Petaluma High School - Trojans Yearbook (Petaluma, CA)

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HIGH SCHOOL ENTERPRISE ’0 7. Solorooo’s Lametations It was late in a drowsy midsummer afternoon when life in all its forms seemed hidden from the sun’s hot rays. Not a leaf stirred in the sultry air. The silence was broken only by the droning hum of the bumble bee and the occasional piping from the mountain quail that had sought shelter from the noon-day’s scorching beams. A lone Indian, tired and worn by mountain climbing, passed down into the valley and up the steep incline which brought him in sight of the mighty awe inspiring Pacific. He halted not until the spires of old Fort Ross met his view. Overcome with the sight he sank beneath the shade of a tall pine whose head towered high above the mountain side and seemed lost in the hazy atmosphere overhead. Here he mused to himself on the long ago until found by a weary traveler to whom he related his sorrowful tale. “Down on that shore my father first built his hut hollowed out from one of yon redwood trees, covered it over with bark and lived by trapping, fishing and gathering abalones and sea weed from the beach. Here I was born, on the day the first pale face wandered to our shores, and from him I was given the name of Solomon. My boyhood days were spent with my mother gathering kindling wood washed up by the waves, and plucking the sea gulls for feather robes. Oh how my little heart danced for joy as I watch, ed each bird freed to fly away without its plumes! Good times were ours. Every autumn brought our friends to the coast. We feasted and danced around bright camp fires, swam and made merry while our mothers sat by t re wigwams watching the men gamble away their wealth of skins, wampurn and furs. At one of these potlatches my father was chosen chief of the Digger tribe and ever after I was hailed as Little Chief Solomon, a distinction which made me very happy. I grew up a strong, brave boy, the joy of my mother, e pride of my father and of all the tribe. One bright summer followed the other in rapid succession, but the intensity of the winters seemed to increase as I grew older, until the saddest day of all arrived when my father failed to return from the hunt and a week later was found, slain in the woods He was tenderly carried to our lodge. Medicine men blew their breath upon him and beat their breasts, but to no avail. The spirit had fled to its maker. After three days of mourning and loud lamentations the body was pre¬ pared for burial. Tribes gathered from far and near, fires were burned and torches were lighted on the hills, and just as the rays of the setting sun shone on the distant hilltops, they bore him to his last resting place at the top of yonder hills. There his horse and dog were buried beside him. As the last clod fell upon the grave my mother who was ill from grief and anguish shrieking rushed from the lodge, threw herself across the grave and ex’ —20—

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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—

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HIGH SCHOOL ENTERPRISE ’0 7. “This was the first great sorrow of my life. As I turned away a little hand was placed in mine, and glancing down I beheld little Buttercup, the playmate of my childhood. With her I had built sand houses and floated leaves on the rippling water; together we had sailed up and down the stream in my little canoe, had woven pretty baskets and chains of beads. It was for her always in my journeys through the wood that I gathered the blight est leaves and flowers, certain that she was always joyfully awaiting my coming. With eyes filled with tears she promised to befriend me the same as of old. This gave me confidence and as time went on I found great con¬ solation in her friendship. “To increase our trouble, our settlement was invaded by a band of trappers from over the Rockies, followed by the Russians who pushed us aside and began to build houses and dig up our gardens and fields. I, of course, had succeeded my father as chief, but having been taught to love peace and hate war, I could not rouse the tribe to attack the enemy. So they continued to increase among us while tribes were constantly murmuring at the many wrongs they suffered at the hands of the invaders. It was one of these which provoked me to commit a crime that drove me far away these many years until to-day I come back to view a sad sight. “I had suffered their wrongs in silence until I noticed the Russian gen¬ eral, Zeekhoff, paying marked attention to our little Buttercup, now grown to womanhood, and the flower of our tribe. On the eve of his departure for his fatherland I saw him speaking to her on the shore. At nightfall as the ship was weighing anchor she was missed, and fearing she had been carried away I swam to the ship and hastily clambered over its side. By the moon’s pale beams I saw my rival, and with uplifted knife rushed upon him. As his life¬ less body sank beneath the waves I was forced to plunge overboard, pur¬ sued by the angry mob, who revenged themselves by burning our village and dispursing our band. I fled southward, and, supposing Buttercup far away in a distant land, felt no longing to return until old age seized upon me and fearing the great spirit would soon call me, I stole homeward and heard from an old crone the story of my early life, how Buttercup was seated upon the bank years before and had witnessed our combat, had remained ever true and faithful to her promise and had pined away and died of a broken heart. She was buried at the foot of this pine where fate has accidentally led me.” Glancing down he could yet discern the mound. Spreading out his hands he raised his eyes toward the setting sun, and exclaimed, “Now I am content, Buttercup. I go to join thee in the happy hunting grounds.” And with the determination characteristic of his race he fell on his hunting knife and expired. Thus the legend of Solomon and Buttercup is told to this day at Fort Ross, and their lonely graves are pointed out to the traveler. FLORENCE WALSH, ’08 —21—