Grants Pass High School - Toka Yearbook (Grants Pass, OR)

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in 2hr aufeti putting it back; but it was gone. Then he had loat his hat one day in going over the rapida, and had borrowed one of Jim Hunt. Aa it was several sizes too small for him it gave the sun a great advantage, which it had improved. His coat was demoralized; his boots had lost the shine that distinguished them on State street. What few effects he had brought with him were either in the hands of the rest of the party, for they had taken charge of the luggage, or—in the hands of his “aboriginal brother!” All would have been well, or endurable, but for the loss of his purse. But he had learned that the appreciation of money is a wide-spread characteristic, being often in curious ratio to its possession, and had no idea there would be any special exception made in his favor. That morning of which 1 speak, his cogitations were something in this wise: “Well, Tom Hamilton, this is rather an interesting state of affairs, Twenty miles from a railway station; no money, no clean clothes, no anything. “It looks like quite a little trip to take on foot. Walking from necessity is a different thing from walking for fun, and when I get to the railroad station I shall probably find that the companies have a habit of charging for a ride; in fact, I don’t know but a man is as well off In the Wisconsin woods without money as anywhere. “I do charge you, Tom Hamilton, with being a tramp. That’s what you are, and now' be true to your character, sir, and make a successful one. Perhaps, however, you would better take an account of stock; In other words, see what your resources are. First, two soiled handkerchiefs, evidence of former respectability; a bit of rhyming, composed and sung by our campfire, evidence of extraordinary mental powrer. No one could read it without pronouncing it a remarkable production. Shakespeare wrote nothing like it. A photograph of Cousin Bessie, showing that I have known the refining influences of female friendship; a copy of Tennyson, showing—don’t know what that does show—haven’t made up my mind; a couple of cigars—blessed be Raleigh! and, oh Lucifer! an empty match box. These are my possessions this a. m. Now here is a little hamlet, where, according to poetic tradition, I ought to find every latch string out, and every man ready to clasp me in his arms and call me brother, ready to share his last crust of bread, and last cup of coffee with me. But I greatly doubt if I find any such thing. I am a disreputable looking creature, but I deny that the apparel proclaims the man in my case.” Tom reconnoitered a little after the fashion of a thorough-bred tramp. One woman offered to give him his breakfast in return for an hour’s devotion to her wood pile, but he fully intended to be consistent, and so declined her offer. He noticed a large, pleasant-looking, white farm house, set well back from the road. The lawn in front was smooth as a floor. He noticed a flower bed, gay with blossoms, in the distance. He saw the hanging baskets on the porch and he looked upon the place as critically as though he had meditated purchasing instead of asking for a breakfast. “This looks Inviting. This house has a fine expression—for houses have expressions as well as their Inmates—and, there is a young lady swinging In the hammock. I konw she is young, for she has on a light blue

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9 U,tjr Uuifca •pnifUipr’a $g Jamrs (fcrut»?B E was hungry. That is not an alarming condition when one is within easy reach of a restaurant or the home table. But hungry, cold and not over clean in a little Wisconsin settlement, without a cent in one’s pocket is, to anyone but your professional tramp, an embarrassing position. It was in just that situation that Tom Hamilton found himself one summer morning not so many years ago. He had been up in the mountains hunting and fishing with his friends and two Ipdian guides. They had spent three or four weeks among the famous troi0 streams of Wisconsin and were now returning home. They had walked part of the way and ridden the rest in excruciating wagons and over diabolic roads—or no roads at all; had made friends with two noble red men who se y d them as guides in the ways that were dark to their city trained eyes, and whose admiration they had won by their skill in catching the sparkling beauties and by their appreciation of Indian cookery. They were learned in all wood and water craft and wore solemn, mysterious expressions, as though they had promised nature not to betray any of her secrets. They were strong, not lazier than their white brothers, did not drink, told the truth, when it was not too great an inconvenience, and would have been passably good Christians but for their heretical views on the subject of cleanliness, and their firmly grounded objections to the use of comb and brush. At last these pleasure seekers separated. They had worked harder and endured more in their search for rest and pleasure than they had ever done; but they had had a splendid time. Tom’s vacation had not quite ended, so he was to remain a little longer. They tried to persuade him to go; but he said, “No, boys, let me stay as long as I can with my original mother and my aboriginal brothers. No conventionalities to bother me, no pie to haunt my dreams—and all the freedom of solitude!” Jim Hunt suggested that mosquitoes answered every purpose, but Tom was in too ecstatic a frame of mind to hear. But a succession of misfortunes befell Tom. First, John, who had promised faithfully to be his companion for another week, suddenly changed his mind. A red brother had notified him of another party who wanted a guide, and he showed his business talent by performing the work that had the most money in it. This he denied, however; said he was much tired,” but as he ate well and looked capable of tearing the very trees up by their roots, Tom had grave doubts as to his weariness, but the red man repeated the statement with a face so solemn, and an accent so impressive, that Tom believed, knowing all the time he lied. The next day he discovered that he had lost his purse. He had had It out of his pocket when he settled” with John, though he remembered

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£EIjf anka 11 drees, and any one not young ought to know better than to wear light blue. She also has fair hair and blue or gray eyes. “This is a somewhat ridiculous way for a hungry man and a temporary beggar to reason, but it shows that my exposures and privations have not impaired my powerful intellect.” He tried hla fate at the kitchen door. ‘‘Sure, iow, it’s hungry you are, and it’s something to ate ye’re wantin’?” “If you please.” ”Thin I’ll be askin’ the mistress.” ‘‘Can’t you give me something without?” Ave coorse I could, young man, but it’s Nora O’Flaherty that obeys orders. Certainly, Nora, give him something’,’ he heard a sweet voice say in answer to Nora’s inquiry. ‘‘What sort of a looking man is he?’ ‘‘Ah, Miss Penelope, he’s a wicked lookin’ chap, wid the blackest eyes 1 ever see in a living cratur’s head, and he just takes in everything at a glance. I’m afraid he’s a thafe, Miss Penelope.” ‘‘Did you leave him alone?” ‘‘Not I, Maggie is there, and she’ll kape her two eyes on him.” ‘‘Go and give him something to eat and I’ll come out and take a look at him. But watch him carefully. In a minute or two more, Tom was sitting on the back porch eating a bowl of bread and milk and blackberries. Nora had given him a seat at the kitchen table, and had set forth other food, but he had taken this pastoral dish and retired to the porch. “He may be a dacent fellow ater all,” Nora thought. Pretty Boon he saw approaching him as fair a vision as had greeted his eyes for many a day. It soon materialized into a dainty little bit of feminity, apparently about nineteen, with a cloud of light brown hair, large hazel eyes and a sweet but resolute looking mouth. She wore a light blue morning dress; had a rose tucked in her belt and a book in her hand. Tom spilled the milk he was carrying to his mouth, adding greatly to his discomfiture, but not at all to his appearance. Milk doesn’t enhance the beauty of a black mustache and whiskers. The girl took a chair a little distance from him, gave him a quick glance, in which there was sympathy and distrust mingled, the sympathy predominating, and said, ‘‘Good morning!” ‘‘Good morning, madam!” ‘‘Have you walked far?” ‘‘Quite a distance.” ‘‘You look tired. No response. Tom thought if that were the worst thing that could be said of his looks, he would be thankful. ‘‘Are you looking for work?” she asked. ‘‘Yes, ma’am.” he answered, boldly. ‘‘Do you understand farm work?” ‘‘Some kinds.” ‘‘My father is in need of help. He is away from home for a few hours, but if you are inclined to wait till he returns, I think he would give you something to do. But—perhaps you were going somewhere in particular.”