Grant High School - Memoirs Yearbook (Portland, OR)

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V. 8. Grant MEMOIRS Page 21 one hundred feet, fifty feet! Closer, closer! I was now but a few feet from the leader and was standing half up in my saddle at one side, my arm raised with the rope in my grasp. I was suddenly aware of hoarse cries in the rear, but I stayed in my saddle and neither turned nor answered. I was now nearly abreast of the beast, and I whirled my arm, then swung. An instant I paused and noted with pride that the noose had landed neatly over the Jersey’s head, and I pulled tight. Then still holding the rope, I turned and lashed the pony with the whip and urged him forward. “Speed, boy, speed!” I whispered and turned the pony away from the chasm. The rope did not cut my hand as I had first surmised for the snorting bull did not hesitate to follow once we had him under control. For one fleeting moment I turned and saw that the whole herd had swerved from the chasm and were all gradually slowing down. I urged the pony on for one more minute; then I let the rope slip from my hand and had the satisfaction of seeing the leader stumble along a few steps then stop and shake his shaggy head from side to side, snorting and stamping angrily. I heard a shout behind me and turned in time to see one of the cowboys riding towards me waving his hat like a madman. I turned and grinned at him cheerfully—then I knew no more. I awoke for the second time that day to find myself riding along with my uncle in his saddle. “How are you. Little Jane?” he said softly and anxiously. I smiled up at him and replied that I was as fine as ever. “And how is the herd?” I inquired, noticing for the first time that the shadows of evening had fallen and that the last rays of a dying sun were just disappearing over the horizon. “With your help, little heroine, they are traveling towards Pete Bronson’s;” then more seriously, “You know, Little Jane, I owe you a great deal for saving my herd. Every last one of them would have fallen into Rocky Canyon if it hadn’t been for you. I—I—can’t tell you, Jane, how—” he broke off with a little catch in his voice. “But aren’t we going towards Mr. Bronson’s, too?” I questioned. He need not have answered, for at that moment I caught sight of our own log cabins and could see a dim outline of my aunt on the porch. I was disappointed at having to miss the trip, but deep down in my heart I was really glad to be home again. I waved to the figure on the porch, and soon we were standing on the steps while uncle explained our hasty return and told auntie to put me to bed. Here I voiced my disapproval and stoutly refused to .go to bed, declaring that I was perfectly all right and needed no sleep. Suddenly a crowd of cowboys rode up to the door and demanded to see the “desert heroine.” I wondered whom they meant and was certainly surprised when uncle brought me forth and told me to “bow nicely to the gentlemen.” The row of smiling faces before me somehow frightened me more than had that herd leader. 1 suddenly ran indoors while a great cheer went up from their lusty cowboy throats. It sounded like a lot of unnecessary noise to me, so I went in and asked Ching Lee to make me some dinner. He grinned broadly at me and answered in his usual sing-song fashion, “Ching Lee make Mees Jane sclumptious dinner?” —Phyllis Calderwood.

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Page 20 MEMOIRS U.8. Grant danced to my room where I joyfully donned my riding breeches and gathered together the things I would need on the trip. About two that afternoon we started off riding in the rear of a great herd of cattle that were hedged in on all sides by cowboys. The afternoon was uneventful, and I thoroughly enjoyed riding along that rolling desert. Great rock cliffs rose on my right and shut off part of the desert, and 1 was informed that we would soon near Rocky Canyon. The heat, combined with the dust and constant riding made me extremely sleepy and I nodded several times in my saddle. Suddenly a low, ominous rumble made me strain forward expectantly while a sudden unaccountable fear clutched at my heart. The heat seemed suddenly intense and the air, dry and dusty. I noticed my uncle start forward hurriedly at the sound and I followed him anxiously. Suddenly again that rumble rent the air, and the great herd of moving cattle quickened their steps. 1 heard uncle giving orders to a nearby cowboy who passed it on to the rest, and 1 wondered what it all meant. 1 hurried up to uncle and inquired as to what was the trouble. At my question he turned a worried, troubled face towards mine and answered briefly, “Possible stampede.” I suddenly felt dizzy and clutched the reins tightly. STAMPEDE! The very thought sent a cold chill down my spine, yet my face was intensely hot. I had read loads of Western stories, nearly all of which contained a stampede, but I certainly never expected to experience the sight of one. A STAMPEDE! And I was in it! I glanced around now thoroughly frightened and saw that the cowboys were trying to stop the ever-increasing speed of the herd. The low rumble had by this time grown to a veritable roar, and I clutched frantically at the pommel. Suddenly a strange thing happened. The leader of the cattle, a large, ring-nosed Jersey, instead of leading the herd forward turned and started towards us! It has always been extremely difficult for me to remember anything that happened after that tense moment, but I can still see that bull in the lead with every follower in the rear swerving in its path and with increasing speed heading straight towards us. I remember somebody yelling in my ear to go to the right, and I suppose I followed out the command for I soon found myself riding with all the speed that my small mustang could muster. I glanced towards the oncoming herd and gasped. They were but two hundred yards away and were coming nearer, nearer! Faster and faster we rode, or rather flew, and my breath now came in short, gasping breaths as I leaned far over the pony. Suddenly, I pulled the reins hard and the pony stopped just at the edge of a deep chasm. My heart sank with a sickening thud, and fearfully I gazed down the rocky gulch. What should I do? It was certainly time for quick action and there was no time to think. A cloud of dust hovered above the crazed cattle, and the stamping of their hoofs on the hard, arid desert could have been heard for miles. A sudden plan took root in my brain and grew as the seconds passed. I glanced about for a rope to use as a lasso and finally found one tied on to the saddle. Even thought I was only fourteen, and a girl at that, I had always been able to throw a fairly good lasso and had often terrified my mother by some of my wild tricks with it. Quickly I untied the rope and made a loosely tied noose while that surging herd crept up inch by inch, foot by foot, two hundred feet,

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Page 22 MEMOIRS V. S. Grant The Sleeping Babe a MASS of tousled, golden curls in bright relief against the snowy pillow; a pair of baby eyes, closed in sound slumber, the dark lashes sweeping the rosy cheeks; a pair of baby lips, rose-red, and parted slightly, as though pausing in the delights of the bottle of milk nestled in the relaxed arms; two little hands, carelessly resting on the pillow and sheet, pausing in their eternal childish business; a little playsuit, rompers of bright pink and waist of snowy white, symbolic of golden play-days; a pair of chubby little legs, dimpled and sturdy, quiet at last from the joyous, never-tiring action of babyhood; two little cherub feet, clad in booties of bright pink; this is the sleeping babe, healthy and cheerful, in one of its pauses in the gleeful play of happy babyhood. -Josephine Oi-sson.