Petaluma High School - Trojans Yearbook (Petaluma, CA)

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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—

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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. When the Teachers Learn to Sl ;ate At Institute in April. From many miles around, The county teachers journeyed To Petaluma town. To make their visit pleasant, And sweet memories recall. To Dreamland rink one evening ’Twas planned to take them all. Some of the local teachers Had never learned to skate. And strangers must not find them So very out of date. They thought they would have a trial, And bravely tempted wheels; With greatest pluck, as some would think. They fixed them on their heels. First out came Mr. Newell, And as he gazed around, His feet went out from under him And near the roof were found. But as for Mr. Singer, He sang a different tune; ’Tis said that he and Mr. Way Saw neither stars nor moon. And all the country people Who happened by the door. Could see sedate Miss Watkins Make angles with the floor. Miss Daniel and Miss Perkins Both whirled around so fast That there was some one heard to say, “What was that just flew past?” At school the teachers laugh at us For all we do and say. But at the rink, as you may think, It’s quite the other way. So if toward them you have a spite, And if you feel quite sore, Just watch them at the Dreamland rink And you’ll be sure to roar. —CHARLES GREEN, ’09 -22—