Castilleja School - Indian Paintbrush Yearbook (Palo Alto, CA)

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A Perfect School Day FTER the lights had been turned off and quiet once more reigned over the corridors of the residence, my roommate and I held, as usual, a long con- versation. If, in some supernatural way, you were allowed to have just one wish, for what would you wish? asked my roommate. To have the school routine go on as I pictured it when I was a youngster, I answered sleepily, turning over. VVhen I opened my eyes to find Mrs. Vaughan bending over me, I thought I had been asleep for only a few minutes. She was saying queer things. Because I was not wide-awake, the words seemed entirely devoid of sense. I was being told that I need not get up for morning drill if I preferred to sleep. At last I realized that I was now quite awake and that Mrs. Vaughan was speak- ing to me in all seriousness. It is often true that, when a person finally gets what she most desires, she no longer wants it. I immediately got up, donned my clothes, and appeared on time for morning drill, which consisted of strenuously bending each finger on both hands five times. Breakfast followed the drill, and everyone had all the coffee-cake and very strong coffee she wanted. Upon arriving at my first morning class, I found that Miss Criss and Doctor True, my teachers of the first and second periods respectively, had decided that we should go on a bicycle picnic. It was a great success. After cycling over to the Stanford campus, singing our Castilleja Song in front of the Adminis- tration Building, and accepting, with fitting blushes of modesty, the orchid bou- quets thrown at us by the many students and professors, we returned just in time for Assembly. Cn entering, we found, to our great surprise, Miss Lockey in a gorgeous red evening gown, assisted by Miss Smith, Miss Tyng, and Mrs. Stearns, giving a large tea in honor of all the resident girls. After leaving the tea, I rushed through the corridors, knocking down and trampling upon Mademoiselle Petitdidier. Not having time to stop and offer first aid to the injured, I continued on my wild scurry to arrive at Miss Sin1pson's class on time. The brutal thing I had done to Mademoiselle had been the only unpleasant happening in this so-far perfect day. Reaching my destination at last, I opened the door to Hnd Miss Simpson sitting on her desk, idly kicking the sides of it with her heels, and reading to an hilarious class selections from Life, This last was too much for ine. Everything turned black before my eyes. I stumbled and fell-out of bed. Realizing that I had only dreamed of a too per- fect day, I quickly dressed and came to the conclusion that I was glad to find my- self confronted by a school day of the regular routine, with serious business be- fore nie-better by far than my version of a perfect day which was all pleasure and no work. LILIAN MCNEVIN. Twenty-eight l 1 4.1

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Stick 's 5' HERE is a certain haunt of collegians, who wear too voluminous cords or unneeded tortoise-shell glasses, and of would-be's, which is also frequented by the ever famished inmates of Castilleja. Each Saturday afternoon, as inevitably as doom, they descend upon this fa- mous palace to fill all the little booths and send the waitresses scurrying after their sumptuous orders. After many whines and furious complaints directed at the slowness of the service, the girls see a waitress staggering towards them with a tray probably laden with the favorite Toasted Swiss, that delectable creation-the College Sundae, or the still more sensational concoction of saccharine viscidity - the Fairmont. IVhen the strictest of diets has been all too successfully broken, the girls swamp the candy counter. VVith eyes shining and fixed, each one carefully chooses her thirty-live cents worth of beautiful confection to carry triumphantly home. HELEN STINE. of-415511399--lu A Rhyme This started out to be an essay On the pricelessness of time, But the meter of it caught me And I couldn't resist the rhyme. This turns out so very often To be the way I workg My mind is turned to something else Though I do not mean to shirk. I leave my studies, duties, lessons, To ride, or drive, or walk, And my mind is oft diverted By frivolity of talk. . I postpone my next day's studies- I shudder to relateg I plan to do them on the morrow, And then it is too late. So let this poem be a lesson To those who waste their timeg This might have been an essay- It's just a silly rhyme. HEATH HAMILTON. Twenty-seven

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Traitorous Revelations T is a pose of all good American students to declaim loudly and monotonously that school is to them a Chamber of Horrors, a second Inquisition, a place of slow, grinding tortures. They repeat these ideas fnot, perhaps, in identical termsj, emit futile outcries, and enumerate one by one the various and sundry reasons why school is a dreadful place for them. Une becomes accustomed to these inevitable rages and takes for granted the cruel impositions and deadly boredom which, according to younger acquaintances, constitute the average school day. One says hypocritically in the fall, reveling in the self-satisfaction that comes from recognized superiority, XfVell, itis too bad, you'll be going back to school soon now. I suppose you hate to go. And vehement assurances of the truth of this statement follow. Yet-do we really hate school? Should we be happy if we nezfcr had to go back? Xve say so, yes, but, if we didn't go, how long would it be before, in a state of complete ennui brought about by nothing to do, we began to reminisce, to recall with amusement and not a little envy all the humorous things that hap- pened, all the jolly times we had- IVe did have jolly times, didn't we? Things always seem more fun after they're over. Do you remember- ? And so we talk, and before long it appears that we have never had quite so much fun since. NVe recall all the funny little characteristics of girls and teach- ers, all the amusing incidents, the sports, the dances, even the work itself which seems lively and jolly in comparison with the staid and boring sameness of our lives out of school. VVe long for the companionship of those days, for the sense of being allied against the probing questions of those who sought to prove our ignorance. And then we recall the carefree feeling we had when, after our work was done, we sauntered along the streets, going home with whichever girl prom- ised the best foodg or how on windy days we went on long walks into the hills fjust two of us-long walks are recognized as not for groupsj to sit on a log and eat sticky chocolate, or how on rainy afternoons we congregated in wet, chatter- ing, book-laden groups at the movies. You see, school days are not so hard. Our vehement protestations of un- dying hatred inay be laid to that immemorial right of Englishmen-free speech, which we in our youthful zeal desire to uphold. There may be, and there prob- ably are, some hardened characters who really do hate school, but I think that the majority of girls agree with me and realize the fun as well as the exceptional educational advantages and opportunities. MARGARET PASCOE. Twenty-nine 1