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

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so Eve, to please him went through the trying task again, feeling that she was becoming a martyr. Years passed and Eve’s daughter came to the age when she wished to have her hair put up. But alas! Her mother’s style of hair dressing was not becoming to the daughter, so a new style was originated for her. Thus at the beginning there were but two styles of hair dressing in vogue. However this number has rapidly increased until now they are innumerable. Such was the origin of the first coiffure. —MARJ1E MORRIS, ’18. ttttf The Enchanted Organ. T r was an old, old house, weather-beaten, rickety, overgrown with rank vines - ■ of wild blackberry and spotted in patches with grayish-green moss. The rugged cobblestone chimney alone seemed enduring, for all around was pitiful decay, the result of long neglect. The place was one of those sad, folorn relics whose histories are too soon forgotton by the sons and daughters of that noble race, the pioneers. The time was July, the place northern California close to the Oregon line. My brother and 1 were touring across the country, and we had the good luck of happening upon the little place called “Gasquet just as our perverse car had one of its usual breakdowns. 1 am not very well versed in the mysteries of spark-plugs, carburetors and self-starters, and my brother dislikes being bothered by an amateur. So, leaving him to tinker at his will among the irons in the blacksmith shop, 1 started on an exploring trip and happened upon this neglected cabin in the woods. There seemed only one way to enter the old house—that was, by means of a heavy, padlocked door. The padlock fell to the ground when I touched it; the rust from the countless winter rains had eaten the iron through. The door opened with a querulous creaking, sad to hear. At first the interior presented nothing to my sun-blinded eyes. Then, growing gradually accustomed to the dim light, I made out several objects in the room—some rusty firearms stacked, and, in one corner, an old organ. That was all. Over head a nest of young swallows were twittering softly. The little organ, quaint and old fashioned, was covered with the dust of years. A feeble ray of sunlight fell across the ivory keys showing how time had cracked and yellowed their once white splendor. My imagination was fired. I sat down upon the faded stool and softly played old tunes, tunes of long ago suggested by this place and the age of which it is a relic. Then, following an uncontrollable impulse, my mood changed and the stirring, militant strains of the “The Marseillaise woke the sleeping echos of the 10

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cover her eyes. What could she do with it? She pushed it back enough to wear it out. and her arms also. At last, all the moving was done, and the cave set to rights, and then just when Eve thought she would sit down and rest, she glanced at the sun, and saw to her surprise that it was time for Adam. Cain and Abel to come in for their dinner. Must she, tired as she was, and with her hair flying over her face, go right out in the hot blazing sun to pick berries? But what could she do? She sat pondering this question when suddenly she received an inspiration. If you had been watching Eve, you might have realized that she had received an inspiration, for she jumped up, and began collecting small sticks, as if to make a fire. But these small sticks were to serve a far more important purpose. After she had about twelve, she sat down and broke them off into pieces about two and a half inches long. Then began the important part. She took hold of her hair in back of her neck, and with many pulls and jerks got it on top of her head. Then pulling it back as tight as Indians do when preparing to scalp, she rolled it tightly and made a little hard knot on the top of her head. Then she tied a long piece of grass around her head to hold up the stray ends. The whole effect was far from beautiful, but it served the purpose and Eve was pleased. Eve then walked away to gather berries with the feeling that all great inventor's have just after achieving success. Eve returned with the berries about the same time that Adam returned. He looked at her with a grin which quickly changed to horror, indignation, and scorn. “Eve,” he shouted, “have you pulled out ail your hair, rolled it in a ball, and stuck it on top of your head ? Why ! Wpman, your hair was your greatest beauty. What did you do with it ?” “Adam, answered Eve, “if you would give me time to reply, 1 might explain that my hair is not pulled out, but is merely fixed instead of unfixed, as 1 have usually worn it. “Fixed or unfixed, let it down instantly,” commanded Adam. That I will not do, replied Eve. “It is more comfortable this way. Adam had never heard Eve speak to him in this manner before. What did it mean ? Had she taken on new conduct with her new manner of arranging her hair? Eve looked so determined that finally, he compromised on his command. He said. “Well! Eve, it might not look half bad if you will fluff it out around your face. Glad to see her lord's anger subsiding. Eve sat down, and did as she was told. For the second time that day, she went through this new performance, only this time she did not hold the hair quite so tight, and did not tie the piece of grass around her head. The result was that the hair fluffed around her face. At this, Adam's good nature was entirely restored. But Cain also had a mind of his own, and when he came in, and saw his mother’s hair, nothing would do, but that the knot was to be made more artistic. 9

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house. Louder and louder grew the strain—the very words seemed shouting themselves from every corner and recess of the room. Surely the old organ must be enchanted ! “To arms, to arms, ye brave ! The avenging sword unsheath !” Weaker and weaker grew the strain, at last dying away altogether. A strange drowsiness was overcoming me, resistless, overpowering. In vain 1 fought against the feeling. Almost falling off the stool, I rested my head in my folded arms on the old organ—and all was darkness. Swelling, swelling, filling the air with its martial ring, the sound of a thousand fiddles playing “La Marseillaise.” A thousand? No; only the raspy old violin of Pierre Gasquet. But who could wish for better, with the wrinkled face of old Pierre fairly beaming in its patriotic fervor, and the voice of young Pierre, his nephew, rising clear and strong, proclaiming the freedom and glory of a country he has forsaken ? Now Pierre Gasquet has finished. He bows to the rough company, with that courtly manners which is his birthright, and listens complacently to the cries of approval. He is evidently accustomed to fame, this gray-haired musician. Pretty, petite Marie, his daughter, rises from the wonderful new organ on which she has been playing the accompaniment. She bows also; but what a difference! The coquette is expressed in every line of her, in the light of her sparkling dark eyes, in the demure fall of her lashes. Now for the dance ! Chairs and tables pulled back into obscurity, buxom waists seized without ceremony, a moment of suspense—and soon all are swinging and whirling around to the lively strains of Money Musk. No—not all. In the darkest corner sits young Jim McDaniels, owner of the richest placer in the country. He does not see the whirling maze of the dance nor the engaging smiles of gayly-gowned country belles; his whole gaze is centered on the dark, piquant face of Marie as she lightly treads the measure on the proud arm of her cousin Pierre. Pierre himself is not one to exult over a fallen enemy—not he! But he cannot help having a certain feeling of contentment that Marie chose him instead of the gloomy American. The dance goes on, and at last the curiously carved clock on the wall strikes twelve. Now the merriment is over. The crowd departs slowly and reluctantly from the scene of its festivities. At last all are gone from the room save two. In the dark corner still sits young McDaniels, and at the organ sits Marie, her fingers nervously playing a strain of “La Marseillaise. Marie! Yes, Monsieur? He has risen and is standing beside her now. Her face is coldly turned away, but the hand on the key trembles slightly. 11