Santa Rosa High School - Echo Yearbook (Santa Rosa, CA)

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THE PORCUPINE AA Week in Sunny Ireland “A week in sunny Iveland.” This is what the guide book said, also the tourist agent to whom we applied for particulars. “A week in sunny Ireland!’ Do you dare go back to America and say you missed it? Our vacation was growing alarmingly near its close, our purses were daily more cadaverous, but the bait was too allurine and in the innocence of our souls we decided to “take in” Ireland. Oh, gullable Ametican tourist, not to know this meant that, not Ireland, but ourselves, would be taken in! Odes have been written to the joys of crossing the Irish sea. We felt those joys—-such as they were—to the in- nermost depths of our being, and the early morning found a dejected looking trio eagerly scanning the horizon for the Irish coast, while politely, yet firmly, refusing the steward’s invitation to breakfast. Indeed, I didn’t say we were sea-sick, but how we long: ed for Dublin, where we were to land! Dear, dirty Dublin! Once within its fascinating grasp, our past woes were forgotten and we set ourselves to the enjoyment of the new ones which arrived in rapid succession, As in the “Real Diary of a Real Boy,” our daily journal readings were, “stormy and bad,” and we looked in vain for “sunny Ireland.” At. first. it drizzled, then it poured; the wind howled day and night. Then it grew tired, drizzled a little, and began all over again. Why the natives didn’t grow web-footed and de- velop umbrella-like projections on the head is a mystery to me. Our first real adventure happened promptly with our arrival on the dock. The only available jarvey (as the drivers are called) singled us out at once. We were Amer- icans—that was obvious. Consequently we were w sal thy and fair game. Thriple the regular amount was de- manded to take us up town, but not for nothing had we religiously read our guide books. We refused. The

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6 THE PORCUPINE he can’t help walking right out of the garden in spite of himself?” But she angrily spurned his guileless sympathy and advice. And, worst of all, she got even by working off her wrath on the long suff ring little girl, ae —y— —. — The Death of Mrs. Stanford The death of Mrs. Stanford is an event of peculiar in- terest to the schools of California. Directly and indi- rectly, the founding of Stanford University has wrought - marvelously in familiarizing our public with the idea of higher education. Some years ago, in an article on “Cal- ifornia and the Californians,” Dr. Jordan said: “In no other state is the path from the farm house to the college so well trodden as here.” This condition has largely de- veloped since the wealthy and vigorous institution at Palo Alto caine into existence, The stimulus has been communicated to the public school system, until now ev- ery high school must perforce contemplate more or less vividly the possibility of a course in one of our universi- ties. Such a course has become a commonplace, which means that the people of California are to show a hig average of culture in the future. The passing away of the last of its founders marks a distinct. epoch in the history of Stanford University. Heretofore personal pride and solicitude—an affection such as that of parent for child—has been a strong ele: inent in the management. This is now to be replaced by the disinterested care ‘of the impersonal public. The future of the instiution is in the hands of the people of California. The only way to show a proper eratitude for such a gift, and for the broad and generous spirit with which the foundations of the university have been laid, is by carefully preserving the magnificent bequest-— in spirit as well as in body. i wee

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THE PORCUPINE jarvey was firm—so were we. It was too far to walk, so there we were, and seeminely there we would stay. At last we compromised and climbed into the cab, but not before I noticed a wicked gleam in brother jarvey’s eye. A crack of the whip, and we were off—literally off our seats and piled in a heap on the cab floor, while faster and faster drove our angry coachman. Around corners, on two wheels or one—never on four—down lanes and dirty alleys into the worst quarter of the town we were whirled; the inhabitants looking at us in open-mouthed wonder as we three gasping John Gilpins clung to the seats and tried to look calm, while wondering how our epitaphs would read. After nearly an hour’s wild tear, amore violent lurch brought us to a stop, the cab door opened, and our now smiling driver assisted us to alight, and on accepting the specified fee from our trembling hands, cheerfully asked if we hadn’t “something for the jarvey.” And to our shame be it said, that in a burst of thankfulness because our lives were spared—we gave it. Meanwhile it was raining’, but nevertheless we “did” the city with its beautiful main streets and filthy back ones; its green parks and luscious strawberries. The most beautiful of the parks, by the way, is named Phoen- ix Park, and, on asking our driver why it should be so named when there never was such a bird as the Phoenix, “Sure,” said he, “that’s the very reason. There niver was such a park, aither.” rom Dublin, on to Cork and Blarney Castle we went, and to these glorious Killarney Lakes. And everywhere we rode in—or on—a jaunting car, which combines the slowness of riding on a pack mule (so far as position is concerned) and the locomotive of an overland express for speed. Added to this our view of the rapidly passing scenery was limited to that seen from underneath a tightly held umbrella, except when a stronger blast than usual wrenched it from our grasp. How we loved these jaunting cars! And yet our mem- ories of them are fraught with pain. Glorying in the