Cloverdale Union High School - Spectator Yearbook (Cloverdale, CA)

Page 27 text:

I slowly opened my eyes at last And all around me poppies grew. M. T., ’13. Just then Maud’s husband came out into the garden to say that both the children were crying and that he smelled the cake she was baking for their party that afternoon burning in the oven. z ! 25

Page 26 text:

Who’d seen at the wheel an old friend—T. Brush. The car was filled with people you know— Evelyn Smith, and Florence Lyle, Delmar Vassar, quite the beau, All togged up in the latest style; Anita Grant, and Lola Lea, Married and chaperoning, and so Trying to act with dignity. Browne fined them ten dollars and let them go. As next day in the train our traveler sat, A man stopped before her, “Fare if you please;” The voice was familiar—still thin as a rat, Clyde Burgess, conductor, seemed quite at his ease. The brakeman now entered, and what do you think! Ihough bearded and whiskered, she saw from afar It was our old friend Jonathan Sink; He told of some others in the next car: Frank Belford, dentist, at his side Clara B, Ethel Graham, her husband and children five. Gertrude L. famed from sea to sea As the greatest prima donna alive— He broke off and darted to the door, The train stopped, Presley Abshire clambered on. He had been upon a man of war, And the sailor was now returning home. Before the train started on again A sign across the street she spied, Old maids’ home;” John was waving with might and main, And signals from the house replied. In the door, her hair done up in curls, Ruth Belcher stood with another girl, Nettie Beasley, still looking prim, But waving away with plenty of vim, As slowly the train from the station passed. Where it went I knew not for a dimness came 24

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A Glimpse of Cloverdale One day in answer to the alluring summons of spring I found myself rambling over a low range of hills to the east of Clover- dale. On a spur I stopped in ecstasy. Below me wrapped in morning sunshine encircled by mountains, seemingly asleep under the soft blue canopy of the sky was the prettiest little town I have ever seen; shut in from the outer world by its cordon of mountains, it lay as if under a spell of enchantment Most of the houses, nestled among trees, were half hidden from view, but a few of the public buildings were plainly visible. To the south the rectangular block of the town pa vilion overtopped by the roofs of neighboring hotels; to the north the irregular shape of the school building sentineled by a squad of sturdy oaks. Close by on a knoll to my left stood the tall white monuments of the cemetery, fantastic shapes; a party of ghosts come out for a noonday bath in the warm, inviting sunshine. Below the town, winding in and out like a silver thread through the valley, flowed the beautiful Russian River. Brown vineyards and orchards just bursting into bloom stretched away from the outskirts of Cloverdale. Behind these rose on all sides steep rugged mountains covered with fir and redwood, their peaks half hidden in a soft blue haze. Turning away from the valley, I confronted the rocky sum¬ mit of Lone Pine Mountain where it cut the horizon. At its foot were the blue rocks of Sulphur Creek, and toward these I directed my foot steps. Spreading oaks waved their branches above me as I passed down over a carpet of soft green grass dotted here and there with buttercups and shooting stars.° Gertrude Ludwig, ’13 26