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

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tEhp anka 13 tramp who understood opera music. No! certainly not in this country! Madam,” Tom said gravely, ‘You know the poet says, ‘Things are not what they seem.’ I am a living {lustration of the truth of that statement. I don't know whether or not I can prove that to you. However, such credentials as I have I lay at your feet,” and Tom solemnly took from his pocket the soiled handkerchiefs, the picture, the copy of Tennyson, the two cigars, and the empty match box. My name is Thomas Brooks Hamilton. I live and practice law in Chicago, as did my father before me. I have wandered like a lost sheep for a day and night in the woods near here, in consequence of an injudicious love of nature, and an unwise reliance upon her creatures.” He handed her the copy of Tennyson and the picture. She glanced at the book, saw the name written in it. laid it down; but when she looked at the photograph, she cried out, Bessie Granger,” and with the impulsiveness of a girl of eighteen, carried the picture to her lips and gave it a kiss that made Tom wish himself a small piece of pasteboard for a moment. Why this is the picture of Bessie, my room mate at Vassar, and you must be her cousin Tom, of whom I’ve heard her talk so much!” The same,” with a profound bow. Penelope held out her hands to him impulsively: “To think that I should have given Bessie’s cousin his breakfast on the back porch and told the servant’s to keep an eye on him! It’s incredible!” and they both laughed heartily, which banished the last trace of embarrassment and formality. When Penelope’s father came home an hour later he was astonished beyond measure to find his daughter sitting on the piazza, reading aloud to a demoralized youth, comfortably ensconed in an easy chair placed at a respectful distance. His first thought was that Penelope had found some one on whom to experiment in a philanthropic way. She was probably trying to sow good seed in very poor soil; but he was soon disabused of the idea, as their merry laughter and chatter reached his earc. He was not long in making investigations, which were, as we can understand, perfectly satisfactory. Tom told his story; Penelope supplemented it with an account of her suspicions and Nora’s watchfulness. He said: Since I am again within the pale of good society. I find that the demand of an ’effete civilization’ are strong upon me. 1 can think of nothing that would go so far to reinstate me in my own good opinion as a bath.” Mr. Arnold escorted him to his son’s room, and placed it, including the belongings, at Tom’s disposal. The erst-while tramp accepted Mr. Arnold’s invitation to spend a few days with them. “For truly,” said the host, “You are the most delightful tramp we ever entertained; your going astray has brought us great pleasure.” There followed three delightful days; days filled with music and mirth and converse sweet; days golden with heart sunshine, radiant with budding hopes; days love crowned and joyous. Then Tom rode away with the copy of Tennyson in his pocket and the bliss of a hundred summers in his heart, for Penelope had heard his last request as graciously as she had his first, proving how genuine and far-reaching In its limits was her philanthropy.

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12 ah? uuka No, ma’am, I was not, ami 1 will be glad to wait.” The truth was Tom had fallen in “lore at first sight” with the blue-robed maiden and enjoyed the sensation; and, though at this moment he would have given half a year's income for a change of raiment, he still felt grateful to the fate that had led, or misled, him to this spot. After he had finished his breakfast, he told Penelope that if there was any little piece of work he could do while he awaited hir father’s return, he was ready to undertake it. Penelope didn’t know. She thought there must be something, but she didn’t know just what. She tried to be very dignified and very businesslike, and failed completely. Finally she said that if he understood using the lawn mower he might employ himself in mowing the lawn for a while. Father is very particular about the lawn,” she said. Tom could easily believe it, for it was already as smooth as a carpet; and he begau his work somewhat cautiously, it must be confessed. Fate plays queer pranks sometimes,” he said to himself. Here is a croquet ground, and you are a skillful player; here is a charming young lady, and you have been known to be agreeable to charming young ladies in your day; here are all the facilities for a summer idyl, and yet—and yet—. Then he heard the piano. “Ah,” he groaned, that will be harder to bear than all the rest, though probably she will play ‘Why Don’t You Try,’ or ‘I Have Taken Quite a Fancy to You, Dear!’ I have noticed that those two stand prominent in the repertories of many young ladies, and though, of course, I dote on them—yet I COULD forgive her playing them. However, If she will not sing Oh You Kid.” But no, there w'as a skilled hand upon the instrument, and in a moment, floating from lip and finger, arose exquisite strains from 11 Trovatore. Tom resigned his positio nas an amateur gardener and threw himself down under a tree to listen. Then she tried the garden song from Faust. This she commenced, proceeded with a certain distance, hesitated, tried again, stopped. Again and again this wag repeated. Tom had several talents. He was a musician of no small ability, and he had an accomplishment, which, though it may not take high rank, was still the source of a great deal of pleasure. He thought, I am not presentable in your parlor, but I think I can help you if I am a tramp.” She tried again; this time he, from his position under the tree, accompanied the piano by whistling. Again she faltered at the some place, stopped, while he carried it through to the end. Then he saw Miss Penelope on the porch, and her sweet voice reached him in these words gentle and courteous: “I wish you would come here a moment.” Tom walked slowly towards her. Will you please whistle that passage again where I failed? You remember—I haven’t the music. I tried to play it from memory, she half exclaimed. And you whistle it with wonderful accuracy, and wonderful expression, too.” Tom colored with pleasure, through the mosquito blotches that adorned his face. He raised his hat and said: I will stand outside and accompany you; or, if you will grant me the pleasure, 1 will play it for you.” Penelope lifted her eyebrows in astonishment, and replied: “I have some curious people in my life, but I don’t know where I ever saw a-a

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14 ®l|p Sitka iEpmuttarpitpa Sit $Jaulinr Sop I see in yon green meadow clear An old stooped form. It draweth near. What hath he in his hands, so keen. With which he cuts each blade when seen? Methinks it looks like Father Time, With hoary head and features fine. Ah, yes, ’tis so. ’Tis Father Time. How cautiously he mows his field. With mighty sweeps his scythe he wields. He cometh towards me. Look! He halts. I ponder what could be the faults. But hush! Our heads in reverence bend When to his words our ears we lend— “Pass on, ye noble 1910’s.” It seems to me 1 can’t realize That twelve long years are minimized As thus—so full of work and play— Joys and sorrows have strewn our way. Blessings, misfortunes, e’en evil done, Has come to all—yes, every one. But Father Time doth say ’Tis done.” I love to bring to mind those days When we did in our forenoon plays Play •’Black-man,” “Bear” and “Cut-the-Cheese.” How well we do remember these. O, yes, and this, dear Seniors, too. Perhaps you will remind anew, Down from the belfry, or I’ll pursue.” (H. R. T.) Some ask us why we love our High, Wherein doth all its beauty lie? Those old brick walls do lend no charms. Its worth doth not increase like farms. How rudely doth its belfry old Stand fortified with flag so bold Which our forefathers fought to unfold. Pray, what great gift is this so true That toils and studies, trials not few. Should thus far seize us with pure love? Love, yes, love, given from above. Love for our High. “How strange!” they say; But listen! Father Time doth say: “I reap this love as time decays.” Again I look in yon green field. Old Father Time the gate hath sealed. And o’er it now with trembling hand He slowly places “1910.” But see! His scythe in hand he takes. For years of travel he must make. Hush! Night hath shaken her dusky robes. And breezes low, o’er hill, in dell. Softly whisper, “Farewell, farewell.”