Banning High School - San Gorgonian Yearbook (Banning, CA)

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and valley and back again, urged by some strange instinct, past the flowing water of the rivers and over the golden sands of the desert to the blue waters of the sea, but they could not find the rest they sought. In their journey they reached one morning the mountain, San Jacinto. There on the summit they gazed down below and saw there beneath them springs and green spotted places. They sang all night about the suffering and hardships they had undergone, and as the first light of dawn appeared, many of the birds, mostly the humming birds, found the rest they sought in the oasis of Sereh, The time came when my visit was to end, and I felt that never could I again be wholly happy away from this land of Indian romance. This last story was told not only with the hope of satisfying me, but also to bring a glorious ending to my even- ing’s entertainment. Years ago when the tribe was still strong, an Indian Chief often went to bathe the weariness from his limbs. Even now a gurgling, laughing spring grasps you and pulls you down into the water baby’s abode. One morning an Indian squaw came to the spring and there lying on its side she saw Bae-a-ne-wit. She stopped to pick him up but immediately he fell into the water and was gone. Later an Indian brave came to get some water. As he neared the spring he saw the water baby standing and looking toward San Jacinto, The baby turned and looked at him and then disappear- ed. Loud splashes shot up into the air, and the ground shook and trembled. Among our Indian tribes still lingers many tales which are to us like a voice from the past, plaintive and haunting. But now that Time has covered their villages, buried their deeds, and given their land to the white people, they are silent. Ah! the Indian legend, the record of the redskins, the blessing to mankind, the picture of the moonlit waters and adobe villages, and a young warrior giving homage to his gods. —Reta Hansen THE DESERT ANGEL Half way down old San Jacinto is a figure of an angel in the rocks. Even the cruel desert has a spark of the Divine. Her wings are opened, but not in flight; her hands are clasped benignly at her breast; her face is a mist; and her feet fade into the rocks of which she is a part. She is there in the dawning to bid the morning star farewell and to welcome the daybreak; she is there to guide the traveler through desert heat; she is still there when the purple shades of eventide color the low hills of the east. She is there when all is dark, where she may watch the golden moon peep over the black ranges, hesitate on the brink and sail calmly and majestically into the great sky-dome. The desert angel has seen the desolate winter below her and has felt the snow fall gently on her wings; the first signs of spring with blankets of frail flowers have gladdened her heart. She has watched the desert brightened by El color del oro. She has felt the suffocating heat of summer, and has seen the Choco- late range hidden by haze. She has heard the echoes of the sand storm as it swirls around the rocky points. The rains of autumn have cooled her parched lips. The tips of her gray white wings touch the top of the steep desert hill. With hands outstretched she softly sings, “Suena, my desert, be still.” —Betty Mixsell PAGE TWENTY-FOUR

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him by except the legends heard on that memorable evening as I sat around the Indian campfire that I am going to relate to you: Years ago a tribe was called together. They all assembled in their adobe village wondering why Big Chief had called. The sun, when it sank below the mountain peaks, painted the sky a fiery red, and the medicine man prophesied death. Big Chief told them of the mountain lion that was threatening all with death. He asked that a brave offer himself to go forth and slay this lion. A brave, the most hand- some of the tribe, arose. With a farewell he left his people behind and offered him- self to the great adventure of death. An Indian maid, in tears, stood letting them drop into the water. Her mate was gone, sacrificing himself. The chase lasted many days, neither one gaining on the other until a hollow powl in the mountain was reached. There a terrible battle was fought; the mountain licn lay dead on the ground; and beside him the Indian brave, dying. Thus they lay until, with a heavy sigh, the brave died. Days came and went, and the village saw no return of their brave. Big Chief ordered that all the mountain sides be searched. Days later the Indians stumbled on a hidden lake, but little did they dream that its red color was that of blood or that beneath its oily smoothness the bones of the brave did lie. On their return, an Indian maiden stood gazing into the moonlit waters and then a slight throw of her body and she was gone. This colorful tale fascinated me, and upon inquiry I learned that the Indians call it “The Legend of Hidden Lake.’ I was eager for more and the old squaw continu- ed: Just south of the village of Palm Springs one finds a striking break in the mountains, and this is called Tahquitz Canyon for the evil spirit of the Cahuillas. The village was in sadness. The giant Tahquitz had stolen the pride of the tribe and had started up San Jacinto with the fair maiden. All the braves donned their: war paint and started in pursuit. Up the hills, down the valleys, they followed the giant. Tahquitz, seeing them, set down the maiden and hurled giant boulders down upon them. Many turned back, still more, until only the lover remained. The pursuit continued. Tahquitz pushed the maiden into a cave and closed the entrance with a rock. The time comes when Tahquitz can hold his wrath no longer. There on the mountain side he bellows, and a wind comes flying down upon the people, lifting the sand from its resting place to send it flying through the air—the Tahquitz twister! The old Indians look wise and shake their heads, and deep down in their hearts they are afraid. This ancient myth saddened me, but I was still anxious for more, and so I asked the chief of the tribe to explain to me why the lizard has a blue belly. The chief replied: It had been many days since the gods had blessed the land with rain. A con- course was called. The chief of the tribe spoke and asked that homage be given to the gods. “Pray, tribesmen, pray, but to no earthly king— Lift up your hands above the blighted grain. Look westward—if they please, the Gods shall bring Their mercy with the rain.” The medicine man came forth and suggested that the lizard be sent up into the sky in quest of rain. After a weary journey, he went before the gods and told them that which he wished. As a reward for his valor he was presented with a piece of sky which henceforth he wore on his belly. Conscious that my Indian friends were tiring of my questioning I asked for but one more tale. This was it: Hundreds of years ago far, far beyond the sea the birds came out of the east and flew onward into the west. They flew from one place to another, from mountain PAGE TWENTY-THREE

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“a ¢ Fp GH 4 oon ah i Rie ee haters eo 3 Ew en oe oe oD ¥ ley Se 8 ee OD mh as =p te} isl ish eh =! AT VIKGAN PAGE TWENTY-FIVE