Gowanda Central School - Valley Bugle Yearbook (Gowanda, NY)

Page 25 text:

THE VALLEY BUGLE. ANNUAL A SONNET To the Freshman O, Freshman on that airy cloud, . Come forth from 'neath thy dreamy shroud, Awake and think of days to be, And 'cease thy silly jollity. Your childish days are in the past- Days for success have come at last. T'is time to wake from childish sleep, T'is time to fall into studies deep. High School is no chi1d's play, Classes aren't conquered in a day. F reshmen, there are classes three, . Patiently awaiting thee. But these are mountains, great and tall Which you, to win, must come to fall. WALTER CHMIEL 1- c. H. s. i A STUDENTS PLAINT I was told to sit not set I am to say I'm chawmed indeed,' In our class of etiquette, Instead of using the old creed To rise when Mother enters in Of pleased to meetcha' or hello Or any other of my kin. When I am introduced you know. My spoon within my teacup? Never! The part that infuriates me Nor it is nice nor it is clever Is the fact that an Emily To leave my knife upon the table. Was the cause of all this fuss- And I was told 'twas not a fable. The nasty, horrid, little cuss! NP2LL'GRAY' W1LLcox i- G. H. s. -- DAWN Awake! for dawn is born From the short-lived love of Sun and Moon, And bears on its rays, That which penetrates the soul of slumbering man. It's nativity is 'dorned With such splendors To make the pomp of kings seem sickly. Yet man sleeps on, indifferent To such events, but warm to those Which radiate with dross of gold. The turquoise cradle . Beams amidst robes of downy pink, And on the distant hills, the hoarfrost gleams! Hark! There is music, Nature's own sweet symphony. Feathered throats, Purring winds, Thrumming brooks, All in perfect harmony. And one by one the delicate, tinted flowers Raised their heads, then Suddenly unfold, in profound rejoicing. While the h-ours fly ' The world brightens as the Infant Dawn Grows up to Day. Louisa Puss

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THE VALLEY BUGLE ANNUAL IL CHMIELIOSO With Apologies to Milton Hence, vain saddening Blues, Of saddest Music and Cupid born, How everyone thou doth abuse Whom sadness doth adorn. How an invitation thou never refuse To visit him in Love forlorn. But hail to thee, Love serene, Most beloved and yet so mean. Thou art more beautiful to me by sight Than the soft approach of dusky night. Thou art gayer than the dancing moombeams O'erlaid with colors of the setting sun it seems. No birds have yet with their songs divine, Described thee and all that's thine. Thou art music, great it be, Always sweet melodies unto me. But Ah! L.ove we know each other well, Better far than words can tell. How could you have done that unto me When I believed and worshipped thee? Ah! F ickle-fickle are thou, Love, Though thou look like an innocent dove. Love, thou hast wronged me, wronged my right And conquered me with thy passioned might. And now here I sit, all alone, The sigh? It's nothing but my own. Now thou hast sent thine plague, the Blues O'er me themselves to amuse. Oh! Love, thou sweetest sweet, Shall I bless or curse thee, Cheat? When thee I wish to forget, to lose I always meet thine companion, the Blues. I find them in the music of the Saxaphoneg Even in Tuba's melancholy moan. Whenever I go, wherever I stay, I find thine Blues to my great dismay. And now my fate is thine, , No more, no more is it mine. Thou hast o'erpowered me Oh, Love! Oh, Love! This I see. No more, no more shall I be free, A Sad, blue, I shall always be. W. CHMIEL -,- c. H. s. -- SPRING WIND The gypsy blood was stirred in me today. The snow was gone, half gone at least, for just A patch was left, the last remains of Winter. And oh, the wind that swept the country clear! That wind roused wander-lust within my soulg I longed for solitude and singing birds, Their joyous notes no longer in restraint, For blue skies, white clouds, tops of wind swept hills. Oh just to walk released from care and thought, To feel the wind's rough breath race through my hair To have it knock me down and pick me up And toss me here and there.--Oh mighty Wind, You've stirred the gypsy blood within my heart! NELL-GRAY W1LLcox ' Qwefii r 3, 1 Gage, ig

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THE VALLEY BUGLE. ANNUAL THESE HAVE I LOVED The friendly maple tree beneath whose kindly shade Many happy hours I've spent where as a child I played. The woodland path that has been set apart In memory by me as leading straight to nature's heart The swiftly running brook that chatters as it flows. And laughs and sings as ever on it goes. The grapevine swing dear friend of youthful joys, Afforded many happy hours to us country girls and boys. And Pat, my dog, a mongrel of sorts, A friend in all my trials, and in all my carefree sports. The old stone well that held a soothing balm To the thirsty traveler the sparkling waters calm. The lofty fields of grain that ripple in the breeze, Like acres of shining gold. All these have I loved and more besides. The smell of roses wet with morning dew The golden sunlight, the heavens shade of blue. The sun at twilight slipping down to rest And heaven's splendor lighting up the west VVith many colors all of varied hue. The joys of laughter and a smile that rings true, These have I loved. G H S THE THINGS I LOVE It is twilight, Soft and still. Now I hear a sleepy chirp, Now I feel the wind's soft kissg Now I see the yellow moon, Rising, faint Behind a mass of foliage. The freshness of the evening dew And the 1ilac's fragrance Rise together Into the gathering dusk. These things I love. I hear A strain of music A mother sings a Soothing lullaby to the Tired one Clasped to her breast. The children linger At their games, the games I used to play, And there my garden grows, My own creation With lGod's aid and care. Ah, these things are sweet. These things I love. With a book Clasped preciously, I climb The old familiar stairs, Sweet, cool sheets 5 thoughts of Yesterday, today and tomorrow. A prayer-- Then slumber With light, fantastic dreams. These things I love. L. Pliss Vera Bowers