Petaluma High School - Trojans Yearbook (Petaluma, CA)

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HIGH SCHOOL ENTERPRISE ’0 7. Commiseration Ode I love to hear the pussy-cats At midnight on the fence, I love to see their bright green eyes Gleam through the shadows dense. When sound asleep all good folk rest, And none but thieves rejoice, T’is then, upon the still night air, Is heard your thrilling voice. In accents sweet and soft and low,— Or, as the case may be, In pure and high soprano tones, Far, far beyond high C, You tell the tales of long ago, Our singers you outshine. Their songs are gleaned from one short life, Your repertoire, from nine. When passion thrills your notes sublime, Or melancnoly woe, Or longing love you warble of To, do, re, me, re, do; Ah, then, indeed, the soul of him Who music doth adore, Is filled with bliss un speakable, And, eager, wishes more. R ut some there are, (t’is very sad To think it should be so! Who’d rather lie and snore than hear Thy liquid music flow. These poor benighted beings rise To hunt for soap or shoe While all about the neighborhood The very air grows blue. Next, household goods, as well as swords, The atmosphere do pierce, While voices from the windows say, “These cats are something fierce!” But, songsters, though no doubt t’is hard To be so underrated, Console yourselves, for genius ne’er Was yet appreciated. —FAY FAIRBANKS. —18—

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HIGH SCHOOL ENTERPRISE ’0 7. ball tightly wedged under his arm. He wiggled through the arms of the op¬ posing end, but was downed by the big full-back. Again he was given the ball but this time barely made a gain. Then came the signal 8-8-2—4-5, and Chambers, the burly full-back, went crashing through left guard for a good substantial gain. Again and again the giant “full” gained his yards, till the “ends” of the opposing team began to play close to center. This was just the move that Scott had long been waiting for. He paused a moment to give his men time to breathe. McDonald, the captain, called to ascertain how much time was left. The time-keeper shook his head indicating that less than five minutes remained, and he could not tell the exact time. From far across the field came the yell, “Hip ray! Hip ray! Hip ray! Norton-Norton.” While, “Hold ’em, Wilmot! Hold ’em, Wilmot! Don’t let ’em thru,” came from the Wilmot rooters. The entire Dexter team realized that with them it was now or never. Scott trotted into place, calling out in a ringing tone, 9-2-3—1-2-3, and as Norton rushed past him, Scott shoved the ball under his arm, and away shot Frank, as though hurled from a cannon’s mouth, with excellent interference and with no one opposing him except the full and quarter-backs. As he sped on down the field he heard nothing, saw nothing but the little quarter-back, who, alone stood between him and victory. On he ran, his speed increasing, till as he neared his rival, he lifted his head, and, as his opponent crouched to tackle him, Frank with one bound leaped high and far, completely hurdling the other man. As he again touch¬ ed the ground, his ankle turned, nearly throwing him down, but, limping, he ran on as best he could. But this wrench to his injured member materially lessened his speed, and gave the other men an opportunity to gain on him, and when he was almost to the line, he was grasped about the waist in a grip like a vice. Little by little he drew nearer the coveted white line, till his opponent, shifting his grasp from waist to knees, downed the runner, but as Frank fell, he stretched the ball out as far as he could reach, and the next moment the entire team rushed down upon the two. The touchdown had been made for the ball lay just beyond the line. The score was tied. Now if they could kick the goal—well! there would be more than one happy heart in Dexter. Amid a breathless hush, Chambers stepped back several steps, and again stepped forward. The ball sailed high into the air, on, on, over the bar, amid a crashing yell. Frank sank down exhausted, his ankle throbbing and paining. The next moment the whistle blew announcing that time was up and the game was over. Dexter had won by the narrow margin of one point, the final score being 6—5. In a moment the field swarmed with the Dexter and Wilmot rooters who lifted the members of their respective teams onto their shoulders, and the column of Dexter rooters, with Frank on the shoulders of the President and Doctor of the college, leading the line, commenced its triumphant march around the field of victory, while the college t»and struck up the well known air, “Hail to the Chief Who in Triumph Advances.” J. R. B. ’OS.

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HIGH SCHOOL ENTERPRISE ’0 7. One of Many It was at that crowded corner in New York, where Fifth Avenue edges on Broadway, where the crowd never stops, where the air is never quiet. An old man with one leg amputated above the knee was playing a simple melody on a violin as old and battered looking as himself. Now and then some child would drop a penny in the cup before him, but the crowd paid no heed to him. There were too many cases like this to attract attention. Suddenly the music changed from the simple melody, played to catch the ear of the passing crowd, to one descriptive of days long past, in sunny Italy. The music is now joyous, now full of pathos. He is just preparing to go to America to earn a living for the loved ones at home. The music por¬ trays his joy. For a time he sends money home and all goes well with him. The music is happy still. Misfortune comes upon him suddenly. He is run over by a train and when he at last leaves the hospital, he is an old and wretched man, old be¬ fore his time. Sad and pitiful the strain, of music now becomes. “Starved,” he reads from an old newspaper printed in Italy, “the wife and two children of Antonio Careno, whose whereabouts in America are unknown.” He pays no attention to the crowd, fascinated by the wierd and beautiful music. Tears are in his eyes, starvation faces him, he plays on. The music so long kept in the precious violin is awakened, and when he at last stops the crowd presses around him and fills his tin cup and his pockets with money. While yet in the crowded street, he lifts his eyes to the sky above and thanks God for the sudden change of fortune and for the blessings the money will bring him. He will go back to Italy and live a life of happiness in his old boyhood home. Picking up the cherished violin he hobbles to a squalid East Side tenement, to a room which he now calls home. W r hat cares he for dirt or filth, he will be happy in a short time! Once again he takes the old violin. The beautiful music rises above the cry of children and the barking of dogs on the crowded pavement below. He is happy once more and he thanks God with a smile on his lips. The passing crowd had often seen the old man and paid little atten¬ tion to his playing, but today even the hardest heart was touched by the wonderful music. It lingered in their memories after they had gone by, and all pitied the old man whose life story was so plainly printed on his face and so clearly portrayed by the strange music. The story gained wide circula¬ tion and the evening papers were filled with fancied and skillfully construct¬ ed stories of the old musician’s life. A reporter went the next morning to obtain, if possible, the true story. He reached the dingy room which had just ceased ringing with the melodies of the old violin. He hesitated a mo¬ ment at the open door. He was never to hear the sad, sad story, for the old man was even now with his loved ones. SADIE CRONLEY, ’10. —19—