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

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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

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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.”

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IB a hr (Enka letter and he had done this a dozen times. In the fading green dusk he read it once more: “Dear George: It seems that you have been away for ages, dear, and you don’t know how lonesome I get; it’s almost like being a widow to have you always away. Let me know, if you can, exactly what time are you coming, for I want to have things ready for you. And remember to forget all about business when you are home thts time, George.” Then it pursued various accounts of happenings and occurrences and incidents of the past few days, but he read it all through again; kissed the signature, folded it up and put it in his pocket with a tenderness almost surprising in a man five years married. When the train stopped he was the first passenger to touch the asphalt pavement of the yard. In leaving the train it seemed that a great care had been left behind; that he had forgotten all his troubles as one might forget a traveling bag, he was so expectant. He glanced out over the railroad yards, looked down at the dark water by the wharves, cast his eyes up to the stars and whistled. He was happy with that jubilant, airy, almost desperate happiness of a man who, being denied much of pleasure, enters into the spirit of the occasion much as if he were entering a combat, resolved to grasp every atom of happiness possible and let none escape. As he neared the open hallway of his home, he heard a young girlish voice singing and it reminded him of the days of his courtship. He listened and the words floated out upon the still night and struck deep in his heart. It was part of an old song which he had once known, hut had forgotten in his grapple with dollars. Bend mast, bend to the breeze;” “Fly ship, fly o’er the main;” ’’Come, love, come from the seas,” “Never to sail again!” And he sighed and tightened his lips and resolved once more to give up the road. He walked hurriedly now, frantically even. How long absence had endeared everything. Now he could see the strip of light at the edge of the front blind. She was yet. awake then! When he reached th ewindow’ he noticed that it was open and he could not restrain a temptation to glance In before he mounted the steps. The curtain had been drawn over this open window, but the evening breeze tossed it restlessly and as he neared it a zephyr moved it and he caught a glimpse of her brown curls as she sat at the piano. He came up close to the edge of the casement. He wished to take one more glance at her beauty while she was all unconscious of it. He gnetly thrust the drapery aside and peered over the window seat into the room flooded with light. But what a scene of hellish mockery it revealed to Mr. X. The piano had ceased. She was no longer singing, but a man was standing beside her, gazing into her upturned eyes. Mr. X did not move. He did not breathe. He seemed scarcely alive. He was like one suddenly become stone. He only gazed upon the scene with eyes of steel which never quivered. His glance was as cold as a rattlesnake’s.