Analy High School - Azalea Yearbook (Sebastopol, CA)

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arms clung passionately about the dog ' s neck, and his lips lay on one velvety ear. “Good-night,” he whispered again. “Malky, old boy, good-night.” Then with burning eyes and swelling throat, he followed Mrs. Macgregor into the big, wide hall, up the winding stairway and into the little brown bedroom that had once been that other little boy ' s. She pulled up the covers about him tenderly, kissed him once—, twice, and then left him alone in the great, empty dark. It seemed to Annie Macgregor that she had been asleep a long time that night when she was suddenly awakened. What im¬ pelled her, she never knew, but before she scarcely realized that she was awake she had slipped out of bed and stolen into the little room across the hall. With trembling fingers she turned up the light, and then for one moment her heart stood still. The little, white bed was empty. It was but a moment ' s work to rouse her husband, and to¬ gether they searched the great house from attic to cellar, but the small white-clad form of little Theo was no where to be found. “Oh, where can he be, Jock?” sobbed Annie at last. “Oh, where can he be?” “Why Annie ' ooman,” exclaimed Macgregor, and his voice was very gentle as he laid his hand on her hair. “Dinna greet. We will find him. Dootless he ' s been walking in his sleep, as wee Dannie used t ' dae. Dinna remember? We will loose old Malky an ' he will find him.” The suggestion was like tonic to her sinking heart. With renewed hope, she sprang up again. Lantern in hand and cloaks drawn about them they stole out in the midnight stillness to the big, green kennel by the back porch. There was a little movement within in answer to Macgregor’s low call, but that was all. Set¬ ting down the lantern, he stooped to the low door, and then drew back with an exlamation. There with his tiny arms entwined about the dog ' s neck, and fair, curly head on the dog’s warm breast, lay the little white-clad form of the child they were seek¬ ing. A great lump rose in Macgregor ' s throat, and a strange mist dimmed his eyes. “Puir, wee bairn,” he whispered tenderly. “Puir, wee bairn. ‘Twere a peety to take him awa ' .” And in the gray of the early dawn, they slipped back into the house and left him with his playmate. “An ' its a changed dog, old Malky is,” observed good Mary Duncan from her window over the hedge many weeks later, “sin ' the bairn came.” “Aye, an’ it ' s a changed mon Macgregor is sin ' they decided to keep him,” added her husband. 14

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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

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The Song of the Pines By LUCILLE SCOTT Second Prize What is the story the pines tell as they rustle and nod at each other, whispering so mysteriously all the while ? Perhaps a story of youth, love and happiness; perhaps a story of sorrow, pain and disaster. One moment light and joyously they whisper in the breeze, another, eerily and gayly, and then they sigh as if in sor¬ row or pain, and all who hear them feel opressed. Day after day, over and over again, they sing their songs taken from the book of Life, and little children listen to their song of joy, and lovers, strolling beneath their rustling branches, smile at each other as they hear the song of love. But when they change their song to one of sorrow they hasten away, forgetting that all cannot be love and happiness, and that sorrow and pain must come to everyone. But -why do the pines sing these songs? Why are they al¬ ways whispering these stories of life,—these stories of joy and love, sorrow and sadness? We all wonder, but not many know; this is the story I heard long ago, told me by an old, white haired lady, beloved by all, who, although her face was wrinkled and lined with care, nevertheless had the light of love, rest and peace in her eyes, for she had lived the book of Life, chapter by chapter, and had at length found complete happiness. Long, long ago, far away in the middle of the blue sea, lay the oeautiful island of “Joy,” like a glittering emerald, for it was covered with forests, and on its shores there were always flowers blooming. On this island no sorrow, sickness or hatred ever dwelt, and all were happy and carefree, for this was the only world known to the inhabitants, and they longed for none other. Perhaps they wondered, as they gazed far away over the sea, if there was another land remote from them, but they were happy where they were, and no longing for other things filled their breasts. But one day to this island, where summer reigned all the year, there came an old, white-bearded man, bent over with age, and leaning heavily on his staff. The people gazed at him in awe, for they knew that he must have come from the heavens, and they 15