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

Page 69 text:

THE BUT TERFLY It was early morning, the sun had not yet driven away the crystal-like dew drops that lay untouched on the sparkling green lawn. The air was still crisp and fresh feeling, having not yet reached the stifling heat of noon. A small child was sitting in the middle of the lawn, intently watching the gaily colored butterfly flutter about the fuschia bed which bordered the garden. He had no more interest in pulling out the clumps of grass and squishing the tiny grey bugs between his stubby pink fingersg all his rapt attention was on a bright yellow butterfly. g First, only his eyes followed the mothing of the creature, but soon his entire body was swaying, following its movements. It finally lighted on a bright pink flower, and he found himself slowly, cautiously crawling toward it When he was only a few feet from the edge of the lawn, he stopped, and sat back on his heels, observing his prey. The low buzz of a honey bee, circling the lawn, just above the level of the boy's head, was the only sound to be heard in the hypnotic silence that enveloped the entire garden. Then, stealthily, the boy rose to his feet, and with a swift thrust of his hand, he caught the butterfly and brought it to his cheek in an affectionate gesture. The soft flutter of its wings brought a smile to his usually sullen face, and he felt less lonely. But only for a short moment. The sudden real- ization that it was struggling to free itself came to him, and his smile disap- peared as he pulled it away from his cheek. He held it at an arm's distance for a moment, and then, with grim determination, he methodically began to tear it apart--wing by wing, segment by segment. Sue Stafford '55 63

Page 68 text:

THOUGHT A voice wings out of the darkness Knocking at the door of your mind, Seeping slowly to reality Then fading out to the sky. Into your eyes comes a twinkle, And deep in your chest there's a roar Caused by that soft little voice Knocking on your mind's closed door. Sheila Mack H56 ll LINES Yesterdays, Dull, whispering memories That fade in seeming reverence To meet the shining flame And competition of each today, They hide their power In a long forgotten verse or song, Or in the smell of dampened earth, Freshly plowed. Enchanting yesterdays, That drift or thunder back In each detail, Holding cheap the anxious present With all its moods and many whims, And yet, this very present Will, in turn Become itself a yesterday, Sylvia McNamara II5 5H 62'

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WINTER PLAYS CHEF With a flood of powdered sugar Spilt by his careless hand, With a coat of whip-cream icing Spread around the land, Winter plays chef for a while. As he scatters silver candy For a bright and sparkling glow, As he models river banks Out of white and fluffy dough, Winter plays chef for a while. On the trees left bare by the Fall Putting a marshmallow trim On the ponds made still with ice, Fixing an ice cream rim, Winter plays chef for a while. Sue Dodge '55 LOS ANGELES This is the city--a dirty, grey, enveloping smog settles over the skyscrapers and reaches to the blue Pacific. This is the city. The radiant lights, the slang of the sailors, the high pitched chatter of women, the whining wails of a baby, tight slacks and highheels, glamorous stars dressed in mink. This is the city. The lofty dignity of purple mountainsg the streets lined with tropical palmsg the sharp, staccato horns of a million auto- mobiles racing by. This is the city. . . . .this is Los Angeles. Mimi Mann '55 A BEACH AT NIGHTFALL Wind, whistling through twisted treesg Waves, lashing against ragged rocks That cling to the shoreline And rise into steep and jagged cliffsg Tides, trailing white saltg Seagulls, swooping toward sand Which smells of seaweed, And screeching in confused and coarse tonesg Coldness, penetrating the fleshy Shadows, lengthening in light Which glistens on the water, Fading into pink and violet hues--- This is a beach at nightfall. Peggy Fitzgerald