Cumnock School - Chronicle Yearbook (Los Angeles, CA)

Page 88 text:

L I T E R A T U R E BOOKS Pauline Brenner Rather long, thin books, like lean, dried up, thin lipped old men, go about imparting valuable advice to a wayward world. They show us for what pitfalls to keep a watch and what paths to follow on our doubtful journey. Short, finger deep, books are full of beauty and mystery in rhyme. They tell us of the setting sun, the cool, night breezes, and what the birds are thinking of as they swing sunward. They tell of the patter of the rain on the turf and try to give us the meanings back of life. The nice, comfortable-sized books we see every day, every place, are filled with worlds of wonder and delight, mystery, and sorrow that we are constantly meeting in life. For children, the large, heavy, brightly coloured books are everlasting- ly filled with wonder and magic, ln them they find howl the Goldfinch got his colours, how the water gets from the high, rocky caverns to the thirsty valley, and what happens to the Princessess when their father finds their dancing slippers worn thin every morning. The heavy, drab looking volumes on the bookshelf, to oldsters, mean knowledge. These books should be merely tasted, but very often are not even looked at. They are usually used to place small children on dizzy heights to enable them to reach their bread and milk. The new, clean, crisp books, given to one for birthdays are always pleasant, cheerful, and very often uninteresting to read. Read once, they are placed away on a shelf and not given another thought. The ones most cherished are old, musty, and yellow with age. There are sparkling lines filled with lovely, hidden thoughts underlined in pencil and the margin notes are humorous or reflective, depending upon the mean- ing of the passage remarked upon or the state of mind of the reader of long ago. Sometimes these marginal notes tell us a little something of those who perused the pages. The dry, clipped, disapproving notes are written by a tall, thin old maid whose age is indetermiinable, hair is straight, drawn back of her ears, and done in a tight knot. Her face is long, dry, and looks as if it would crack if she smiled. The sarcastic notes that spoil any sweetness in 74

Page 87 text:

L I T E R A T U R E ODE TO A DEAD SOLDIER Ronnie Bamburger They put a gun in your hands And said, Shoot You shot- You who did not wish to kill, Killed. Your mind was full of pictures Of people dying- Those you had killed. You were told to keep on trying- There were more and more To be killed. Your hands that once were rough from sport Were rough with war and hardship: Your body that once was tired from ease Crew tired from never sleepingg Your dreams when you dozed Were tortured with guns and flaming fire- You'd start up screaming Of dug-outs and bodies entangled with wire. They put a gun in an enemy's hands And said shoot , He shot- And now you are dead: You are a hideous mass Of red stained death. You went with a painful sigh, A choking breath And yet- Somehow l know- You were more than glad to go.

Page 89 text:

L I T E R A T U R E 4' the lines are the thoughts of some middle-aged man, hard, set features, with furrows between his eyes and the corners of his mouth drawn down toward his chin. The gay, drily humorous remarks are from the hand of a plump, pink and white, old lady. She has spar-kling blue eyes and a round, rosy mouth that pursed up into a rose bud instead of daring to smile for fear one, if not all, of her companions would rush up to her with a big hug and kiss. These old, musty books are the books that are put away on shelves, but instead of being forgotten, they are taken down again and again, if not to be read, just to be fondled, to be skimmed through, and the favorite pas- sages read. The more worn and handled they are, the dearer they become. Who knows, some day, if the crisp, clean, new, books are handled enough, they too will become endeared to one. We hope they are worth it, anyway, for there is no truer, more constant friend than a book. HAPPY TOWN Kay Calkins Great hills surround the little town, The sunset adds enchantment And far below one sees To the beauty of the place, The little homes of simple folk, And the sunbeans are reflected Along the winding leas. In the joy on every face. Green trees and sweet wildflowers And should the weary traveler linger, Are in every garden there. His time would be well spent. And happiness is plenty, He at last would find the meaning And sorrow very rare. Of peace and sweet content. CLOUDS OVER CUIVINOCK Bill Pearson No calcuation is so big And brave Dean Winans does not seek That it could faze Professor Trigg, A compromise with ancient Greek, Mrs. Woody tames and cripples Nor Mrs. Hovey hesitate Those monstrous passive participles, On questions highly intricate. Mr. Craig, On Guard, m'sieurl Can fence with French and still endure, But who among them bravely sees And lvlrs. Briggs-she never sees That A's exist as well as B's? The terror of Empedoclesg 75