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

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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

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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

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TRAGEDY The snow crunched delightfully under my feet as I walked down the narrow road leading to the barn. It was a rather strange day, grey clouds, threatening a storm, hovered balefully overhead and blotted out the rays of the afternoon sun. The landscape around me looked bare and defeated, trees stood out dismally against the bleak background, their bare black branches reaching toward the sky. I was going to the barn, as I had done so often that December, to feed and care for Blue, my horse, who had been injured over Thanksgiving vacation. As I rounded a bend in the road and came in view of the old ramshackle barn, an ominous feeling surrounded meg I was afraid to go further, and yet that same fear drove me on. I hesitated a littleg then, overcoming the feeling, I ad- vanced. As I neared the barn door, everything was deathly silent except for the mournful wailing of the wind overhead. Blue? I called. There was no answering scuffle or nicker. I rattled the lock. Hey, you! Blue! No answer. A strange chill came over me, and I felt a shiver up and down my spine. I opened the door and stepped in. It was dark, warm, and horsey in there. A gust of icy wind whistled through the door and churned up a cloud of dust and hay, blinding me temporarily. When the cloud subsided, I looked across to the stall where Blue stayed, but to my surprise and shock, there was no silhouette against the open window. I called again. My voice trembled. I stood motionless. A feeble groan answered my query, and I leaped over to the rail. Blue was down on her side, her feet on the slight upgrade of the floor and her head next to the stall door. Always before, she had come to meet me, even if she had been lying down. A wave of terror, disappointment, and panic seized me and I could not move, I just stood looking at her. Then, not knowing what to do, I let out a loud cry and hastened over the rail to her side. Confusion and a sense of complete helplessne ss gripped me, but I soon calmed down to see what 1 could do. I I have no idea how long she had been down, nor what had happened, but the ground under her feet was completely free from straw and had deep hoof scratches in it. The barn, a rickety old structure, had many sizeable cracks in the walls, and through these cracks snow had sifted, leaving Blue with a frosty halo of snow around the edges of her mane and her ears. 65