Petaluma High School - Trojans Yearbook (Petaluma, CA)

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Anreatora Stemeweb S ETALUMA has been distin¬ guished by being made the center of a big novel by a prominent author—Ancestors, by Gertrude Atherton. But distinction is not always honor. Among many other complimentary things the auth¬ or states that Rosewater—with this name she has graced our city—“of late years has become virtuous to excess, and almost blind and deaf with local pride.” Our banks are sound and safe, but they are so full of petty jealousy that they have prevented the growth of our city for many years just to spite one another. Our women neglect their homes, husbands, and social duties to in¬ dulge their insatiable craze for card playing. Our Woman’s Club devotes a large part of the business meeting to a serious and open discussion of a bit of rank gossip. Our schools alone seem to have found favor with our notable visitor, for she lets the heroine of Ancestors tell her English relatives that “there are very good schools in Rosewater, particularly the High School.” The story is one of the improbable, I might say impossible, kind. The heroine, brought up in Rosewater (Petaluma) and descended from noble Spanish and English ancestors, is traveling in Europe. Her fath¬ er was a drink-besott ed law r yer, but he died at last, and she is now free to lead her own life. She is a graduate from our High School and she speaks several languages, we are informed. On a visit with some distant English relatives she meets an English lord, thirty years of age and not married, who by some strange coincidence has talent and progressiveness as well as money and a title. The English press and other flatterers of nobility have made him believe that he is the coming man of England. But he has progressive ideas. Now his title makes him a member of the House of Lords and he feels that his genius will surely be smother¬ ed and crushed among that set of political deadheads. As he owns an estate of 19,000 acres in California near Rosewater she ad¬ vises him to go to America to develop this estate, drop all his English titles and then just as a common American citizen enter on a political career here. He accepts her ad¬ vice, settles on his estate two miles from Rosewater, and studies law and politics. At first he is discouraged by his new surround¬ ings, then he becomes disgusted with our political corruption, and finally he begins to dream of a political career at the head of a new reform party. The earthquake comes, and the Englishman rushes to San Francis¬ co. A millionaire friend gives him an auto¬ mobile and for two days he acts as chauf¬ feur, transferring dynamite for the fire-fight¬ ers. The novelty of doing useful work makes him enthusiastic and he decides to devote himself to the making of the new San Francisco. That is the story interwoven with a multi¬ tude of exhaustive and exhausting descrip¬ tions of scenery, houses, parties, dinners, and club meetings. A chilly love affair runs through the book and ends fittingly with the decision of the heroine that after all per¬ haps maybe she will be able to stand her fiance as husband. At any rate, she will marry him and risk a trial. If we look for local color of Petaluma, we search in vain through the seven hundred laborious pages of the book. A true and graphic description of the lay and build of the town and the mention of the White Leg¬ horns with red combs,—that is all we can recognize. Even the time-honored allusion to the fabeled “golden eggs” seems out of place when the author applies it to the cheap snow-white product of the Leghorn. If any of the local characters have been described in the book, they have undergone such changes in the mind of the author that we can not recognize them with any degree of certainty. The incident of the Petaluma club women engaging in an open impromptu, though eloquent, debate on a bit of scand¬ alous gossip is grotesque as well as prepost¬ erous. Such may be possible in some idle gossipy English town of the author’s ac¬ quaintance, but in a busy commercial, cos¬ mopolitan town like Petaluma it is absurd and inconceivable. The description of the earthquake and fire in the last sixty pages of the book is well worth reading. Yet, considering the auth¬ or’s descriptive powers, we can not help but feel that she might have surpassed Bulwer’s — 29 —

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®mu ilnhnathau limit iftsilnttij OHNATHAN, my son, hast thou purified the abode of the sacred fowls?” “Nay, verily. Father, I have not.” “Then take thyself directly to the task which hath been assigned, to thee. Verily it grieves me greatly to see such negligence on thy part, for know ye not that cleanliness is a virtue, on an egg producing plant, which can not be neglected.?” “But, Father, only yesterday did I promise my friend, Abraham, that I should take my¬ self with him to yon rippling brook, there to angle for the finny inhabitants of the wa¬ ters.” “Even so, my son, but thou shalt firstly cleanse the residence of yonder birds ere ye go nigh unto the pool.” So Johnathan betook himself away mut¬ tering words, under his breath, upon the head of the paternal author of his existence, which thou shalt not find in the latest volume of Webster’s Unabridged. While Johnathan was toiling wearily at his hard task, he heard from among the euchalyptus trees a loud, shrill whistle. He straightened up his weary back and thrust his head out of the open door of the chicken- house, and gazed longing towards the trees. It was Abraham, without doubt, waiting there for him with a fishing tackle and lunch ready for a day’s sport. Just then Johnathan heard the loud clang¬ ing of a closing gate and looking toward the road saw his father driving to town with a load of eggs. An evil thought crossed his mind. Why not skip out and leave the old houses go dirty, his father would soon be cut of sight and his mother was busy v the house? Another loud impatient whistle from the trees decided him, leaving no chance for thought or after consequences. Dropping his shovel he ran toward, the trees and soon joined his waiting comrade, who greeted him with a tragic whisper from the branches of a tree. “Ha! friend Johnathan, hast thou escaped the tyranny of the villains?” “Yea, and it does my orbs of sight good to see thee here.” “Come, let thy foot-steps follow in mine, but step lightly lest the inhabitants of yon village harken unto the voice of our de¬ parture.” So commanded Abraham and with steal¬ thy tread led. the way through the trees and over the back fence. The way to the brook led over a hill, across a road., and then through a wood and over several hills. Upon reaching the road Abraham left Johnathan behind the hedge, while he care- ) fully looked up and down the road, to see if anyone was in sight, but as the way was clear he beckoned to Johnathan and the two boys quickly crossed the road and dis¬ appeared into the wood. It was a prime day for fishing and the boys selected their favorite place under an old oak and threw out their lines and wqre soon engaged in the exciting sport. How¬ ever, they soon tired of this and so Abra¬ ham dove into the inexhaustible recesses of his pockets and procuring a bunch of good dry corn-silk proceeded to make big fat cigars for himself and companion. “Ha! friend Johnathan, now wilt we in- | dulge in a specie of the fragrant weed,” said Abraham. “Yea, but what will your father say.” “Ah! thy Dad hain’t going to see ye.” But Abraham was mistaken for Johnath¬ an’s father, upon returning home, at once set out in pursuit of the truant, and at this moment arrived upon the scene. “Ah! Ha! thou imp of Satan, now I have thee, and I will teach thee a lesson thou wilt not soon forget,” exclaimed the angry parent. “Ouch! X—XOOO-1—X Help! — ! X — Zip! — X-OO — Bang! — Z — O — Murder! — X !-Oh! Pa!-OO —’ — X — etc.,” filled the air. And then Johnathan went sorrowfully home. —“COMUS” ’09. — 28 —

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P. H. S. ENTERPRISE ’08. .masterpiece in ’’The Last Days of Pompei” as far as she now fall s short of the same, if she had portrayed these stirring days as seen and experienced by an ordinary human being with healthy feelings and emotions instead of this cold-blooded, self-centered descendant of a long line of English and Spanish aristocrats. Ancestors, like most of Gertrude Ather¬ ton’s novels, leaves a bad aftertaste. The cause of this is patent. We readers are in¬ vited and expected to admire the thoughts and deeds of the hero and heroine, and if we fail to do so we are insidiously made to feel that we are common, plebeian, and not up-to-date. The English lord in Ancestors redeems himself when for once he forgets the traditions of his long line of idle ancest¬ ors and spends two days in useful work. But who can admire those cigarette smoking aristocratic women who consider a husband a bore and who flirt with paramours just to show that they are above the laws of com¬ mon decency! Their blood is blue and cold. They are loveless and unloveable despite the most artistic touches of the author. If creatures like the heroine of this novel are the product of an artistocratic ancestry, then we Petalumans have every reason to be thankful that the warm and red plebeian blood courses through our veins. But let us he charitable toward the scions of the anti¬ quated European aristocracies and assume that they receive no more justice from the pen of the author than the plebeian Petalu¬ mans. —MARTIN SINGER. Ahtmthtrra uf jFrrsItmnt When school commenced in August last, There came into our jolly corps A greener band of Freshmen boys Than we had ever seen before; And as we were the Junior class, Of jolly fun we had great hopes, As had the last year’s Senior boys When they were showing us the ropes. We had them making speeches grand, We ducked them, too,—it was a sin— But then they spoiled our little fun, For they too easily gave in. Now these same Freshmen boys were rich, At basket-ball they liked to play; Their grounds were at the Grammar School, Which was for them too far away. And so one evening after school They tried to build a pair of goals; And when at last their job was done They loosely planted them in holes— So loosely that the slightest breeze Which blew upon their broader side Would wave them like two mammoth fans Which could be seen from far and wide. Now barely two days after this. As verdant Freshie.s .climbed the hill, They found chalked on their precious goals A big “Naught Eight,” but all kept still. Qf course when next we looked at them We saw there marked in “Naught Eight’s” stead, “Eleven” by some Freshman drawn, Appearing like them—underfed. But chalk comes off too easily, So two bright Junior boys one night, In brilliant colors of their class, Put on “Naught Nine” by candle light. The Sophomores soon followed suit With “Ten”, and elswhere shown “Naught Eight,” But when the Freshmen tried to paint They found they had some years to wait. For when the Freshies turn arrived, They carried up their blue and white, But mounted there before the goals Thy found that first they had to fight, For out from many hiding spots There sprang before their frightened gaze. Some boys who gave them something hot— They’ll not forget for many days. Now all you future Freshman boys, Who come up here to w ork and learn, Be sure you don’t forget these rules, The need for them you will discern: First never try to wield the brush; Next, do not try to immitate; And last, though this is not the least, Be always in your beds at eight. —C. H. GREEN ’09, — 30 —