upturned face. Encouraged by her silence, the Little Boy came forward a few steps. Can I do that, too? he asked. If you've got something to put them in, she nodded. . The Little Boy found his handkerchief and worked in silence for a few min- utes. Then curiosity overcame his bashfulness. A What do you do with them when you have' them all picked up? Take them to the Pretty Lady, replied the little girl. She puts them into big jars, and when she has enough, she kisses them, and they fly away. Where to? Out to the world, she says, answered the Little Girl, and she told us once that they all made some great singer's voice. Oh, won't she send some to me? cried the Little Boy. Then I won't miss my violin so much I ' Put your leaves in here and we'll go and ask her, said the the Little Girl. Eagerly the Little Boy took the pink bonnet string she held out to him, but his toe caught in the moss, and he fell, flinging the petals in a scattered shower on the ground. Wake up, do wake upl What will your father say? The Little Boy sat up unwillingly and looked at the housekeeper, with dazed evcs. I spilled all the rose leaves, he said. But the housekeeper was half leading, half' dragging him down' the hall and did not hear. You naughty boy, she scolded, how could you go to sleep there, and scare us all so! It's lucky for you that your father didn't catch you there. Hurry and dress for dinner I But despite her warning, the next evening found the Little Boy slipping down the long hall to the study. Scarcely had his eyes closed when he found himself running down the wood path. The Little Girl was waiting for him there, and they played hide and seek among the big pink roses, which were the golden notes of great singers, and chased the .,butterflies, that were the fluttering hearts of pretty ladies, and waded in the little brook, that was the laughter of children. Once he had learned the way, he went often, forgetting lost violin, and angry father in the joy of' playing there. But always hevwoke too soon! Always came back from the tapestry forest before he was ready. For the desire of his heart was to find the Pretty Lady and ask her to send hin1 the rose leaves. But he never could get beyond the last bend in the trail that led to her! He always awoke to find the dark creeping into the study and the big machine that brought his father purring under the window. And then, one day, his father sent fo1' him to come to the great library during 'PHE ACORN Page swenteen