Analy High School - Azalea Yearbook (Sebastopol, CA)

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gregor stood at the door with her back turned toward him. She started as his big form loomed up behind her, and her eyes met his beseechingly. The little ‘fresh air summer home’ solicitor stood before her. Her face looked drawn and a little tired, and Macgregor paused. But it was not the solicitor’s tired face that made him pause at that moment, nor his wife’s appealing look. His glance went beyond—, beyond across the porch to the small figure of a little white-faced boy, with a great shock of fair, curly hair and a twisted foot. “He is such a good child,—oh, such a good child,” pleaded the solicitor. “I’m sure he’d give you no trouble, and it’s such a—.” But a loud rasping sound from the back porch drowned her voice. In t he same instant the face of Annie Macgregor went dead-white. “The dog, Jock, the dog,” she gasped. “He is loose. An’ the bairn, the little lad,—Oh, God, save him, save him!” With an oath Macgregor sprang across the porch to the small huddled figure by the post, but-, too late. There was a flash of sable and white, and the great dog lunged past him. The little solicitor screamed, and Annie Macgregor turned her head with a sickening sense of horror. But there came no child¬ ish cry of terror, and, when she looked again, the great dog lay stretched full length on the ground, his massive head resting in the lap of a small boy with a twisted foot, and a great shock of fair hair, while the great fellow’s big, brown eyes stared long and lov¬ ingly into the small face bent above him. “Come in,” said Macgregor gruffly to the little solicitor. “Come in.” It was a half hour later when the little ‘fresh air summer home’ solicitor walked blithely down the Macgregor driveway, leaving behind her a very happy small boy, and a still happier big mastiff dog, with brown eyes luminous with love and adoration. “It’s a bonny wee bairn, he is,” observed Mary Duncan from her window across the hedge. “An’ it’s a happy dog, old Malky is,” replied her husband. For the first time in five years, the days on the Macgregor farm passed too quickly, with a song and glint of sunshine. For the first time the blinds were rolled up,and the sunshine flooded unrestrained into the big old-fashioned rooms. Annie Macgregor walked with a lighter step and a brighter eye, while she cooked, and mended, and washed, and sewed for the little boy with the fair, curly hair, and a twisted foot, and a wonderful love for rang¬ ing the farm over, from the old barn on the southwest corner lot. 12

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The Heart of Macgregor By MARY FELLERS First Prize “That crater’ll kill some’un, some day,” remarked Fergus Duncan to his wife that early summer morning as they sat at the breakfast table. “Oo, he will that,” answered Mary Duncan with a sad shake of her head. “Truly he should be killed himself, Fergus. Why Macgregor himself even daurna’ gang near him. But for the memory of the little laddie-, ah, puir little lad, an’ it is him he is greeting for.” “Aye, aye,” and Fergus’ eyes softened as they glanced again toward the angry mastiff. “An’ it is a changed dog he is sin’ th’ little lad died.” “Ah, an’ a changed mon Macgregor is,” answered Mary Duncan. Across the low hedge in the neighboring yard, the great mas¬ tiff chafed at his collar and tore at his chain. Some one was at the side door. It was the fresh air summer home solicitor, and her high, clear voice carried with aggravating distinctness to the sav¬ age occupant of the big,green kennel. His teeth gleamed fero¬ ciously from their black setting, and the masses of flesh drooping from his jaws quivered with uncontrolled rage. “Shut up, you brute,” growled Macgregor from the kitchen door. He, too, was annoyed by the voice of the little ‘fresh air summer home’ solicitor. It was a child she had with her,—a little white-faced boy, with a great shock of fair curly hair, and a twist¬ ed foot. He had never before been in the country, she said, and oh, his tale was so pitiful. He had dreamed and looked forward to these two weeks in the country for so long, and now that he had really come, they found that there had been a mistake, and there was no place for him. The door between the dining room and the kitchen was open and Macgregor heard each word as though spoken to him. “They tell me you have a big house and no children.” His face darkened and, swinging on his heel, he strode across the kitchen and into the big, spotless dining room. Annie Mac- 11

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to the wooded banks of the gently flowing river on the most north¬ ern boundary. And old Malky,-how he barked, and leapt, and romped and roamed at his new little master’s heels, in happy con¬ trast to the savage brute that had torn at his chain the week be¬ fore! Ah, who knows what little fairy of love and concord had slipped into his old doggie heart, with the coming of the tiny visi¬ tor, and scattered the darksome sprites of lonliness and wrath. Enough it is that his happy bark rang through the orchard as he bounded down the cow path and that it echoed in the hall, as he waited at the foot of the forbidden stairway for the familiar clump, clump of the heavy shoe on the little deformed foot. But as all happy days must pass, the first week flew away, and the first night of the second week came, then the second night, and the third night, and the fourth, and then there was just Sun¬ day, and the last day. On the seventh, little Theo was to say good- by. It was the evening of the last day that they all sat together on the side porch. The sun had been long in setting that night, and its soft warm breath still lay over the earth. Insects buzzed in the honeysuckle vine, and the crickets chorused from the grass- grown ditch by the road. The water from the revolving fountain sprayed in the air, and, descending in a myriad of drops on the leaves of the rose bushes, dripped and drippled in little, round puddles on the soft, damp earth and in the hollows of the uneven brick walk. The air was heavy with the sweet scent of honey¬ suckle, of midsummer roses, of sweet peas that bloomed by the hammock, and with the spicy fragrance of the fir hedge. In his reclining chair behind the screen of vines, Macgregor lay and puffed his pipe, while in the little wicker by the edge of the porch his wife repeated for the third time that night, the little good-night story, that another little boy years before had loved so well to hear. When she finished there was silence on the porch for a long time. The puffing of Macgregor’s pipe, the creak of the little wicker rocker, and the heavy breathing of old Malky mingled in gentle confusion. And the insects buzzed in the honeysuckle, and the crickets chorused from the grass-grown ditch by the road. The tall clock in the hall struck loudly, slowly, one—, two—, three—, four—,like the tolling of a church bell,—five—, six—, seven—, eight—, and nine. The last night of the last week was over. With a long drawn sigh, Theo turned and buried his face in the shaggy mane of his old playmate. “Good-night, old Malky,” he whispered. “Good-night.” His 13