Petaluma High School - Trojans Yearbook (Petaluma, CA)

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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 And strangers must not find them So very out of date.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—

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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. Sammy Usuries Awa eQiQg “Der ought ter be a mate to dis. Sho’ly no man wid only one laig is gwine aroun’ skatin ' —sho’ly not! An’ den when roller skates is won out an’ dey is frown away dey is bofe frown away.” It was probably by chance that Sammy Usum found it that morning as he was walking down the street stirring the sand with his bare toes. But search ever so faithfully, the little darkey could not find the mate to his newly discovered treasure. “I des have to fiin’ dat odder skate,” he said, his eyes sparkling like two black beads and his teeth glistening from behind his red lips. After searching for some time the little bundle of rags sat down on the side walk and proceeded to fasten the solitary skate to his left foot. When the straps were fastened around his ragged shoe he attempted to stand on his feet. Then his head spun round and round and the earth and sky seemed a jumble of blue and green. His legs clashed together and Sammy landed in the midst of a pile of rubbish. Old Black Sarah who sold oranges at a stand across the street saw the little colored lad and urged him on, “Jes’ keep agwine. A fall don’t ’mount to nuffin.” So Sammy “kept agwine” but could make no headway. Presently he heard a lady’s voice behind him say, “That boy will make a man of himself some day.” Nobody had ever praised Sammy Usum before except his mother and her praises ran like this, “Poor Sammy’s a good li’l boy. He always tells de trufe an‘ I don’t has to worry ’bout him ,’cept gettin ' him somethin ' to eat and to wear.” Sammy Usum thought of the words the voice behind him had said and wondered how he could make a man of himself. Hanging his skate over his arm he walked toward the hotel and placed himself by the stairway, ready to aid travelers by carrying their satchels for them. When he was not occupied by this work he ran errands for the hotel keeper, swept off the side walk, and did other small tasks. When evening came, Sammy Usum’s little palm was full of shining five cent pieces. On his way home he stepped into a hardware store and when he came out the end of a rope was hanging from his blouse and striking against his leg as he walked. Sammy’s home was on a road leading into the country, called “Park Lane.” When the little darkey reached the curve in the road a small cabin made of whitewashed boards could be seen. On one side was a porch covered with Honeysukles and Tea Roses. On this porch stood Mammy Usum’s washtub and over it Mammy Usum was bending, singing as she worked. The old board fence by the house was very dilapidated and many of the boards were missing. —23—