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

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 Who did you say is waiting for me, Rene? said the lady to her maid. 1 am nearly worn out with company. It is only a very pretty girl who says if she can see you she is sure you will not be sorry, Madame. Well let her come, ’ said the famous singer with a smile. Little Annette came in, with her roll of paper in her hand. With dignity unusual for one of her standing, she walked straight to the lady and bowing said, “Madame, 1 come to see you because my father is sick and we are too poor to buy food and medicine. 1 thought that if you would only sing my little song at some of your grand concerts, perhaps some publisher would buy it for a small sum and so I could get some medicine for my father. The beautiful French actress arose from her seat, very tall and stately, she was, and took the roll from Annette’s hand. She lightly hummed the air. Did YOU compose it. she asked you a mere child? And the words?— would you like to come to my concert for the wounded soldiers tonight?” she asked after several moments of thought. Oh yes! and the girl’s eyes grew bright with happiness—“but I couldn’t leave father.” I will send someone to take care of your father for the evening, and here are a few francs, with which you may get food and medicine. Come here tonight and 1 will take you to the hospital with me. Annette could scarcely realize her good fortune. She bought oranges and many other little luxuries besides and carrying them home to the poor invalid telling him, not without a few tears, what had happened. When evening came Annette was seated in a place where she could see the singer during all the program. The music and myriad of soft lights, the gentle demeanor of the nurses who were in charge of the wounded heroes, bewildered her eyes and brain. At last Madame Bernhardt came and the girl sat with eyes riveted upon her glorious face. Could she believe that the grand lady in her elegant robes, whom everyone seemed to worship, would really sing her little song? Breathless she waited. The sweet, soft tones of the violin struck up a little plaintive melody. She knew it and clapped her hands with joy. And Oh! how Madame sung it. It was so simple, so pathetic, and soul subduing in its tender tributes to the national heroes, that many a bright eye was dim with tears, and nothing could be heard but the touching words of the little song. Annette walked home that night as if she were walking on air. What did she care for money now? The greatest singer of the age had sung her song and the many had wept at its patriotism. The next day she was frightened at a visit from Madame Bernhardt, who laying her hand on the girl's head and turning to the sick man said, “your little daughter, Monsieur, has brought you a fortune. 1 was offered this morning, by the best publisher in Paris, five thousand francs for this little song; and after he has realized a certain amount from the sale, little Annette is to share the profits. Thank God, Monsieur, that your little daughter has a gift from Heaven. The 10

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enemies of invading destructive man. As did the timber wolf, so did they keep a safe distance from the fire, each one waiting for the other to make the assault, but like the wolf they now feared the camp. Hours passed which seemed like days. I'he entrapped man was growing weaker, his fire was getting low, the dogs were venturing nearer. Not a moment was he without those menacing visions of a past life he had lived only for himself. Now he was entering on a dream of a long snowy trail, his eyes were open but he saw things not as they were. That glowing lunar orb was for him a yellow mass of gold. The heavens assumed the shape of a large cliff. Something seemed to strike him and though he struggled desperately to save himself he seemed to fall slowly, slowly into the depths. As he dropped ever downward that yellow mass would not be blurred from his vision. Suddenly he came to full consciousness, he saw what had struck him. The fire had died, the leader had made a plunge and sprung back. The ill-fated man tried to save himself but his first move brought the dogs upon him. Again the mass of gold seemed to come before his eyes. Only the welcomed death blow of one of the dogs blotted out that torturing vision that constantly reminded him he had given his life for the absolutely worthless, cause of all evil—GOLD. —DON OFF1NS. t t f f MUTUAL GENIUS IN a humble room, down one of the poorest streets of Paris, Annette, a motherless French girl, sat humming by the bedside of her sick father. There was no bread in the closet, and for the whole day she had not tasted food. Yet she hummed to keep up her spirits. Still at times, she thought of the lonliness and greater hunger that would follow if her father did not get well, for the meagre supply of money was nearly exhausted. When these thoughts entered her head the tears could hardly be kept back from her eyes. The little song she sung was her own—one she had composed with air and words. The simple melody full of pathos, spoke of the bravery and unselfishness of her nation’s war heroes; of their manly departure to fight through hardships and fierce struggles for the glory of France. It was not so much the words but the air that filled the heart with love and reverence for the tri-colored flag. Annette arose and went to the window. Looking out she saw a man putting up a great bill with yellow letters announcing that Madame’ Sarah Bernhardt would sing to the wounded soldiers that night at the great American ‘Red Cross' Hospital. Any of the public might attend who so wished. “If I could only go,” thought little Annette; then pausing a moment, she clasped her hands. Her eyes shone with a new hope. Running to the stand she smoothed her ruffled curls and taking from a little box an old stained paper, gave one glance at her father who slept, and ran from the house. 9

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noble hearted singer and the poor man wept together while Annette poured out her thanks to God and Madame Bernhardt. Annette’s father was sent to the 'Red Cross' hospital where he is being carefully nursed back to life by Annette who has joined the Red Cross Society. Her name is heard on hundreds of soldiers' lips, who were helped on the road of recovery from wounds by the cheerful words and sweet songs of the little French nurse. She still composes music during leisure hours, and after the war is over she will probably be heard of as one of the most talented composers of the age. All honor to those great hearts, who from their high stations send down bounty to the many war sufferers. -IRENE V. MERCIER. 9 9 9 9 9 MEMORIES By ALLEN UNDERWOOD '17. There is a spot most dear to us on this far western shore! THERE is a name that we repeat that brings a flood of memories, a horde of joys. We may be distant, we may be alone, but as we repeat it softly—Grants Pass High—it raises, as if by magic, a train of pictures of the past. Back flood the golden hours, the dear associates, the happy times spent as students in G. P. H. S. In fancy we again see the old High, beautiful in its red and gray splendor, as it stands majestically upon its verdant eminence, overlooking the campus below. Ah. the campus! There are a wealth of memories surrounding it; there we have fought our gridiron battles, held our base-ball and track contests; there enjoyed many social gatherings around the bonfires, weiner roasts and campus picnics. We will always remember with longing the hikes to the dam. the good times spent at Fruitdale, and, most vivid of all, the wonderful trip to Table Rock. Our teachers and former schoolmates pass before us in review, each one nearer our hearts than we realized; those whose influence on our lives was greater than any other, before or since. It is pleasant, but somehow a sense of longing intrudes, when we thus gaze back to our High School days and lose ourselves in golden retrospect. We may see sights more marvelous and make many acquaintances, but never will we find a sight dearer than the old High School, nor count our schoolmates other than first in our affections. Every foot of the green campus, every stick and stone of the buildings, every well-remembered face, stands for a memory. II