Cumnock School - Chronicle Yearbook (Los Angeles, CA)

Page 103 text:

THE BECCAR Tattered, torn, and trembling, Begging for his alms, Pitifulest pittance In his wrinkled palms. Weary, worn, and wretched, Eyes devoid of hope, Struggling for existence Against odds he cannot cope. MARY WILEY A SHORT, SHORT STORY Huddled miserably against a low stone railing overlooking the ocean, a shivering emaciated beggar mumbled incoherently to himself over his last cig- arette. Suddenly, from behind him, he heard the stealthy shuffling of heavy feetg the precious cigarette dropped from his nervous fingers into the murky waters below him. With a curse he turned and stumbled off into the dark- ness. Behind him crept another beggar, a knife half hidden beneath the folds of his tattered coat. A few hours later, through the steady drizzling of the treacherous fog which had settled down over the ocean, two men, bearing the wasted form of a fellow creature between them, reached the same stone railing against which the destitute beggar had leaned. Quite evidently suicide, concluded one, examining the ragged knife wound. Poor beggar-don't blame him much, remarked the other. Beggar is right-look at that suit! laughed the first. Chuckling quietly to himself he walked to the railing, peered down into the swirling water, then came back to the body sprawled on the wet pave- ment. Come on, over the side with you! he commanded. May he rest in peace, remarked his companion as they swung their bur- den clear. A faint splash answered him as the two men turned away. ANN MOREY 93

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WE NEVER KNOW We never know, For lips are sealed, And hearts are seldom seen: What sorrows oft a smile conceals, We never know. We never know The untold cares, The heartaches, and the woe, When silence speaks a soul's despair, We never know. MARY WILEY PEACE TRIUMPHANT Gently, Gently, the wind doth fan my weary brow and the surging fire within me. The melody-laden winged messengers of the heavens Chirp with joy, affection-freedom. The murmuring brook trips gaily o'er pebble and shallow, while, Fragrance fills the air with a strong and wonderful sweetness. All around me is peace-yet within me commotion-conflict! My soul cries out with wild lamentation Shall I never have peace? Harkl the exquisite bird of Paradise doth sing a heavenly message. I wonder--I wonder-could it be to me? Yea, truly they are His heavenly heralds Bringing tranquility into my heart. And in the gentle breeze I feel His caressing touch . . . Ah-my turbulent soul has found peace . . . That sublime peace that I shall never lose. Slowly, out of the heavens with Apocalyptical splendor, Sinks the High Priest of light and comfort, the broad, crimson sun. Thus, nature and man are lost in peaceful reverie. URSULA M ICHELSON

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SONG OF TRIUMPH To feel the wind in my face, Yet struggle onward and rejoice, To feel its chill breath penetrate Yet square my shoulders out of choice, To lift my head to the blast, And say, Blow onl , and laugh, Kind Heaven, give me voice! To set my heart and hopes ahead, Nor care how beats the gale, To walk alone and not be led, Nor be afraid, nor hesitate, nor quail! To stand above the common crowd, To sing of victory long and loud, To conquer, not to fail! MARYWILEY SUNSET AND NIGHT The golden sun was sinking Low in the Western skyg A red gold boat was seen Sailing and drifting by. The ocean a fiery path Did show Apollo the way To quench his flames in seas And end again the day. Thus bringing mystic night, And changing to velvet the sea, Ebony black and dark, And smooth as ever could be. The twinkling stars above Were angels' tears on high Shining on the black of night, Dark comes as day doth die. ROSEMARY BROWN