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

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quickly told the man she would, and sent him on his way rejoicing. “It will really do you good,” he said, “and now good night, you'll need some rest before a week from tonight.” The night of the play came and the rustic amphi- theater was filled to overflowing, and from the mo- ment when the orchestra struck the first note until the lights went out on the final scene, the audience laughed and cried, rejoiced and sorrowed with the people be- fore them. It was a wierd tale of the Franciscan Fath- ers, and Priscilla was a captive Indian maid, loved by a Spanish cavalier. She, however, hated the Spanish because of their cruelty to her people, and would have nothing to do wit h the handsome knight, though her heart bade her do otherwise. And so the story was woven out, and in the end, she softened, forgave and forgot, and gave herself up to her lover. It was late when Richard and Priscilla made their way homeward, and the moon was flooding the earth with light, while the night was filled with lovely sounds and odors; the quiet calls of sleepy birds and the con- tented chirps of crickets. Priscilla was still in the cos- tume of the last scene, a flowing robe of white and silver, and the glory of her hair caught only by a halo of silver tinsell. As. they came near her home; Priscilla broke the silence. 15 “Do you know, playing that part has just made me feel that way myself. And, oh Richard, I truly have forgiven and forgotten!” There were many things which Richard wanted to say to her as he looked down into her shining eyes, but he could not. They turned in at the garden gate, entering what seemed an enchanted garden bathed in silvery light. She passed silently along by his side, and as they brushed against the bushes, they gave out their scents into the night; roses, and lavender, narcissus and jace- mine breath. It all went to make the way sweeter and seemed to shroud them both in a silver mist of moon- light and love and happiness. At length after winding through the shadowy paths they turned toward the veranda, and through the half-curtained window they could see her uncle and aunt chatting before the cosy low fire. The glow of the fire was all about them, and as the girl and man stood without, they saw the old man turn lovingly to his wife, and she looked trustingly up into his face with a look of endearment, which age and toil had failed to wither. Out in the night the girl trembled suddenly as if with cold, and the man turn- ing, slipped both arms about her, and she too, looked up into his face with the look which never was to be effaced. And then they went in! Gertrude Matthew, °17.

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“How do you do,” she said breathlessly, “I didn’t hear until just now, and—why—why Dick Barstowe— where did you come from?” “Sit down, sit down,” he said, really fearing she would fall, “I just thought I would come up here for a little vacation, and enjoy a few pleasant memories. But ‘an you tell me—why are you here after all this time?” “Me—oh—” she choked, and her blue eyes filled with tears. “I'll tell you, because you'll want to hear.” ’ She paused a moment as if to gain assurance, then settling herself determinately in a big chair she began: “We came up here in July, mother and father and I, for a long vacation. It was cut short by an accident. They were out riding in the launch with my uncle and aunt, when something went wrong. The man who was steering was incapable, and the whole thing collapsed. My uncle saved Aunt Helen, but she is weak yet, from the shock, and mother and father were both drowned. But—the boatman was saved. He lives here now, and—” her mouth hardened, and again she clinched her hands—“Yes, he lives!’ Richard watched her a moment, and when the bitter storm of unforgiveness was past, and again she sat in a sad calm, he patted her comfortingly on the shoulder. “Believe me, you have my sincerest sympathies, and if there is anything I can do, please tell me. Did you say your uncle and aunt are here?” 14 “Yes,” she sighed, “I have only them now, and we found the lovely old place, and decided to stay. I love it, and then—it’s nearest them, I think.” It was several weeks following this meeting, and Richard and Priscilla had been much together. Richard was trying in every way possible to help Priscilla to forget the bitterness of her sorrow, and most of all to lose her hatred of the boatman. It was hardening her heart, and cramping her vision, and he knew she must forgive to forget. The people of the resort were giving a play, and Richard was taking the leading part. Priscilla had been asked to play opposite him, but had refused, and only after much urging had consented to take a minor part. It was one night after rehearsal and Priscilla and Richard were walking home in silence. Suddenly the girl spoke. “Do you know,” she said, “I almost wish I had taken that part. I know about all of the lines just from hearing it. Come on, let’s go through it for fun.” And so they did, and almost without a break. When they finished, they were resting on the porch steps, when the director of the play came dashing up, and breath- lessly gasped that the leading lady had been called away, and Priscilla must take the part—she was the only one who could do it, and she must. What was her answer? “Why, why—I don’t know what to say,” began Priscilla, but she did not have to say, because Richard

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Himmivr and FJ E WERE doing nothing. That is what Jimmie and I generally did—nothing, except when we went on some es- capade. If I do not explain who Jim- | mie and I are you will probably get (CF) the idea into your head that we are just two lazy boys, but you would be positively wrong. We are two girls in our “teens,” who are always hunt- ing adventure or cooking up something exciting, and whose mothers exclaim morning, night, and sometimes at noon, that on account of our boyish pranks they will probably be compelled to spend their next vacation at Napa in a padded cell. Ever since both of us could remember we regretted It couldn’t be helped, we weren't boys, so we consoled ourselves by being such tomboys that nearly everyone called us Jimmie and Billie, myself being Billie. that we were not boys. Ore evening during the last few weeks of our sum- mer vacation, we were comfortably propped up in two hammocks that were swung between some redwood trees just in front of our camp. The camp was in a grove of redwoods, with a few oaks scattered among them. We loved those oak trees dearly, for it was 16 there we used to hide when it was time to dry the dishes and sinfully giggle at our mothers when they would call, “J-i-m-m-i-e ! ! B-i-l-l-i-e !!!” and at last when they were certain we were drowned, we would give ourselves up to kisses and hugs—and the dish towel. From the camp we looked right out on the river, and a path led down to a small landing, where we kept a canoe for ourselves and a boat for our more timid mothers. Here, also was our swimming hole, and the springiest spring board you ever sprang from. One evening our mothers had gone for a walk to the grocery store and post office that were near our camp, so we were alone. Jimmie began to hum, and I knew she was cither going to sleep or cooking up some escapade, probably the latter, so I began to think up something, too. At last she broke the silence, and I found that we had been thinking of the same thing. “Billie, ’ve been good all day, and I can’t be good one minute longer, let’s have a canoe ride before our guardian angels come back.” “All right, Jimmie, my love, anything to please, but ve both have to be good so that our guardian angels— cur mothers, in other words—will forgive us for cut- ting out the back of the tent to make a sail for the