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

Page 18 text:

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.”

Page 17 text:

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.

Page 19 text:

5hr aoka 15 iExtt lllr. X Sn Unubaix iitrhrij R. X was happy. He drew his suit cases together lit a cigar and leaned back in the cushioned seat of the car, gazing with half-closed eyes upon the familiar scenery as it flitted by the windows. Only a few miles more and the tiresome Journey would be over and there would be a break in the routine of stocks, bonds and goods which is welcome at times to even the most businesslike of business men, which is just what Mr. X happened to be. He was happy in the expectation of happiness—he was going home. There was nothing of the dreamer or Idealist in Mr. X, far from it. He measured people by their achievements, valued their abilities by what they had done, estimated their wealth and worth by their dollars, compared their beliefs to their interests, and put. as it were, in figures everything which came to his notice. As his business friends knew him he was shrewd and keen at a bargain, just jovial enough to retain friends and just calculating enough to never lose in a deal. To acquaintances his life seemed centered in one thing—business, business, business. But there was one thing behind and above all this which was rooted deeper in his soul and sustained him through it all, and that was his home. And six week is a long time to be away from home, especially for a man who loves his own fireside—at least that is what Mr. X thought. No, Mr. X was not a dreamer, but sometimes he gave himself up to reverie, as even the most sordid and materialistic must at times. The rumble of the train, the soft summer twilight sifting down through the hollows, the odors of his cigar lulled him into reminiscent thought. Now, how many weeks had he been at home during the past year? Scarcely a score when he counted them up. It was altogether wrong to enforce such an amount of absence upon himself, to say nothing of Geraldine; he was away too much; his company was asking too much of him and this time he would make arrangements to let some one else handle the bulk of the business. What was life for anyway? Surely not to drudge away in railroad deals and sacrifice home. In all the five years of his married life he had not spent half the time at home and now as he looked back over the past years it seemed to him that something had been wasted which could never be replaced; happiness lost which could never be regained. He resolved to quit the road and devote himself more to domestic life. He was arriving a day earlier than he had expected, which was some consolation. What a happy surprise to Geraldine! She did not expect him until the next evening, for he had written her the hour of his arrival, but unexpected speed in a directors’ meeting had enabled him to catch the evening train. He took a letter from his pocket and opened it. It was her last