Atascadero High School - Santa Lucia Yearbook (Atascadero, CA)

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THE UNKNOWN WILBUR OLIVA, '27 There have been a great many books written about the fear of the Unknown. Edgar Allen Poe has written many stories about it. In some cases people have been known to die from fear when they really did not know what they were afraid of. Once a man who had been left in a dark- ened house alone died from heart failure at hearing the sound of some small animal dragging itself across the floor. Recently I had an experience which I will now attempt to relate,-an experience which will linger in my mind for some time to come. My home is situated a few miles from a small town in California. Sometimes, because of lack of transportation, I have been forced to walk from t.he village all the way home, which is not a very pleasant pastime at night, altho there is a good road most of the way. As our house is a little distance from the main road I have found it quicker to cut across the fields than to follow the road. On this particular night I had been to see a friend in town and had not gotten started home until after eleven. I soon left the lights of the village behind me as I hurried along, and almost before I knew it, I was alone with the howling wind and the black clouds, which were skudding across the sky. As I walked along I gradually became aware of a strange fear growing within me. I began to have creepy sensations a11d cold chills running up and down my back. My fear increased as l walked along and I soon caught myself looking back over my shoulder and several times I paused to listen. By the time I came to the place where I must leave the road to cut across the fields, my heart was pounding and I was continually looking back. I broke into a run which I soon stopped with the foolish fear that the noise of the wind rushing past my ears would drown out the noise of anything approaching me. I quickly crossed the fields and it was with great relief that I burst into my house. VVhen morning came, my fear of the night before was almost forgotten and it was not renewed again until I crossed the fields. I was sauntering down the path when I suddenly stopped with a gasp, for there, interrningling with mine, were the eight-inch tracks of a mountain lion. Ii I F E POLLY HARRIS, '27 A faint rose flushes in the east, Tips clouds with light, The world in dewy wonder wakes From spell of night, And day is bor11! Apollo reins his ramping steeds O'er Western hills, One downward plunge thru blood and fire, The whole sky thrills, And sun is set! So let us in the morning rise Buoyant with song, And may the night, which comes at last, Still find us strong. Oh, this is life!

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had left them. In the rear of all the stones was a queer old graveyard. Some of the graves had trees or bushes for tombstones, others had shells and rocks, and still others, stakes and rocks. One tombstone was especially noticeable. It was a tall pole with carvings and Spanish names all over it but none of the names were legible. We then went into the Mission, expecting to see tier upon tier of seats and benches, a platform and other things which are usually found in such a, place. We expected to find many relics and antiques, but after stepping inside we changed our minds, for it was dark, dreary, damp, and cold, and bats were flying around, screeching wierdly. There were no benches, no platforms,-just an immense, empty room. There was no floor in it. Some of the rafters were starting to fall. The only things that reminded us of a Mission were the cross and the bell. There was a huge wooden cross at the further end of the room. The ball up in the little tower would not ring and was covered with moss and rust. In a hallway there were many names carved in the adobe, probably made by the tourists. They are now using this picturesque old Mission as the setting for a Spanish picture on the silverscreen. WORSE AND MORE OF IT MATTHEW L. TRIGGS, '26 What! Have my tonsils out tomorrow! Vifell, I should hope to smile. Whadda I want my tonsils out for? They're all right! Oh well, if it hasta be done I might as well get it over with. The fateful moment at last arrives. I am ordered to open my mouth and be resigned to my doom. The doctor jabs a needle about half way thru my throat and then takes what resembles a paint brush loaded with glue and gives my throat a coupla swipes with it. He prospects around a bit more until he strikes bone. Then he goes over to the other side and dittoes the proceeding. At last he gives me a coupla extra swipes with the glue brush and lets up for a minute. Are they both out now? I asks, simple like. t'What! only the local anesthetic? Well I'll be --! Then he proceeds to give me a few preliminary remarks as to how to go about it. The main idear seems to be not to grab his hand and to keep my mouth open. I don't see how I could close it, anyhow, if he puts in half the things he put in for the anesthetic. Well, at last we proceeds to business. He pokes around down in my lungs or somewhere thereabouts with sumthin' durned sharp, seemin' to greatly enjoy the operation. After about a minute of pulling my backbone to pieces, he gets all braced and gives a heave. Lord! I thot my head was off, to say the least! Well, that's one of'm, he says, and starts excavat- i11g again. This last one only hurt about twice as much as the first one, so I managed to get thru it. Well, anyhow, I'1n done with tonsils!!! THE SEA WILBUR OLIVA, '27 The sea waves swiftly rise and flash and leap, In swirling eddies round each pebble sweep. Their crests in far-flung battle line expand And crash upon the unsuspecting sand. Back, back they roll in wild, confused retreat, A moment restg again their charge repeat!

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THE PLAYGROUND OF THE SEASONS POLLY HARRIS, '27 Long, long ago, when the world was very young, the Great Spirit stood at the door of his wigwam in the clouds and surveyed his handiwork. And a frown gathered upon his brow for he was not pleased. Then he bent low over the world, shaking on it the ashes of his pipe, and lo, there were mighty mountains, traced with his finger the course of the rivers and breathed the oceans into being. Then, with his powerful magic, he created the Indian a11d peopled the hills and valleys with many of his kind, but still he was not satisfied. So he took three of the fairest Indian maidens, naming them Spring, Summer, and Autumn, giving them great powers over the earth, and made them immortal. First came the Spring, dancing over the blue waves of the ocean, mak- ing all the world laugh with her joyous youth. Lightly she tripped on moccasins, dew-beaded, throwing veils of green mist over the hills and splashing the valleys with color. Close behind her came the Summer, bathing the world in golden sunshine and touching the fiowers with richest colors. Then, last of all, came the Autumn. In a flurry of leaves she came, dancing, splashing the hills with her brown and flame and scarlet, painting the harvest moon and ripening the maise of the Indians. But, while the world was revelling in the magic beauty of Autumn, there came from the icy northland, a fierce stranger spirit. Cold was the touch of his fingers and his hair blew wild in the night wind. Fiercely he pursued the three seasons, killing their flowers with his frosty breath and burying the green forests beneath a blanket of snow. Swiftly he came over the hills and valleys, freezing the lakes and rivers before him and always pursuing the seasons. They fied at his approach, but everywhere he followed,-icy, cruel, relent- less. All living things died at his approach and fast in the print of his moccasins spread a great sheet of ice, clutching the whole earth. At last, in desperation, the three seasons left the earth and began the long journey upward to the forbidden Wigwam of the Great Spirit. They were faint with cold and hunger when at last they reached his wigwam among the clouds and found him there, sleeping after his labors. They wakened him and told him of the terrible thing that had happened. Then the Great Spirit sprang up in anger, caught a brand from his fire and hurried it down on the Ice Spirit. Back before the powerful magic the Ice Spirit fell in terror, and the great ice sheet dwindled and melted. Back fled the Spirit to his home in the northland, but when he reached his Wigwam among the everlasting snows, he turned and laughed in the face of the Great Manitou, telling him that, do what he might, he, the Winter, would come back each year, following close in the steps of the Autumn. At this the Great Spirit was troubled, for, if the Winter came, cold and relentless, each year, where could the Seasons go to protect themselves from his ravages? I Then he sought the shores of the far, blue, western sea, and there he modelled a dream land of rolling hills and green valleys. Far above the sun-splashed hills reared great peaks and glaciers, while, from the western sea, blew warm winds laden with perfume. Here, while the cruel Winter ravaged the world outside, the Seasons came each year and revelled in their playground. All their boundless beauties they lavished upon itg all the year round, warm winds blew and gay fiowers splashed the hillsides. And so, today we find it, blessed with all the beauties of nature- California, land of eternal sunshine.