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

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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

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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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canoe. It was nice and cool last night, so I don’t care. I'm rather glad we burned holes in our bathing suits, too, arn’t you? We got to wear our brothers’, and it was such fun with no bothersome skirts to get twisted around our legs. Now, really, Jimmie don’t you wish with all your might, and some of mine, too, that you and I were boys?” “Of course, I do silly, haven’t I said so just trillions and gillions of times. It just makes me want to fight every time I get to thinking about it, but then you know what our mothers say when you and I have a real fight. Every single time we hear that same old—‘Now Jimmie and Billie aren’t you just awfully ashamed of your- selves to act in such a rough, rowdy way, when you know your mothers are trying to make refined young ladies out of you, so you will be able to enter society when you are of age.’ Oh, I just hate society, and worst of all to have to be a nice little girl.” “Well, let’s not sit here and talk about what we wish we were, but can’t be, and things that we have done that we are sorry for. Suppose we start upon this terrible journey into the wilderness, because we may never get another chance.” “Yes, we had better go because it does not take our guardian angels more than a century to fly up to the post office and back again to see if their darling daugh- ters have been eating jam or playing with matches.” We jumped up, found the paddles and pillows, went down to the river and got into the canoe. Soon we were drifting along enjoying the cool evening air. Then suddenly we saw the awfullest, spookiest thing that ever existed. On the left hand side of the river a white hand was grasping the willows. I looked at Jim- mie, and she looked as if some one had thrown a bucket of whitewash into her face, she was so pale. I must have looked just as bad, because Jimmie has never been able to describe the horrified expression that was on my face. In plain words, we were “scared stiff.” Many things flashed through our minds in a second. Of course we remembered a muffled scream a minute ago and a queer gurgling noise. In the gathering dark- ness we could intagine the water boiling up as the drowning person fought for life—we had wonderful imaginations, and I don’t doubt but that we could imagine most anything if we wished. What should we do, pull the person out by the hand? No, that would upset the canoe. Should we both jump in and rescue this person? No, we would probably be strangled to death. We wanted to play the hero, or heroine rather, but the mere thought of it made our teeth chatter. The canoe slid alongside of the band and we reach- ed for it before we thought. Horrors of horrors, our hopes of being heroines were shattered into a thousand pieces. The hand was a white glove filled with cotton and tied to the tree! Bess Godman, 719.