Cumnock School - Chronicle Yearbook (Los Angeles, CA)

Page 82 text:

L I T E R A T U R E NIGHT Sally Caisford The sun burned low, And all around the flying things A tree with flying branches Stirred into life: Caught in the wind from the sea, The pine tree made shadows like Dipped and whispered Grotesque hands against the house, Old, old things And all about the garden crept the dusk To the privet hedge, Over the flower beds, making lt in turn rustled, and in Purple flowers blend into Sighs and murmurs told the grass The velvet of the night, That night was coming. The chameleon curtain of the sky A night bird swirled into Was studded with stars, The pampas grass and sang a call A moon swung high, To tell his mate, Night had come- THE HARBOR Della K. Root The ocean seemed to be steaming as the gray fog rose slowly off the murky water. Small tugs woke from the night's slumber, and grumbled as their masters loaded them with nets and ropes, along the wharf pale men, dark men, scarred men, huge men, and scrawny men worked slowly. just as slowly the sun in the east climbed higher and higher in the heavens and the harbor brightened as though a magic wand had touched it. A huge white liner glided like a smooth white swan through the narrow passage, past tank- ers, oilers, sheds, and wharves. She pulled alongside the large metal shed, where excited murmurs circulated through the crowd. Gang planks were hoisted. White coated stewards, dark coated officers, and gay passengers filed down, and scrambled among the baggage and customs. Then myster- iously it all grew quiet. The tired tugs crept up to the wharf. The pale, dark, scarred, huge and scrawny men hurried away, all was quiet except' the rhyth- mic motion of the waterg soon even the water seemed to sleep. 68

Page 81 text:

FOREIGN SKIES LA C-UITARRISTA By joan Dilson juanita es una guitarrista Quien toca su guitarra todo dia. Primero un clasico que tiene mucho hermoso Y entonces jazz que tiene solo ritmo. IMPOSIBLE By Ted Nilsson You no puedo componer, Ni escribir poemas. Solo puedo deponer Mis juicios en prosas. EL MOREN lS'l'O By Selma Shelley El morenisto que vi ayer Estaba quapo tan podia Alegria todos sabe traer Por tocar su quitarra bien. IOIALA By joan Dilson You quiero tomar un viaje a Espana Y ver la razon de su simpatica Tiene Espana casas y fabricas? Si verdad, son como las nuestras?

Page 83 text:

L I T E R A T U R E IN PERSHING SQUARE Della K. Root The whispering trees cast long shadows over Pershing Square and the green benches along the twisty path were as crowded as the streets that ran close by. On one bench sat a young man whose clothes seemed to tell a story of a too proud youth. His eyes were not sad, but rather kind, and his face showed that laughing lines were quick to form at his mouth and eyes. How- ever, his eyes were not for the passing people, nor his ears for the roaming traffic, but his thoughts seemed to wander back to a quiet peaceful village where hollyhocks bloomed in every yard, and the children skipped rope and played games in the twilight. Next to him sat a very old man who was not dreaming, but whose small eyes watched a group of pigeons pecking at the small dried leaves on the cement path. He drew from his pocket a hard, mouldy piece of bread, and crumbled it upon the sidewalk. The pigeons came in swarms, and the few that had been pecking on the path suddenly seemed to multiply into count- less hundreds. The youth passed the old man a kindly glance, looked again toward the traffic and then back at the old man, who suddenly jumped up and hurried away carrying a small, bobbing object under his coat. The young man rose to stop him, but sat down again for he, too, was aware of a deep stirring hunger. ADI EU Eda Felsted Tenderly 'twas laid aside 'Twas cruel to bid farewell this way Midst other treasures dear, To something so divine, The parting caused a wistful sigh, Enclosing all this loveliness The falling of a tear. In that treasure chest of mine. A glance, a sigh, a tender clasp And so adieu to you, my own, Accompanied by a moan, For you my heart still calls, 'Twould move most any mortal soul Until the fall l've laid aside And change a heart of stone. My fur coat in moth balls. 69