Petaluma High School - Trojans Yearbook (Petaluma, CA)

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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 —

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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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THE ENTERPRISE ’2 3 Marthy, “Mali liawt am thumpin’ mighty big.” “Der am dat big rock. Come on yoali, lift et and Ah will cotch dat air treasure,” said Chloe. “Aw right, yoah lift et and Ah shore’ll cotch dat air teasure,” said Marthy. The rock was lifted and then Marthy said, “T’aint nothings heah. Ah reckons All’ll have tali dig.” Then Marthy dug a small hole and exclaimed, “Heah am dat treasure, all in a box. Hold yoah candle still, Chloe, Ah’s gwine open it.” “Hold et up more high,” said Chloe, “so dat Ah kin see.” Then the two old women had the greatest sur¬ prise of their lives. In that small box lay a neat leather bound edition of that popular knovel called “Buried Treasure.” “Wall, ain’ dat scramfunctuous,” said Marthy. “Shore is,” answered Chloe. ROSA AGUIRRE, ’26. (Junior Story) P ETE loved old Finnegan, but certainly no one else did, and Fin¬ negan loved no one at all. Finnegan, the sole survivor of a setting of Rhode Island Reds, did not deserve such a reputation if out¬ ward appearances counted, for lie was as handome a rooster as will he found anywhere. His comb was large and straight, his tail feathers curled just so and his head was carried high and proudly. These were all that was in his favor, for he was the autocrat of the barnyard and the mortal enemy of every human being. Pete McCarthy, handy man around the place, was the only person who dared come near that lord of the land, and only the heavy clothing he wore protected him from many vicious pecks. As for the rest of the family, the very name of Finnegan was a red flag of danger. Little Jack Craigdon looked forward to that glorious day when he could march into the barnyard and really fight Finnegan, but now he was content to gaze at a distance. In fact, he could be brought to terms on any misdemeanor by the threat of being put in with Finnegan if he “wasn’t good.” Mrs. Craigdon said little about Finnegan at first, just avoided him. But one day he flew at her and tore a hole in her best dress. That day the anti Finnegans received a new supporter. Bridget, the cook, hated Finnegan as thoroughly as Pete loved him. Time and again she declared, “I wouldn’t go near the baste of a creature for Lord himself, unless it was to put him in a kettle. Sure lie’s too tough for a roast.” Many solutions to the problem were offered, but Pete rejected them all. “Pen him up,” Mrs. Craigdon suggested and received the indig¬ nant reply, — 24 —