Kentucky Home School for Girls - Pandaisia Yearbook (Louisville, KY)

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Do IY-ou Believe in Santa Claus? IS hands were clasped in front of him, his pug nose was pressed against the window pane, and his little mouth drooped with a sad, pitiful expression. A blase society matron, openly annoyed by the shoving, bumping Christmas shoppers, paused to look at the display. She shuddered with distaste at the grimy, slovenly little urchin. The boy edged nearer and asked eagerly, Do you believe in Santa Claus? The woman turned, hesitated, then sud- denly patted the boyis thin shoulder, 'gOf course, I do. Sometime later a joyous little boy ap- peared, almost hidden by his heap of bundles, and ran happily down the street. The woman hurried away and was lost in the surging crowd, but the sweet smile and the far-away expression portrayed happiness, not boredom. Peggy Shelley, '42 Darkness NE of the queerest things in the world is Darkness. It comes and goes at reg- ular intervals, but sometimes it is light- ened by the moon and stars. Darkness brings peace from the day's worry and toil. Rest, quiet, and contentment accompany it as it makes its rounds about the earth. I would love to go with Darkness on just one of her journeys around the universe. China, Japan, Switzerland, France, Alaska, Africa and the United States, all meet her and greet her in different ways. Some wel- come her because of the protection she brings to them from enemies, while others actually dread her arrival, she holds her sway over some countries for at least six months. Darkness closes the day as a perfect, peace- ful ending to all the light and sunshine of the hours before. She lets the soul and heart unburden themselves in sleep during her presence here. A lonely feeling may steal through your heart at the thought of Dark- ness, but it welcomes it for the rest and con- solement it needs is found in Darkness. Where does she come from and where does she go? Will anyone ever know? Ethel Price, '42 On Writing ci Theme You say it isn't hard to do- Well for you that may be true, But for me-I must explain Itls quite a different thing again. A title first, what shall it be? The sturdy clock frowns down at me, As if to say, '4Don,t be so slow, At this rate you will never know. The end at last, and with great care - I sign my name-and the class right there. I'm glad you find themes easy to write, As for me-Ild rather sleep at night. Twenty-two Carolyn H art, 7.42

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Bon HE hot, blue flames flickered among the red ashes, and slithered in and out of the hollow logs and around the dried branches. The cold air touched the flames and turned them from blue to yellow talons that leaped into the air like fingers grasping at the cold. The live sparks, with a resounding crackle would shoot out like the spray from a foun- tain and scatter upward to the sky, some died as soon as they met the freezing air, others went further up before they faded out, and several flew so high they seemed to join T8 the bright stars in the heavens. The only difference was that the permanent stars were a cold white while the sparks looked like gold nuggets on a black velvet background. Whiffs of smoke puffed out into the air and rose to the sky like gray snow clouds. The snow glistened in the light from the fire and formed a sparkling coverlet for the slop- ing landscape which stretched out cold and white under the brilliant light of the full moon that ruled over the whole scene like a majestic king. Janet Gore, 7,2 A Secret Visit I HE shutters were open and the windows were thrown wide as the primroses had timidly popped their heads in the room along with the sun shine. The bright morning air and its clean smells came in and filled the room with an atmosphere typical of a spring morning. The eggs were ready on the table, and the toast was crisp and soaked in butter beside the steaming black coffee. It was a wonderful April day, and the breakfast table looked trim and neat beside the open window. A few of the roses had been plucked and were floating in a glass bowl in the center of the table set for two. . . The clock on the mantle was merrily ticking away and when the hands slowly crept up on seven, it sent forth a dimmed chime that barely reached the four corners of the morn- ing room. A few muffled sounds were heard overhead and a faint voice called someone. Several seconds later the door opposite us opened and my fellow robin and I flew from the window sill into the morning sky. Ray H ikes, 542 I Saw I saw the wind that blew the birds Across the wintry sky, It whistled through the mighty trees, As wild it blew on high. I saw the rain so cold and wet, Dreary as could beg It made the day so sad without And did the same to me. I saw the sun caress the grassg I heard it hush the airg It spread the purple world with gold, To banish every care. foyce Garibaldi, 91,2 Twenty-one

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Lincoln, The Man E WASN'T a Caesar, a Roland, a Luther, a Cromwell, nor yet a Washington, but just Abe Lincoln. That is why Cwithout a crown, a sword, a sermonj we love him as we do. Homely, gaunt, ungainly, yet cheerful, wise, and pa- tient, he lived as Honest Abel' and died his country's HSavior.,' . Lincoln didn't build an army, nor take a single fort, he joked, he hauled a pig from the mud, but he raised a drooping standard and won a people's heart. Men write the name of Washington with a silent awe, but they tell Lincoln's stories as though he were only a departed friend. Peggy Shelley, 142 The Coming of Spring Snow drop gave place to violet, Wind flower spread a white carpet Round the budding beeches. Misty blue-bell and dainty Lily-of-the-valley filled wooded glades. Forget-me-nots gave charm to bank And wild iris, to marshy streams. The wind shook the perfume From the flowers. Spring had come! .loyce Garibaldi, '42 Wintefs Apparition Long, thin, tapering fingers of the winter witch, You grow in the chill, still night on my window ledge And greet me with an evanescent gleam, Sparkling in the radiant reflection of a winter morn. Or are they sly winter's icy locks, That snap and crackle like a ghostly laugh At the slightest touch of human hand, Yet will grow and glisten with haunting hue? Peggy Shelley, 142 Twenty-three