Petaluma High School - Trojans Yearbook (Petaluma, CA)

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HIGH SCHOOL ENTERPRISE - 0 7. High School Memories “O please, sir, wait! wait!” excitedly called a short, stout, little woman, as she bustled down the hotel steps, handsatchel in hand, toward the ap¬ proaching stage. “Sure, marm,” replied the jolly coachman, as he drew up near the steps, “this ’ere coach won’t be a startin ' fore ten minutes, so you needn’t worry.” She smiled pleasantly. All unconsciously she had been tying her veil under her chin, and now, having added the fifth knot, she sat down with a thump that might have surprised even a school boy. In a few minutes six others had gathered on the veranda, ready to start on a trip up the Sierra Nevadas. “All aboard!” shouted the driver, and the merry crowd drew near the stage, our little short lady in the lead, hur¬ rying as only a plump person can. “I have engaged the center seat in the second row, for it is the most comfortable,” she explained. “That so?” inquired Hans, the driver. “Yes,” she replied. “ I telephoned ahead. It’s mine,” she proclaimed triumphantly, as the driver helped her in. “There’s one thing certain,” thought Hans, “she truly occupies all the space she paid for.” Soon all were in. On either side of Mrs. Sales, for such was the little woman’s name, was a young fellow, eacITcontrasting strikingly. The one on her left a tall, lank, dark muscular fellow, while her right hand neighbor was a second Billy Bounce, with the addition of a few feet, and with a merry twinkle in his hazel eyes. A sober looking man sat with Hans. In the back seat were a man, his wife, and their lovely daughter, a young, vivacious, and dashing maiden, a beauty of the brunette type. While the rest were stowing away wraps and luncheon, the attention of this girl, Grace, was drawn to the grandeur of the landscape. To the right was the hotel, a large, quaint old wooden structure, its wide veranda over¬ hung with twining vines, as it nestled in among the tall redwood trees. She gazed in silent pleasure. Through the trees were the lofty Sierras, their canons still veiled in the morning mist. They were not steep, gray and rocky but wrapped in their new spring covering. At the base the tender green grass was first peeping forth. A little higher was the dark green forest, and far above, the graceful peaks were still encircled by a crown of snow. To the left was a wall of gigantic pines, which had stood for ages with their strong arms interlocked, whispering to each other their secrets, or blending their mournful sighs. What could be more enchanting ’midst the twittering of the birds at dawn? “Get up!” shouted Hans, and the four shining black horses, impatient¬ ly tossing their heads, anxious to be off, sprang forward, soon to ascend the mountains. Emerging from the grove of trees about the hotel, fields of grain stretched out like green ribbons, till in the distance they met a waving white —25—

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HIGH SCHOOL ENTERPRISE ' 0 7. But just now sheets and pillowslips were hanging beside pink and blue shirt waists, for this was where Mammy hung her washing. She had long wished for a new clothes line and hoped she would get one when her husband, old Rufus, got a “job.” However, Rufus was one of the “born-tired” kind and so was not look¬ ing for a “job.” As Sammy approached the cabin Mammy Usum smiled and, as she espied the rope hanging from his blouse, she said, “For de lan‘ sakes chile, what have yo‘ got?” “I’ve brought you some clo’s-pins an‘ a clo’s line, Mammy,” he said. “I got ’em by “wuking,” he added, as he took them from his blouse. “God bress yo‘, you poor chile,” said Mammy. “We can hang the clo’s line from the tree in the gyarden to the apple tree over yonder. You’ll be a mon someday, won ' yo‘, Sammy?” Sammy Usum smiled and wondered why the lady and his Mammy had said the same thing. MAMIE BURLEIGH, 1 0. A Sewing Gircle A sewing circle is composed of ladies—usually. The ladies begin to come about a half hour before they are wanted, and keep coming until after it begins. They get off in little bunches and talk about each other. When it is time to begin, the ladies gather around in a circle. This is the sewing circle. At the word of command they all begin to talk. The one who talks most has the pleasure of the least work. When they are all out of breath, which takes several hours, cake is brought on. It is brought on at the last because then the ladies are exhausted and can not eat so much. Ater this they go home. I do not know whether they sew at a sewing circle or not. CHARLES GREEN, ’09 A tooter who tooted a flute Tried to tutor two tooters to toot These two asked the tooter If ‘twas harder to toot Or tutor two tooters to toot.—Ex. i —24—

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HIGH SCHOOL ENTERPRISE ’0 7. sea of prune blossoms in the rolling foot-hills, each ripple reaching higher and higher till it touched the azure sky. “This air certainly is bracing, and the view is just grand,” began Mrs. Sales. “Beyond words,” put in her stout neighbor on the right. He began to hum. The tall lank fellow listened. What, could it be? N-o- Y-e-s, it was “California.” “And we’ll rough-house old Stanford till she-.” He tried to tune up. He looked over the fields. Finally he got it. “Down in the country of the Cardinal.” “I say,” he broke in, “I am a fel¬ low from Stanford, I suppose you must be a Berkeley boy.” “That I am. Shake hands, old boy.” So they reached across the back of the seat and clasp¬ ed hands. “Well, if 1 am not the luckiest, to get in with two college chaps. Now I want to know,” she urged, punching the Berkeley fellow till he almost jumped, “something about these schools. Now I never could understand how Berkeley, such a large school as Berkeley, could ever let herself be beaten by Stanford, and the state school too. I’d be abashed.” “We won three or four games in succession,” explained the Stanford man. “We won the Rugby game, too. You know this Rugby game is quite an idea. It is worth any man’s money to see. I can’t understand my self, how we always win, but we do. It’s quite an honor you know.” “You play in the team I suppose?” inquired Mrs. Sales. “O yes,” he answered, “I play in the team. But I must confess I haven’t made as good a record as I might.” Having said this, the Stanford fellow, Allen, glanced over to see how the Berkeleyite, Bert, was taking things. Bert had been listening. He bore a look of calm satisfaction, but his heart within swelled with pride, for he knew that old Berkeley had always played to do herself credit. What was the use explaining! It would be proved to the world again as it had been before. Grace, meantime, was looking back over the zigzag road they had been traveling. To her there was a fascination in the moss-grown stumps and broken-rail fences, on which perched the larks, as they sang their greetings. They passed great clusters of poppies, emblems of the sunset state. Well, she thought, did the Spaniards name them when they called them “cups of gold.” Bang!! The horses plunged in their terror. Hunters had done the harm. Altho‘ it was up grade the horses fairly flew, when woe—the sober man’s hat blew off and was left in the dust behind. “John, I told you to hold your hat. It’s the last you’ve got!” screamed Mrs. Sales. “O dear, what can be done?” By this time the team was subdued. “I’ll give any one five dollars that will go and get that hat. It’s the last he’s got and we can’t afford to get another. ’ Allen jumped out and soon recovered the lost article, restored it to the owner, and politely declined a reward. “That’s my husband,” declared Mrs. Sales. “I warned him about his hat, but he’s so funny. The Doctor says he has electricty in his hair. We’re out for his health now. Poor John sat with one hand tightly grasping his hat, while he violently mopped his bald head with the other. “Look out,” roared Bert, or you’ll rub the last bit of your electrified hair off.” Indeed