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

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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

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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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“Marie! came again, roughly. “Do you think I shall stand quietly by and see you favor that young fool, your cousin ? Monsieur, she answers, icily, “that is entirely my affair. 1 am to marry my cousin within a week. My father, he wishes it, she adds, a trifle hopelessly it seems to him. The man turns away wearily. “1 see, he says in a quiet voice. “Our engagement was merely a little summer pastime for you, something to be conveniently forgotten when the time came. Very well—I'll not trouble you further. “Wait—Oh, please! Her tone is changed to entreaty now. “Well “Before you go—I must tell you the truth if they kill me for it. My wishes have nothing to do with this marriage—it is my father's command, and girls of France must obey their parents.” She stops a moment, then adds fiercely, hate my cousin Pierre ! She stands facing him, white and trembling, as young Pierre Gasquet enters the room. “So! he says, his face black with rage. You hate your cousin Pierre, do you? We shall see what Cousin Pierre can do! There is a moments struggle between the two men, a flash of steel—and the girl, throwing herself before McDaniels, catches the blow. In the flickering light young Pierre and the American stand gazing at each other with dazed eyes over the fallen form of Marie. “Honk ! Honk ! Honk !” 1 raised my head—the same feeble ray of sunlight showed the rusty firearms, the broken chairs, the old organ with its cobwebs and dust. In the distance an automobile horn sounded impatiently the signal for my return, bringing me rudely from the far distant past to the present. It was only a dream after all. Before leaving the place I happened to glance down at the floor before the organ, and I saw, barely perceptible on the rotting floor, a dark stain. Then I turned and left the old cabin with its memories. —LOIS DALE. 15. 12