Petaluma High School - Trojans Yearbook (Petaluma, CA)

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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 —

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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 —

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Buried Treasure (Freshman Story ) M ARTHY ANN, an old colored woman was cleaning out her cup¬ board when she found a piece of paper. She looked at it for a minute or two then she exclaimed, Wha Moses Austin Washing¬ ton, look what Ah gone and founded.” What,” asked Moses, her hus¬ band, as he looked up from his month old paper. Old Marthy waddled over to him and gave him the paper and this is what Moses read: BURIED TREASURE 10 Feet North of Big Pine Under White Rock. JOHN MORRIS” Huh, dat ole paper ain’ no good an’ yoali ain’ gwine fin’ it need- er,” said Moses, and he went back to his paper. Big Pine, Big Pine,” said Marthy to herself, All’s gwine find dat air treasure and buy mall- self a noo hat. Dat air big pine tree ain’ far from heah, Ah can fin’ et.” That afternoon, Marthy was sittng in front of the tumble down shack she called home and she was singing old negro songs as she peeled her potatoes. Lor’ a’ massy,” she suddenly said, der comes Cliloe, now. All’ll tell her all ’bout dat air treasure.” Cliloe was an old negress who lived up the road and as she waddled up the path, she wondered about Marthy’s happiness. Wot yoali so happy ’bout,” she inquired. All’s happy ’cause Ah founded some treasure, All’s gwine be rich some day,” Wot you finded?” demanded Cliloe. Come heah, and don yoali tell anyone needer,” said Marthy, as she handed the paper she had found that morning to Cliloe. Wal, Wal, ef dat ain’ scramfunctuous, ” said Cliloe as she handed the paper back to Marthy. When yoali air gwine look, for dat air treasure?” Jus’ as soon as Ah kin fin’ a pussun ta go dar with me,” answered Marthy, ”don’ yoali wanna come?” Wal I reckan yoali’s tellen the truf, All’ll go. Cous’ yoali,’ll go en da dawk won’ yoali?” answered Cliloe. Slior’,” said Marthy, in a whisper, We air gwien tanight at ’bout nine er’ clock. All’ll meet you down at dat air house by dat big tree by yoali house.” All right,” said Cliloe, All’ll bring mall sack, dat dose air ’taters corned in. Fine dat air scramfunctuous.” And Cliloe then left and as she waddled down the filthy, weedgrown path, Marthy called, An don’ yoah forget.” It was nine o’clock, there was no moon and the rain came pouring down. Cliloe and Marthy were dripping wet and covered with mud when they were only one half of the way to the Big Pine. Yell,” said Cliloe, Ah reckons mall hat is don spiled. Da rain spiled et All reckons dat treasure mus’ be lots ta pay for dis air trouble.” But Marthy Ann cared more for her wet feet and the muddy road than Cliloe’s remarks. After they had walked for another thirty minutes or so, Cliloe suddenly said, Da air dat Big Pine.” Golly,” said 23 —