Kingman High School - Talisman Yearbook (Peoria, IL)

Page 105 text:

N 'K' 'GHE FGALISMAN In Memorialn THOMAS CRANDALL FRANK CRANDALL I !.l11 llllt s.ly. I xxlII lm! my TIl.lt tllvy .lrv dc.ld. tllcy .lru lllrl .lw.ly' Xx'llIl .l cIlucl'y Nlllllv. .llld .l xxxlw uf nhl- Il.llld TIlcy Il.lx'u xx.llldvl'cd llllll .lll Lllllxllllxxll I.llld :Xml Iril LIS LII'C.lll1llIQ. Huw wry Illll' Il llcrdf lllllft Iw. Qlllfw rIll-y IIIIQCI' tllcrs .'Xlld X'KHll U yllll, xx'Il-l lIll' XYIILIUQI yxilfll IJIII' lIlv llldtllllu -.Icp .llld th-3 gI.ld I .'IIlI'I1. IIQIIIIIIQ nf tIlclll Illrillg llll, .ls dc.l1' Ill tIll' Ilwc ut' Thurc .ls tIlc Illvc IIIA I'Iurc1 Tlllllk wt' lllclll stlll .ls tIlc Nllllc, I my: Tllcy .IIT lllll dlnld tIlvy .lru lllst .lxx'.lyI

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Page 106 text:

'GHE TBALISMAN N I'm Wondering WOULD love to paint a picture of a scene in early spring. of a little cottage nestled at the end of a country lane. It would be surrounded with daffodils and buttercups amid the grass so green, and mighty oaks whose spreading branches would shade a large, blue bed of violets. Here and there an hepatiea or a bloodroot would be growing wild. O'er the cottage, small and cozy, would be growing ivy, green, climbing, twining upward toward the blue sky of a May day. By the doorway looking downward toward the empty lane, a maiden would be standing. The soft south wind would be playing with her curly, dark brown hair and her blue gingham apron would be rippling in this gentle breeze, while beneath the hand raised to shade her face would be found a yearning expression of love and grace. The sun above would be piercing the leaves. and the leaves themselves would be waving banners of life, and bluebirds fluttering through the air would be symbols of happiness. But-someone has wasted my colors and squeezed my tubes till they're dry. Somebody else has broken my easel and broken my palette in two, while others are attempting to drive this picture from my mind. ButAwill they ever succeed? I'm wondering. I would love to sing a song, as l've hummed it oft before, and this is what I'd like to sing about. I'd sing a song of summertime, of a cottage by a lane, and a bower of roses blooming to show it's june again. I'd sing about the thousand birds as they twitter in the oaks, and the bright butterflies as they flutter through the air. I'd sing of a woman, too, who's standing straight and fair, before the cottage, with eager eyes, watching and waiting for the figure which is now but a mere speck against the narrow lane. I'd sing of her wonderful beauty, of her patience and her joy as she sees that speck take the shape of the man she is waiting for. I'd love to sing this song of summer time, but---someone has taken my voice and given it to the wind, while somebody else has sealed my lips so that no song can reign. Will I ever be able to sing it? I'm wondering. I'd love to write a story about a dream I've had, a story of bright autumn with her trees so gayly clad. I'd write about a cottage whose ivy has turned red, and the robins and the bluebirds, who toward the south have fled, On the step of this cottage at the end of the narrow lane, would be standing a woman, lovely, and at her feet a man. Their happiness would be sublime, their life one happy book. Each deed or word an inspiring chapter. Each page a well worth look. 'Tis this I'd love to write about. But--someone has broken my pencil and someone else has lost my pen, while another has spilt my ink upon my heart and some unknown hand has traced there the word HATE But that unknown hand has never taken from me these memories. I'm wondering why? Why has the clearness of this picture faded and left me only illusion? VVhen he is ready to tell me, will I be able to understand? I'm wondering! --Phoebe Bemeice Palmer. Page 93