Petaluma High School - Trojans Yearbook (Petaluma, CA)

Page 27 text:

LITER A R Y A Hand Painted Romance (Adapted from a Song) (Senior Story) I N THE musty curio cabinet the dust of many years had gathered, somewhat dimming the bright colors of the small figure painted on the Japanese saucer. Song-Fong-So, for such was the figure, could remember many, many years ago, when he was held by royal hands and had a brother who was painted on a cup; jeweled fingers of rulers had touched him and he had been much admired in those long past days. Well could he remember the trip across the sea and of being placed in the curio cabinet where he had only memories, for none of the other curios had ever heard of him or his dear Japan. There is a memory that Song-Fong So loves best, yet every time it comes to him, tiny tears almost trickle down his painted cheeks. Deeply imprinted in his memory is the day when the cabinet door opened and a beautiful silken fan was placed near him. He was almost beside him¬ self with joy for there painted on the fan was a dainty maiden of his home land. However, it took time and much courtesy to even become acquainted wfitli her as she had all the modesty that becomes the well bred Japanese maiden. But Song-Fong-So considered his time well spent for was she not a true figure of lovliness such as only an artist could create? Their mutual sympathy brought them together as perhaps nothing else could have. Wing-Tee-Wee was also of the royalty and they had much in common. During the happy days that followed it was inevitable that Song should fall in love with Wee. At last he could no longer keep silent, so one evening he picked up the tiny Japanese banjo that was painted beside him and sang tenderly: “Wee, please come with me And let’s go back to dreamy Lotus Land. There, mid flowers fair, I swear to love you, Love you, ’neatli the magic moon above you. Wee, I love but thee, just wait and see The wondrous dream I’ve planned, I’ll leave my saucer, you leave your fan And let’s go back to dreamy Lotus Land.” Wee, hiding her blushing face, shyly stepped from her fan. But alas! In her confusion she tripped and was broken. This was almost more than Song could bear but a painted figure cannot die. Day by day he is fading and although many years have past Song-Fong-So con¬ tinues to sing his little love song as the evening shadows fall. PATTY CARMICHAEL, ’23. — 21 —

Page 26 text:

The Freshman Class Freshman Class W HEN the fall semester, for 1922, commenced, we, the class of ’26 entered P. H. S. Being somewhat bewildered by the great bustle anti confusion of so large an institution, we sat back and tried to catch our breath. We finally became accustomed to the new ways and people. At our first meeting we elected Harold Farquar as our first eatler in High School. I nder his peppery guidance we believe we have set a mark as freshmen for future classes to live up to. When the football mentor began looking for material, the fresh¬ men supplied him with a number of candidates, several making the team as regulars. Carleton Coffy was one of the football stars. Beck oung, Andrew Bravo and Melvin Delmaestro starred in basketball, Young being the captain-elect for the coming season. Many points will this trio garner for P. H. S. before their graduation. The same three men in field and tract events have thrilled the spectators with their all¬ round work. The entire team was in fact composed of freshmen. But not only in Athletics have we shown ourselves to advantage, several freshmen have been on the scholastic Honor Roll for the entire four quarters. Yea brother,, some, bunch, that class of 1926. CARLETON COFFEY, ’26. — 20 —

Page 28 text:

An Inspiration A X author was sitting at his desk over his work. The room in which lie was, was cold and musty. The ceiling was high and the floor was carpetless. He was a long lean man with a pair of sharp, pin-lik,e eyes. His face wore a tired, hollow look. He was disgusted. All of his stories were failures. They would start and then drift away from the subject. It was afternoon and the leaves were fluttering off of the trees. He lay his head on his crumpled stories and slept. the room was empty and cold, and it was almost midnight when he awoke. He shuddered and, speaking out loud, said, “It’s getting cold.’’ “Getting old,’’ came an answer as if an echo right behind him. He jumped and looked but, because of the dark, could see nothing. He felt for a match in his pocket. The box had been full when he put it there but now it was partly emp ty. Hearing something behind him he said, “Who’s there?” No answer. He struck a match. It went out. Another, another and still an¬ other went out as if something blew them. There were two matches left. One sputtered and went out. The other flickered and lit. He went to light the lamp but the lamp went out. He heard a light thudding — thump, thump, thmup. His hair raised on his head. Cold shivers ran up and down his spine. He remembered his flashlight in the drawer of his desk. He felt for it and when he touched the cold flashlight he heard the banging of the clock, Midnight! His fingers seemed frozen. He pressed the button. The light did not go on. He exclaimed, ‘ ‘ Confound that battery! ’ ’ “Battery”, came the answer from the other end of the hall. His beady eyes became as large as saucers. He found a match in his pocket that had slipped from the box. He struck it carefully and lit the lamp. From up on the rafters came the words, “Polly wants a cracker.” And then he sat down and wrote this story. ALICE JORGENSEN, ’25. — 22 —