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

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THE SPECTATOR Another gondola glides swiftly by and soft music comes from the hold of the boat. The occupants, too, have seen the face, for one exclaims: “Mother of Mary! A beautiful face indeed! What say you, Ronaudo?” That is beyond speech, Vertilio. Her face enchants me beyond words. Follow that gondola, Pedro, and I will promise you much money.” But the boat glides swiftly by and stops at a building where strains of music steal out into the dusk and gay laughter echoes from its walls. A feminine figure alights from the gondola and disappears into the building. A shining object lies on the floor, twinkling away in the darkness. “Ronaudo, she goes forth to the ball! But we will find her, if you wish for one more glance. Her face enchants even me. But first, Ronaudo, have you forgotten Maria? No hope will you ever have to speak to her, should she see you following an unknown woman. Have you thought of this, Ronaudo?” “That I have thought of, but I will find this rose figure. Look at each lady’s feet and see if the mate to this buckle can be found. I, too, will look.” “That is she, Ronaudo. Into the rose garden? Are you going there? You can have one glimpse of her face when the masks are off.” With joy in his heart Ronaudo went into the garden and under an arbor he saw the rose figure. The cloak had fallen to the floor and number- less petals of roses covered her. One black slipper was thrust forward, minus one silver buckle. A great clock in the ballroom boomed out twelve strokes. “All masks off, little lady, and let me see your face.” The mask dropped from the eyes and Ronaudo stepped back with an exclamation, for he looked into the eyes of Maria, who, with a smile on her face, stretched forth her hand and said: “My buckle, if you please, Ronaudo.” Oria Orr Jilted (A Story of Olden Times) ne evening as dusk was falling and the sky was faintly tinged with the sunset, I strolled into a country churchyard. It stood on a knoll, around which a tiny stream made a beauti¬ ful bend and then wound its way through the low, green meadows. Aimlessly I wandered among the graves, reading an inscription now and then, when the words, “James Blakely, aged 21 years, 3 months,” caught my eye. I stopped and began idly to wonder what he M

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THE SPECTATOR TCfUTIMC venae The Silver Buc le he white swan drifts slowly along the water’s edge, gliding in among the water lilies, lifting its graceful head now and then and dipping its bill into the clear, smooth water. A gondola drifts slowly by, the steady dip of the oars breaking the stillness of the scene. Voices issue from the inside of the boat as it moves slowly along the bank until it reaches a house situated along the water’s edge. As the gondola stops, two figures alight, a man and a woman. They move toward the building and the woman speaks rapidly: “Now you see, Vertilio, we have quarreled. I, in a fit of anger, told him that I would never speak to him again, so he left the house and I have never seen him since that day. It was entirely my fault and I will tell him so. But remember, Vertilio, I must have your help. You will give it, won’t you, Vertilio?” “Of a certainty, Maria, I will give my help. I shall enjoy this adventure for I am sure he will fall into the trap. But I must go now, Maria—and do not forget the buckle.” “I will remember, Vertilio. You will find me in the rose garden. Go now, for I must get ready for the occasion.” Night has crept softly over the land and with her dusk-colored wings she folds it in her embrace. The city is preparing for a night’s revelry, for gay-colored lanterns adorn every building. Truly it is a Venetian city. A gondola passes by. A woman’s face of ivory whiteness, with a touch of bloom upon her cheeks, is seen for one instant; the eyes are hidden by a black satin mask and the figure is shrouded in a dark, old rose cape.

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THE SPECTATOR had been like—why he had died so young. Then, in the midst of my meditations, I heard a soft step behind me. On turning I beheld in the gathering dusk a beautiful girl, tall, lithe, with soft brown hair, a rather pale face and glorious brown eyes—yet in their depths lurked an indescrib ' able sadness. In her arms she held great clusters of roses. “Good evening,” she murmured. Then, on seeing that I had been reading the inscription, she asked, “Did you know Jim Blakely?” Upon my answering, “No,” she said, “Then you are a stranger?” “Yes. The name attracted me somehow, I don’t know why, and I was wondering what his story had been.” “ It is a sad, sad story,” she replied slowly, as she dropped to her knees and began to arrange the flowers. “Jim and I were children together—we were playmates. We loved the same things, the meadows, the birds, the flowers and especially—roses. “As we grew older we gave up our play, but our friendship remained— we were still companions. We would sit and talk in the evenings or walk by the stream in the meadow or in the woods. Jim had grown tall and handsome. He had raven black hair and great dark eyes. “Then one day there came a girl from the city. She said she had come for a rest. She amused herself with Jim. He believed that she was sincere, but when the time came for her to leave, she laughed at him and called him a ’fool.’ “Months passed. One evening, while I was sitting on the rose-covered porch of my home, someone stopped at the garden gate, then came slowly up the path. I rose—it was Jim, but not the Jim I had known. He was thin, oh, so white and thin. His eyes, once so merry, had become, in a few short months, black pools of sadness. “We sat on the steps in the twilight and he told me all—how she had scorned and laughed at him; the terrible hardships and privations he had suffered. Then when he was leaving, as we stood on the steps, under the roses, he whispered hoarsely: “ ’ I trusted her, because I thought she was like you—pure as the roses.’ “After he was gone I realised that his sorrow was killing Jim—and I was right, it was Jim’s last night on earth. “You see, ” she explained, as she knelt in the gathering darkness with her head bowed over the roses, “ Jim wasn’t used to the ways of the world— he took things so to heart.” M Irnita McPhail