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

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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.

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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 MOUNTAIN WILLIAM BISSELL, '27 I see a mountain standing high, Outlined against the golden light Of summer's setting sun. The lower slopes are green with pines, The top is gleaming White with snow. Beauty from Heaven won! A FAIRY IJEIIII POLLY HARRIS, '27 There's a wonder world of magic In a fairy dell I know, Where the maiden hair is misted Thru the star flowers' purest snow, There the sunbeams frolic downward Thru a leafy, shimmered screen To the mossy velvet carpet That's brocaded gold and green. There's a brooklet's crystal laughter Thru its rushes green and tall, Velvet cat-tails nodding gaily Where the ripples rise and fall. There are bird trills thru the branches And bird rustles in the grass, And a sweet, flower-scented coolness Where the shy, blue violets mass. So if you're sad and weary With the weight of dusty things, And feel fiutteriugs within you As of caged and restless wings, Just cast the world behind you And seek a fairy dell Where the burning of your fever Will be cooled beneath its spell. You 'll stretch lazy in the lush grass With a brooklet gurgling by, And dream of summer coolness 'Neath an azure depth of sky. And your sadness will float from you At the touch of fairy things, When your heart 's song comes returning O11 the breath of fairy wings. GIRLHOOD LILLIAN STEVENS, '25 I am not yet awake. Just faintly Do I feel the wonder of the moon glint on the waves The marvel of the flower in lowly mold. I am not yet awake. As thru a mist-white veil Comes love of dew upon the meadow grass, Of hoary cloud upon the summer sky.