Phoenix Union High School - Phoenician Yearbook (Phoenix, AZ)

Page 31 text:

i- TEWA THE THOUGHT OF YOU Like the perfume of the wild-rose, Sparkling in the morning dew, Filling all the air with fragrance, Ts the very thought of you. Dearer than the hope of heaven Ts the image of thy face, Haunting me asleep or waking lYith its purity and grace. Thou art like a golden sunbeam Dancing in a forest clrear, Bringing to the darkened grasses Messages of hope and cheer. Thou art like a song of spring time, lVhen the huttercups peep forth, And the wild birds stop to warble As they wing their swift way north In thy voice I hear the murmur Of swift flowing mountain streams, And thine eyes are soft and tender XVith the mist of golden dreams. Though I wandered in far countries, O'er the ocean wide and blue Like the fragrance of the wild-rose Still would be the thought of you. -Nellie Teasdale, '13

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EDITORIAL STAFF Editor-in-chief - llusiness Manager 1- - Business Nianager - Literary Editor Art Editor - Athletic Editor Society Editor Joke Editor - Alumni Editor Class Poet - Class Prophet Class Historian - Paul Cook Stayton Dorris - Julian Ganz Nellie Teasdale Leo Vonderacek - james Higley Kathryn Ormond - Jake Thoman Florence Tremaine - - Edith Teel Ruth Griffin jean Armstrong Nellie Teasdale, Geroid Robinson, Ethel Stabler. Neil Cook, Charlotte Crandall, ' Max Vosskeuhler, Richard Scofield, Leo Vonderacek, Stayton Dorris, Clara liustrin, llessie Ensign, Harold Howard, Floyd Craver, Fred Perry, CONTRIBUTORS Literary: Prof. Stabler blames Higley, Elsie Smith, Charles Loraine, Eugenia Glascock, Zella jay, Harvey Stiegelmeier Hess Seaman, Art: Prof. Carroll ks lfern Tannehill, Ruth Reed, Donald Chipperfield, lfred Kirkwood, Klahel Crozier, Clark Eads, 1 Naoinah Young P Q

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'I i - e '77 ' f. W , -r ig, IN THE VALLEY OF THE HOANG-HO CSenior Prize Storyj d,Ql,ilQlAR In the East there dwells a race whose existence on Earth de- WZHW pends upon the thrift and industry of its own hands. This race, me shrouded in the mysteries of the Orient, lives under the haze of .QSQQ ancestral belief and thus its history repeats itself like an oft told story. It is because of this ancestral belief that the world is unable to solve the mysteries of the Chinese character and emotions. ln the valley of the Hoang-Ho, near the foot of the lofty Himalayas, Kyo Khan lived in a little grass hut with his motherless son, Tong. The hut, surrounded with chrysanthemums and lilies had been a lovely paradise in this wonderful valley until the death of Kyo Khan's wife, Famine then destroyed his fields and Paradise was lost. During the months of poverty and sorrow that followed, little Tong was withering away with an incurable disease. A disease that adds to the horror and mystery of the East. Kyo watched his dying son day and night with the silent sorrow of his race. To him the mountains had lost their verdure, the Golden River had lost its charm and his soul was torn by the injustice of his God. VVhat had he done to deserve such sorrow? He did not doubt the sanctity of his God-that, too, was in the uncertainty of his race-but in the hour of his despair he had allowed a missionary to enter his hut and cast blessings and prayers upon his son in the name of a new God-only to have the child die in his arms. Kyo Khan's life was indeed empty. His soul no longer felt the revel'- ence of a God. Vtfrecked in mind by his overwhelming sorrow, he had perjured his soul by seeking aid from another God and had had his hopes shattered and his beliefs cast upon an unknown gea- Sitting upon his little Wllaff all the river, Kyo gazed dreamily far into the depths of the muddy waters-seeing nothing and hearing nothing. His long pointed boat with sail cross barred like the wings of 3 bat, floated idly upon the smooth surface of the water and rocked gently in the quiet air of evening. Kyo's life was but an atom out of the four hundred million of his race, so why should he live on in his sorrowful Solitude? AS the sinking sun cast its shadows over the silent Himalayas and the river wended its way toward the crimson West, Kyo Khan raised his arms toward his God in the heavens and sank into the Golden Rivery The water rippled in circles toward the bank, and all was quiet in the Valley of the Hoang-Ho. WWTF -Janes HIGLEY, '13,