Glass High School - Crest Yearbook (Lynchburg, VA)

Page 17 text:

,L: '.7Qii Q- , - ..f f,.'f.x . I f'.f' i..----- 52? y' 'q1 ' fl fff fr 5-TVNN-wif QM- X -Q34 f-X... ,Jfffi ml -gg scsi 'C gf-gi ,X f' -f ' Xl W --l' 4- - l tif Ti' S v-j1m::ii3lv,f C avg I Sl F -if - xx--rg: , .-:Q-gig?-:if S:lj'jj, F rf' 3 I o X LLL!!! Georg P 64 KAREN CARUSO, '64 I HAVE become addicted to the Things. Actually the creature under discussion is a troll of Danish origin approximately two inches high with an added four inches of hair. The troll is the creation of an ingenious Dane named Thomas Dam who trademarked them Dam Things. He exported them to the United States where they began to sell wildly. The impish creatures are purported to bring the bearer good fortune, pre- sumably through the power of his long locks. When I reached home with my prize purchase of one Dam Thing, I gently handed it to my sister who was talking so fast she didn't realize what it Was. When she reached a period, she glanced at the object she held and rendered a perfect blood-curdling scream, pitching it across the room. Panic-stricken, she turned to me and asked, What was it? Tell me it wasn't real. My mother just looked at him sorrowfully and said, With all the beautiful things in the world, who would want that ? l would. I've become quite attached to those beady amber eyes that peer out over a squshed nose which overshadows the little, round pot- belly. For some reason the Things have a strange fascination. Perhaps they do have some mystical power. Maybe it all lies in their just being Dam Thingsfl THE CRITIC 15'

Page 16 text:

STUDY HALL Whispering students and idle books,- Candy wrappers and mischeifvous looks,' Crossword puzzles and chewing gum,- Tired attempts to do that sum,- Rattled papers and stifled yawnsg .4 nd life-safuers And boredom And frowns. Empty shoes and tired fares,' Busy scholars and mental cases,- Library permits and hurried writingg Clock-watching and fingernail-bitingg Gadgets, mirrors, and desks out of line,' find hopes For the bell . . It's almost time. -JUDY F OSTER, '64. THE CRITIC

Page 18 text:

I Pansed A Moment Upon A Hill I paused a moment upon a hill, Gazed down at the garden below, To the red clay and the muddy .slopes Terraced by strips of snow, To the wooden stakes in perfect rows, Standing stark and bare,- To the withered fvines still clinging For a life that wasn't there,- To the rotted stems and yellowed leafoes With hardly a trace of green,' To an old tree through whose boughs A lone black crow was seen, To the many roots of the corn stalks Brittle, having worked so long, All that remains of the tassels And golden silk, now gone. How much is man like the garden In the winter of his day, Clinging to lost dreams and chances That now have passed away, Bitter or saddened or lonely, Unable to recall youth's song, Leafoing cold stone as reminder Of the life that has come and gone. -SALLY Woon, '6 5. THE CRITIC