Corona High School - Coronal Yearbook (Corona, CA)

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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

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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

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hidden while he was writing it. But now a great black shadow came between Dale and his musing. What if his step-father should take the money away from him? He feared this father, feared him as only a small boy can fear a man who does not understand him, who thinks the punishment for any offense should be a sound beating. But Dale was a natural little optimist; so he banished the great black shadow clear out of the barn, as he thought to himself, and went on with his pleasant musing. Let’s see; what should he buy with the money? He didn’t want clothes or anything to eat. Oh, wait! He did want some candy. He’d go right down town and buy a dollar’s worth of candy and eat it all himself! He wanted a bicycle too. Yes, he would get a — His thoughts were interrupted by a low, mocking voice. “What you got there, little one?” Dale, looking up into the face of his detested older step-brother, said sullenly, “Nothin’,” putting the poem behind his back as he did so. The older boy gave a meaning little laugh, snatched the poem out of Dale’s hands, and ran out of the barn shouting as he went, “Thanks for the poem. Now I won’t have to write one.” Then, fiercely — “If you dare squeal on me, I’ll tell Dad what you did yesterday.” For a moment Dale sat completely stunned; then he jumped to his feet with the idea of going after his tormentor. But what was the use? Harry could run faster and was larger than Dale. He had always teased and bullied the smaller boy and would probably give him a most unmerciful thrashing for even attempting to catch him. But oh, the misery when he thought of having to see that hated enemy win the twenty-five dollars on his poem! He sank down on his knees in the soft, cool hay, buried his face face in his hands, and moaned again and again, “It isn’t fair! It isn’t fair. Oh why, why, why, should it be like this?” He raised his head, his little fists clinched ; and looking up toward the great rafters in the old barn, he shouted, “0 God, if there is a God up there, listen to me just a minute.” There his voice failed him and two great ears rolled down his face. He bit his lip and went on, “0 God, please, God, don’t let Harry win the pi’ize on my poem!” After this hysterical outburst, Dale sobbed on. But he felt better; for he had told someone, someone greater than himself, someone who he believed could help him. Soon he ceased his crying altogether; his mind became more settled, and he began to think. What was he going to do? Suddenly a most wonderful thought came rushing down upon him, and his face lighted up like a sunbeam. Then it fell. Could he do Twenty-six