Las Animas High School - Trojan Yearbook (Las Animas, CO)

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i£ iterarg SONG OF THE ANNEAL STAFF 1 Our band is few, but tried and true Our leader frank and bold, And everybody trembles When the Annual’s name is told. Our fortress is a downstairs room, In the basement, fast and strong; We know the rooms around us As the faculty know our throng. We know their walls of plaster white, Their doors that stand ajar, Our safe and silent room there Behind its sheltering bar. II But woe to us of the Annual Staff, Little dreaming the time is near; On us shall light at midnight A strange and sudden fear, When waking to our “copy due”. We grasp our pens in vain, And the blank, white sheets that face us We cover with inky stain; For they who fail to be on time Will have it called to mind By hearing the voice of the editor On every hollow wind. III Then our commencement brings release From planning, writing, toil.— We talk the Annual over. Forgetting our turmoil. The campus rings with laugh and shout As all its pages praise. And campus flow’rs are gathered To crown our High School days. With merry song we mock the winds That in the treetops grieve, And gazing long and tenderly We look back ere we leave.

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Interior Manual Training Department

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IV Well knows the fair electric light The band the Anuual heads The glitter of their sharpened wits The scratching of their “leads”. ’Tis life to guide the inspired point Across the lamp-lit sheet, ’Tis life to feel your energy Produce poetic feet. A moment in “societies”, A moment—then away, Back to the pathless “Jokes and Grinds” To remain ’til break of day. V Grave men are there in High School’s halls, Grave men with hoary hairs, Their hearts are with the Annual. For the Annual are their prayers. And loving schoolmates greet our band With a varied welcoming; If pleased, with smiles of summer; If “stang”, with tears of spring. For them we’ve used the trusty pen, Xor yet lay it down, be sure ’Til we have finished Our Annual The first “EL PANORAMA”. —Ex. MORNING The breeze is sighing through the trees; The pale moon sinks low in the west; A cockerel’s crow floats o’er the leas. To warn us of the coming day. From out the clouds of pink and gold, The bold sun shows his shining face. And from the mountains grand and old. The purple mists will soon disperse. And so each morn doth nature show. Her boundless joys in each new day. I'nmarred by failures saddening blow; With prospects for success untold. Maurine Schmitt. He: “How long does it take you to dress in the morning?’ She: “Oh—about twenty minutes.” He—proudly: “It only takes me ten.” She—same stuff: “Yes. but I wash.”