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

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3111 Hlemnriam POLLY HARRIS 1910-1927 Loved, trusted and honored by all who knew herg---a delight and an inspiration in all of life's contacts. TREASURE PoLLv Hmuus, '27 I think a summer day's a lovely thing- A drone of bees, of bright things on the wingg A far blue line of mountains, distance soft, A warm blue depth of heaven, high aloft. I love a night that's powdered gold with stars, A thing that breaks thru all rea1ity's barsg A subtle stir of night wind in tall trees, And silver moonlight, incense on the breeze. Something of each I treasure in my heart, A lustrous pearl for each day set apart, And when the number of my days are spent, l'll count my treasure o'er, and rest--content.

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f Everything is created from and made up of Patterns. Life itself is a Pat- tern. To some of us who are lost in its meaning and complexity, it is not clear or definite. Nothing, however, is understood or takes definite shape, meaning, or color until all the threads are combined and woven intricately by skilled fingers and minds. Very often a mistake is made and the perfection of the Pattern is marred. Sometimes so many mistakes are made that the whole Pattern is appar- ently a failure. A true and beautiful Pattern must have texture, harmony, color- a definite plan. So our life Pattern must be,--a beautifully molded character, a life in harmony with the good and beautiful, full of color, interest, and appreciation, following the plan of the lllaster Weaver. Of untold value to the world is a lovely poem, an exquisite vase, a beautiful bit of music,-Patterns all! But of far more worth are the character Patterns which thru self-denial, bitter experience, pain, and laughter are growing nearer and nearer each day to the Divine Pattern. Just as in weaving a rug mistakes are made, so in molding a life many mistakes are made. Sometimes they are minor and unimportant and by a little careful, painstaking work may be rewoven into the Pattern. Just as often, however, something occurs which cannot be covered har- moniously. Then the whole Pattern must change accordingly. Either it will be- come a fuller, richer, stronger Pattern, or it will terminate in a hopeless blur. We who are building character Patterns have a far more difficult and intri- cate task ahead of us than those who are building merely inanimate Patterns. The latter may make each one sufficient unto itself and a law unto itself. We, how- ever, must weave our Patterns harmoniously into each other, not so much as to lose individuality, but so each one will give to its neighbor just that which is needed. lllany times we will become weary of the constant struggle and toil of weav- ing and we will despair of reweaving. We must always bear in mind, however, that it is these very things-the mistakes which must be rewoven, that lend the beautiful color and power to our Patterns. Only thru toil and privation is per- fection ever achieved-and only by persevering, weaving and reweaving, bearing always in mind the Divine Pattern, will a true and worthwhile Pattern ever be achieved. MOUNTAINS Cmzxix M. Haxsox, '30 The mountains strangely silent are, And yet they speak so plainly, toog It seems as tho you can't repeat, The lovely things they say to you.

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SETTING SAIL AT DAWN liorrn Tuomvsox, '28 Tread down, you great ship, Tread down the sea, 'Til the land's last drift Like a mist lies a-lee, Tread down the bright waves That bear me afar To the sea and the sky And the morning star. l.et out your topsails, Your mainsails, and take The strength of the winds For the new day's sake! CROSSES lfktxxces Fox, '28 Two bleached, gray boards. TVhat do they signify? Row upon row of them standing out stark and agonized thru a glare of golden poppies. What is their purpose? To show that what was once a man, eager of lip and eye and ear, filled with the zest of living, lies here. And though the poppies live and bloom, they live on death,-speak of death thru their heavy odor. What do they matter-these bleached gray boards? They are the symbol sacrificial. Thousands of them for weary miles marking and remarking the golden field into death-habited aisles. lllarkers of death. Just two bleached boards that the world may know, may realize, if it is able, the sacrifice of each life. Once, far away, on a windy hill, three crosses reached agonizingly to the sky. And these, the mark VVar leaves behind him, are they the symbol of Jesus still? DESTIN Y llokorm' Foirrxar, '28 Onward, relentlessly it flows-onward! Here and there a stone will futilely try to brook the flood and it may succeed, for a day. Then it sings,--'iBehold, l and l alone, have stopped the water! But the ghastly grey moon sees no stone. The River, the pitiless River, has carried the stone away in its mad, onward rush- ing. The River itself is but one of myriad Rivers and when tomorrow, next day, or an aeon hence dawns, this River will be no more. Once there dwelt on liarth a Klan. A hlan envied of lllen,-for had he not the wealth of a thousand kings? The hlan was proud. Had he not placated the Gods? Had not the priests, for gold, sworn that they would stem the advancing tide? He grew old and his heart grew feeble from the beatings and the churnings of the River. Yet the Klan was proud. Behold, he, and he alone, had stopped the River. Yes. And the ghastly grey moon rose upon a grave. ln the River there was not even a bubble.