Annie Wright School - Shield Yearbook (Tacoma, WA)

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1939 THE ©HIELD LITERARY CONTRIBUTIONS SPEAKING OF FERDINAND The bull sidled up to the fence and looked wistfully at us through the barb-wire. Father drew back from the enclosure, pulling us with him. Watch out! Don ' t get too close ' he cau- tioned, looking at the bull as he spoke. That fence isn ' t very strong and you never can tell what a bull will do. If it wanted to, it could knock down that fence in a second. Why, I was reading only the other day of a farmer in Illinois who — We heard no more, however, for with eyes popping and mouths open we stood watch- ing this dangerous animal with renewed interest. Visions of father climbing the old oak tree for safety relieved the tension. How funny! The bull switched his tail at an insistent blue fly and rolled his big brown eyes at us convulsively. We in- stinctively drew back still farther. Soon the three of us went to see the pigs. There were four of them — little red, squealing creatures that stood in their food as they ate. But father ' s thoughts were still with the bull. I don ' t want you children to go near that bull, he insisted. It isn ' t safe. Did you notice that glint in his eyes? Why, that creature would just as soon gore a person as eat. This last bit of talk had the intended effect of terrorizing us and we promised solemnly to stay away from the bull. At that moment the farmer appeared in his faded blue denims with a tin milk pail in each hand: father was still harping on the bull. You mean Elmo? The farmer chuckled. He ' s gentle as a lamb. Likes children. We named him for my brother- in-law Elmo. Thought they looked like each other. The bull ' s a regular pet. Father was abashed. He became very red in the face, muttering something about most bulls he ' d seen and changed the subject. To this day the subject of bulls is carefully avoided, and even Ferdinand is dangerous conversation. FRANCES EGGERT, 1939. WHERE THERE IS SMOKE THERE IS FIRE Overhead the dense smoke formed a grey-brown dome and here and there the blue sky pierced through, making a mosaic-like pattern. Everything around took on a copper tinge. The water was brown; the shoreline going down to the sea looked like wet creeping animals. We seemed to be living in a beautiful but strange world, through which the word Fire had a strong hold and dread. The ashes were like fine silver snowflakes and at a distance against the brown sky they looked like millions of God ' s little creatures. In reality we knew they were creatures of the great destructive demon in the hills. We seemed to be held in, as if that dome were set right over and around us and we could not get out. The air was heavy; it pressed down on us with a weight that was unbear- able. At night the atmosphere became worse. When the men came home, they did not speak about it, not even when we asked them. They tried to keep up light conversation, but every now and then a strained silence fell. The men looked at each other, then looked away into space. Finally my father went for his hat and said as he passed, I ' m going out for a drive. The others followed him. If some one had only screamed or even whispered, it would have been better than that silence that could not be broken. MARY FILBERG, 1939. A FALLING LEAF It is queer how a quiet summer day may be shattered by only a leaf; but as I lay on the grassy slope listening to the sounds of summer, suddenly the sounds heralding autumn came to my ear. A small wind was trembling in the tree-tops when I heard, rather than saw, that falling leaf. It had not the floating sound of the summer leaf shaken loose by a wandering breeze. It rustled and crackled jerkily to the ground. Chased by a zephyr, it scuttled down the hill where it flattened itself with a snap against a blockading tree. For- saken by the wind. It slipped to the ground, now only a scout for autumn, but soon to be joined by a caravan of followers. JUNE LYNDE, 1940. MELTING SNOW The day was cold and biting with a silent wind that swirled and shivered around the clear, hard icicles. Tiny flakes hissed to the ground and be- came as down lost in a quilt of grey, wet snow The mountains stood black against a still cold sky. The once green trees were green no longer but blue black and looked as if they too, like the

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THE QMIlElLrO 1939 Ltjt to fight: Mary Kent Hewitt Florenc Steel Muriel Mattson (standing) Jean Webster Mary Turrill Jean Bull en Valerie Walkinshaw Gloria Difford Dora Lou Redmon Inset: Vera Fraser Frances Eggert k 4 i THE MASQUE PLAYERS The Masque Players was organized this year with the purpose of furthering the interests of drama in the school. Its production of The Ladies of Cranford, a quaint and humorous play of nineteenth century England, earned enough money for the club to purchase a stage for the Great Hall, which will be very useful for future productions. In April, Catherine Cowell, Jean Fairweather, Jane Snider, Virginia Ludwick, Janet McCoy, Barbara Hibbard, Doris Carrington, Mary Jean Rosenberry, and Leslie MacKay were pledged. It is hoped that these new members, with the remaining old ones, will carry on with the same enthusiasm and spirit that have motivated the club this year. DANCE CLUB Left to right: Florene Steel Gwen Couch Mary Kent Hewitt Lois Fisher Gloria Difford Dora Lou Redmon Mary Turrill

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THE SHIELD 1939 LITERARY CONTRIBUTIONS continued mountains, were chiseled out of hard earth, stone, and ice. The whole world was unfamiliar, im- mense, impassive. Life, I thought as I gazed upon the scene, is also like a snowflake that swirls and circles aim- lessly through the cold air, soon to drop among the millions gone before, melt, and be forgotten. DORA LOU REDMON, 1940. ON THE NIGHT I love the night. Bright nights when the world is painted silver with the fine frosted beams of the moon. Black nights when all is silent, dark, and eternal in their mystery. Blue velvet nights when winking stars and all heaven ' s glories are reflected in the silent, tranquil streams that flow through forest glades. Flashing, crashing nights when God shows his mighty wrath to a quavering world. Nights when the earth shakes and trembles from the tearing rips of thunder and lightning. Laughing nights when dancing brooks leap merrily from rock to rock and the wind flits carelessly through the green plumage of the vain trees. Cool sweet nights when the moon makes bridges of s ilver for lovers alone to tread upon. Night was created for rest, silence, deep thought, tender hearts, and all things crowded out by the hurry and bustle of the day. Night means peace. I love the night. DORA LOU REDMON, 1940. BUMPY ' S FUNNY TRICK The fairies and elves were holding their festival under the blooming cherry trees. They sat on toadstools in a fairy ring around the stump of a small birch tree which served as a table. They had elm leaves for plates and forked twigs for forks. Each one had a ripe red strawberry and a cup of fairy tea. Each year they held their festival in a secret valley in which grew many early strawberries and cherry trees. Bumpy was the smallest elf there. He had been sitting quietly when suddenly he jumped up and asked if he could be excused. Then he skipped away. Bump! Ouch! One of the toadstools broke off. Then another and another. One of the elves happened to look under one of the toadstools and there was Bumpy with knife in hand. He was crawling along under the toadstools cutting their stems in two. One of the bigger elves turned him over his knee and spanked him. He would have been black and blue for a month if his pet rabbit had not come to his rescue. Bumpy rode away on his rabbit laughing until his sides shook. NANCY THOMAS, Fifth Grade. SKIING I get on my skiis and go up the ski lift to Alta Vista. The sun is out, the air is clear and you can see the mountain plainly. The trees are laden with snow so they look artificial. The snow looks like little diamonds from the sun shining on it. My skiis glide easily down the slope. I get off the track and go through the woods. The snow birds chirp and hop around looking for something to eat. Presently I ' m out of the woods and almost at the bottom. I go up on the ski lift again. BILLIE JEAN RUST, Sixth Grade. THE GARDEN PATH There are lots of little flowers In the garden path today; I just hate to tread on them, But they are in my way. There are lots of little pansies And some violets too; The violets are purple And the pansies are blue. I go a little farther And there I meet a snake. I give a little laugh and say, You ' re in here by mistake. He doesn ' t pay attention, He just wiggles fast away. He hides among the flowers And I don ' t have my say. PATSY CHILDS, Sixth Grade.