Girls High School - Journal Yearbook (San Francisco, CA)

Page 33 text:

December 1924 The Journal Mario—a rapier leveled at his breast. It happened so quickly—she ran between a sword thrust—agony—and she lay in Mario’s arms. “My life— ’tis nothing—so I—save thine. May the—rose—bring thee—peace.’’ And Mario knelt, kissing the still lips of Felicia, the Happy One. Grace Luscombe, December, '24. Ghosts Wings! more wings Rushing softly Thru the humid, desert air; Searching for the Canyon de los Suenos. Wary ghosts, who flutter blindly In the Valle de la Muerte of Baja California. Dreamers, miners— Seeking, crushing silver Searching for water In the barren Cactus lands. Wasted skeletons, Earth'bound ghosts, Whimpering shades of Prospectors— The Harvest of the Baja California. Millicent B. Benioff, December, '2 4

Page 32 text:

The Journal December 1924 Felicia, the Happy One She sat smiling in a sunny corner of the old Veronese market-place. Hunchback though she was, her heart was light, and she called her wares joyously, did Felicia, the happy one. The pageantry of color that was Verona swept endlessly by, some folk buying, others merely feasting their eyes, still others strolling aimlessly, lost in thought. Felicia loved them all, but heeded none after the one she most longed for had passed by without noticing her outstretched blossoms. He was sad, was young Mario, and Felicia’s heart became a leaden thing at the sight of his white face, and the realization of her own help- lessness. Carelessly leaving her wares, the maid wandered aimlessly about, crying in her soul’s agony that she could do nothing for the one she loved with all her whole misshapen being. In desperation, she sought the quiet cathedral, and before the holy altar, breathed an anguished prayer to the Blessed Virgin. Once more at her stand she waited wearily, and the long black shad- ows were creeping over the now empty street, when at last he came again. Felicia did not see him for her eyes were blind with tears; but her heart knew and throbbed with the painful joy of seeing him again. He spoke, and his voice was hollow, tortured, as if the very heart of him were dead. ’‘Felicia, a white rose for a dead love—to place upon the aching altar of—my heart. How much?” Her sorrow seized her throat in a choking grasp, so that she could only lift a white blossom gently, hand it to him whispering: 'Tis nothing. Take it. May it may it—bring thee—peace.” She was ashamed of her tears, for who was she, to weep for the highest born in Verona? He gazed upon her pitiful face, and softly said: ‘‘Felicia, thy heart is like thy pure, white rose; but peace cannot come to a heart tortured as mine is tortured.” He started slowly on, and Felicia’s heart broke. Suddenly she heard him cry out — and then the clash of steel smote her numbed senses. Scarce knowing what she did, the grotesque little hunchback ran toward the sound. She saw and terror tore her heartstrings. A duel—flash of steel

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The Journal December 1924 T3he Sea at Sunset Calm waters, crystal clear, Moving slowly, softly. Flowing on to eternity. Whispering waters, cool, deep, and quiet, Mirroring the drowsy sky and evening star. A blaze of crimson where the Sea meets sky, Golden fire-ripples, mingling With deep purple, Like flames flickering on an amethyst brooch. Grace Luscombe, December 24. T30 a Water Lily In gleaming quiet of wood-land lake Thou liest, serene, perfect, pure. Lifting thy chalice ever upward Toward sky, toward golden sun, toward God. What wonders thou dost know, unknown To man, since dwelling, nymph-like, in the forest Thou knowest naught of evil, strife, or war, Of pain, of suffering, of despair, Thou water-nymph with golden locks, Thou sprite of white and gold, oh water lily! Grace Luscombe, December ’24. I 30!