Corona High School - Coronal Yearbook (Corona, CA)

Page 28 text:

BOYS’ STUDYING This article is supposed to be about boys’ studying; but as most of them are not so inclined, I will proceed to tell what they are doing when they pretend they are studying. There are two kinds of fellows, the artists and those who are not artists. If you do not understand me, take a look at a fellow’s school book. If he is an artist, you will know it quickly enough. The first thing that hits you in the face is his name. It is on the cover, and he has made it rather large in case you might be near-sighted or something. Just so that you won’t think the book is an auto- biography, he has written its title down in one corner. As a sample of his masterpieces, he has drawn a sketch on top. He may be one of these budding cartoonists. Who can tell? He actually can draw a funny picture of the teacher. It’s a scream! Whex-e one opens the book, he has written “Open all night” or “Shake well before using.” I should think some of the teachers would take his advice and shake him well. Inside of the book is a picture of the bust of Cicero, on whom our hero, w ' ith a touch of his fountain pen, has di’awn a drooping moustache. He generally makes him cross-eyed while he is at it. Just think what an unusual amount of amusement he affords to futui ' e owners of the book! We see many of these masterpieces, but our hex’o has yet another sui-pi ' ise in stoi ' e for us. Where a picture in the book shows Mark Anthony and Cleopati-a sitting together, he has drawn a small cii-cle and connected it with Anthony’s mouth. Inside the circle he has wi-itten, “Oh, my little tootsie- woo tsie. YouTe the bee’s knees kid.” That kind of humor usually brings down the house (upon him). And yet, just think, after our ai ' tist has spent a whole period developing his talents, the teacher actually has a fit because he has not prepai’ed his lesson. It is queer how unsympathetic some of these teachei’s ai ' e ! Those boys who ai’e not artists are just as numerous as those who are. They are the athletic type. They have to be sharpening their pencils or throwing paper wads all the time. They get a big kick out of seeing someone getting sent to face Mr. Labrum. The next time you go to the study hall, you can see for yourself which boys ai e ai-tists and which are not. CARL COOPER Twenty-four

Page 27 text:

As Father Serra journeyed over the road, he must have encountered many dangers and hardships. The question of supplies often became a serious problem and the labors of his fellow missionaries could not always have been so fruitful as had been hoped, lliose unconveited Indians who believed the missionaries to be their bitter enemies must have been incessantly making attacks on the missions and the settle- ments that clustered around them. Through all his trials and tribulations, Father Serra was encouraged and led on by the thought of the peace and quiet of the missions that was ahead of him. The missions that dotted El Camino Real were like the refreshing oases in the center of a hot, sandy desert. How glorious it would be if we could train ourselves to look forward to the brighter days that are sure to follow the darker ones! In life we each have our troubles. But are they anything compared to those of the mission fathers who traveled before and made the way smoother for us? As the day drew to a close and the sign beneath the mission bell along the King’s Highway grew dim in the lengthening shadows of night, my mental picture gradually faded away. The splendor of the mission days had passed. Now the missions are only survivals of a by- gone era. In the noise and bustle of the civilization which has now taken possossion of what was once their territory, they have no part. To those who turn aside from the pathways of the modern world to dream among the scenes where the old padres toiled and died, there is an atmosphere of peace and a charm of romance within the mission walls; and to them the King’s Highway is a pathway of righteousness coming from the history of the past and extending into the dim, dis- tant realm of the future. Evalyn Glass SUNRISE AND SUNSET Dawning — a new day just breaking — Thrilling some lost soul anew. Sunrise — a glorious awakening — ’Tis God’s “Good Morning” to you. Twilight — the shades of night falling— Refreshing a tired world with dew. Sunset — the light of day fading — ’Tis God’s “Good Evening” to you. Lillian Luana Cubley Twenty-three

Page 29 text:

A TRIBUTE TO THE IVY ON THE WALL Curving gently o’er the arches, Draping all the walls with green, Soft, in clinging trailers hanging, Shining bright with em’rald shee. In the Autumn, leaves are scarlet; In the Summer, leaves are green ; In the Winter, all is barren; Spring — again the em’rald sheen. Rocked by beezes gently blowing, Twining o’er the rugged wall, Making all the world seem brighter In the summer, spring and fall. Peeps within the open windows, Hiding nests of birds from all. A would be poet pays his tribute To the ivy on the wall. CHARLES DICKINSON. THOU SHALT NOT STEAL The small freckled hand, holding in its sturdy grasp an old leaky fountain pen, moved jerkily across the page, paused a moment, then with a great flourish wrote “The End.” Dale had finished his prize poem. Dale didn’t like to study and scarcely ever did any thing like that; but he could write poems. In fact, he spent most of his time at school writing funny little ones, just to amuse his comrades. But this one wasn’t funny, and it wasn’t little. There were pages and pages of the most perfect and lovely poetry you could ever imagine; for Dale had put every thing he had into that poem, and it showed his real character and ability. Tomorrow he would take it to school and read it in front of the class. In the back row there would be some men who would be judges, and they would smile at Dale. Afterwards they would announce that he, Dale Brown, had won first prize. Then old Judge Willis, holding his high silk hat in one hand and a great leather purse in the other, would come forward, and while every one else went to sleep, would make a long speech, at the end of which he would call Dale forward, pat him on the back, and give him twenty-five nice, new, crisp dollar-bills. So Dale dreamed on, curled up in the cool fresh hay in the old hay-mow. He had thought the hay-mow a good place to keep his poem Twenty-five