Cumnock School - Chronicle Yearbook (Los Angeles, CA)

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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

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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

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L I T E R A T U R E UP AND DOWN AND ROUND AND ROUND OR HOW TO RIDE AN INC-O-BIKE Frances Gutterman To be able to ride what some misinformed soul called an Ingo-bike, one must be possessed of the following requisites: soft bones to prevent break- ing, soft muscles to prevent knotting, and a soft head to be foolish enough to ride one in the first place. I speak from sad experience. Once, I too, was sweet and innocent until some of my scheming friends trapped me into hiring one of those vehicles for an hour for the princely sum of 25c. Naturally, having put out this invest- ment I was bound to finish out the time contracted for, even if it killed me, and it nearly succeeded in so doing. We started off easily enough, that is, they did. They jumped up and down and the wheels went round and round and came out all right. But when I jumped up and down, for some strange inexplicable reason the wheels wob- bled and kept going first towards the sky and then towards the terra firma, in the meanwhile giving me an extremely thorough shaking so that I was forced to stop the cute little machine. Not that it mattered, because it halted of its own accord as there did not seem to be enough power or some- thing to keep it going. One of the kind friends l?l attempted to show me how to run it. Look, she said, push along with one foot like a scooter until you get start- ed then just pull back on the handlebars and push down with your feet when the rear wheel is at the bottom. Well, that was different. Why hadn't someone told me how to man- age it before? Off I started, bouncing and jumping, I had itl HeyI I shout- ed enthusiastically, Lookl l've got it! Suddenly for no apparent reason I found myself sitting prettily in the gutter where some kind person had had the foresight to pile some dry leaves. At least they looked dry, but imagine my chagrin when I discovered there was a pool of muddy water beneath that innocent looking bunch of leaves. If at first you don't succeed, try, try again. That is an old time-tested axiom but it certainly doesn't hold true for Ingo-bike riding. I tried and tried again, but each attempt brought the same failure as the preceding one, ex- cept that perhaps the later ones were worse, due to sheer exhaustion. 70