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

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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.

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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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A FIIANDERS I'01'I'Y HARRIETTE HASTY, '28 As I was looking over some of my old treasures the other day, I came across a little Flanders poppy that l had bought from a little girl on Memorial Day two years ago. l had forgotten that those things were ever made, and, as I sat looking at it, I wondered-. It wasnit much,-just a bit of cloth and wire twisted into shape, but who had made it along with many others? Whorli had it helped to feed or clothe? For each little poppy you bought helped somebody away over in France. Perhaps it was a poor young widow who had lost her husband in the war and was wearing her fingers to the bone trying to feed and clothe her poor children. Maybe in her spare hours she had sat with the children far into the night making little poppies like this one and, even after the children had gone to bed, perhaps she had sat up long hours, twisting, cutting, almost mechanically, just for her children. Perhaps as she worked she had breathed a prayer for her husband who lay Somewhere in France. Maybe it was an old grandmother who had lost all her kin in the war and was living, forlorn and forgotten, i11 the ruins of her old home. Per- haps, after the war was over, she had sadly journeyed back to her old home in the hope of finding it still there. Perhaps as she sat on the doorstep twisting this little flower into shape she thot, as the tears ran down her cheeks, of what the little poppy she was making really stood for and of her sons who lay, with thousands of others, in Flanders fields. Maybe, as the tears ran down her cheeks one fell on this poppy and made this faded spot here, and perhaps she whispered as she wiped her tears away, It was all for France, and France, our beloved France, is saved l Perhaps it was a little orphan boy and girl who spe11t what should 'have been a play hour making this little poppy. Maybe as they worked they were thinking of their father,-wondering whether he lay in Flanders fields or some other forsaken spot in France. And their mother,-where was she? Was she dead, or was she looking for them yet? Maybe this little fiower was fashioned by a young French peasant who had been partially disabled in the war and was unable to support. his wife and children, brothers and sisters, in any other way. Who knows? Two years! They may never sell these little artificial poppies again. France is building up and life is brighter. But nothing can make amends for all the sorrow caused by the great warg nothing can ease the heartache of the thousands of people who sacrificed their loved ones, that we, the world, might be free. A little artificial poppy-blood red-Flanders Fields! TIIE INAUGURAL ADDRESS GENEVIEVE LYMAN, '27 Mr. Coolidge made a speech, 'Twas very dull and dry, VVe tried to listen patiently, But scarce forbore a sigh. We heard it thru the radio Which speaked and squawked and groaned, We couldn't hear a word he said, For all WE knew, he moaned. I heard the speech was very good, And know that that is so, But next time that he makes a speech, To Washington I'll go.