Abington High School - Oracle Yearbook (Abington, PA)

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and to Bud. After groping through the dark, he neared the spot of the ambush. The gnats were out in force, and a lone mosquito made the only audible noise. The form his hands touched was cold and life- less when he turned it over. A small trickle of blood ran from the tightly closed mouth. Even now he could sense them closing p A Fine Day I t 's clear today. The sky is blue, And earth reflects the gold of the sun,- Dry leaves scatter before my feet With a sound like corn flakes without milk. Milkweed pods and shriveled stems .Litter the path through the fikeld to the wood, Where deep-erlimsoned giants spread tat- tered arms against the blue. Skeletons remain of many, which, Having dropped their tawny blankets, fell asleep. Tomorrow will be more normal. It will rain, And the laughing leaves will perish into brown mold. The tinted hills will dull to pale heavens,- The framework of the woods will lose its lingering crop of fiery hair, And await the snow-white of old age. Anyway, we live today. PATRICIA WELLS, '51 W TH ELMA KALEN, '51 in. He would Welcome them. Let them come, he said aloud. . Suddenly a rifle spoke from the dark- ness, then another and another. Charlie answered their scattered fire with a. brief volleyg then a knife rose and fell. And the jungle was quiet. RALPH PILLISOHER, '51 ff' if 'fi-:,, nm, End of Summer Yellow goldenrod, Balmy September day, Deck summer in one last splendor, l And sadly lay her away. Scarlet sage And leaves of brown, Softly, softly bed her down. Clover, Wild aster, And Queen Anne's lace, In wreath, in spray, Adorn her resting place. Look at her, Ah, look at her and sigh That one so loveky had to dwg Look at her and turn away, For this is Summer's last sweet day. h KARL KNAUER '51

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It takes the peril of battle to settle A Point oi Honor Charhe muttered, Let them come. He wa,sn't afraid now. Not now, no not after ---. His thoughts strayed back a few days. It had been a bright, clear morning not unlike the mornings he had been used to. Later in the day Colonel Tyndell had asked for two volunteers to make sketches of the possible defensive and offensive posi- tion of the island. Nothing risky. At the most there were just a few crazy guerrillas left on the island. Of course, Bud had to go, and, of course, Charlie had to follow. It had been like that as long as Charlie could remember. Bud would volunteer and lead, and Charlie, frightened and unsure of himself, would follow. As Charlie had watched the speed boat, the last link with the base, disappear, he had felt his stomach turn cold. Their third day on the island a sudden hail of bullets cut their path. Panic seized Charlie. Darting behind a small row of shrub and rock, out of any immediate danger, he swiftly worked his way to the shelter of the jungle, keeping well below the guns that had not ceased firing. Glanc- ing fearfully around, he saw that Bud hadn't fared as well as he had. He was lying in a partial shelter, the front of his shirt stained a dull red. Charlie glanced at Bud's rifle, a scant fifty feet away, marking the spot of the ambush. He turned quickly, pale and terrified, and ran head- long into the jungle. After running for what seemed a year, THELMA KALEN, '51 he fell behind a thick clump of bushes. He listened intently. The shots had stopped- not a soundg it was like a nightmare, Charlie thought. Then eight quick shots shattered the terrible silence, followed again by a period of stillness, which was quickly broken by three screams. Charlie covered his head and cried. The fear he had known slowly changed to calmness, and from calmness to a grow- ing hate. He had to find Bud. Darkness had closed an ominous' curtain over the island. Everything was stillg even the animals were silent. But for once Charlie found strength in the darkness and quietg he had to prove something to himself-

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'Winter' and 'The Wind' won Second prize in poetry contest un... Q 1 f 1 7 ' K IL' 'iv Manta Like memories of another world, When winds are harsh and shrill, Ghostly skeletons of trees Stand shivering on the hill. The earth is cold and cheerlessg Gone is summer 's glow. The days are dark and empty, Waiting for the now. '-'tv -7 Illustration . . BETTY STADELMEIER, '51 'Wie Wad The wind has many voices And strange mysterious sounds- Sibilant whispers through the tall pines, The rustling of brown leaves in the fall, The whistling as it swoops round the eaves On a frosty nightg The soft sigh as it sweeps down the grasses On the dunes. It can gently nod the daisies' heads Or scatter papers noisily in March. It can churn the billowing waves And thunderously crash the surf against the rocks, Or be still As the unbroken silence of death. '7he '7!uuule4 Steam The day is thick and sultry And clouds, like tents of gray, Have gathered in the heavy air To keep the sun away. The day is growing darker And thunder fills the skyg The earth is tensely waiting The visit from on high. A break comes in the cumbrous clouds. And down through space are hurled The angry gods of lightning, Who will punish all the world. BARBARA FLOWER. '51