Kingman High School - Talisman Yearbook (Peoria, IL)

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

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cfs KGHE 'GALISMAN Service ERVICIE is the spirit that animates men and women everywhere who know that others depend upon them. Back of every real achievement has heen that spirit of service' that desire to lighten loads, or make hrighter. happier and more heautiful the lives of others. A man may he rich or poor, courted or ignored. hut if he does things which make for progress. he is a success. he serves. Usefulness to others is the real standard of success. Great puhlic utilities have all heen the outcome of needs met hy men and women desiring to serve. Faith in the usefulness of the accomplishments has kept them toiling willingly. All husiness and professional pursuits depend for success upon the mcasure of their service to others. Giving the world hetter material. hetier measure. hetter oppor' tunities, is true service. The world seeks those who desire to serve. Money, influence, honor, and power may follovt, hut the attendant joy in having accomplished that which is of henefit to others is compensation enough to those who have that hurning urge to serve. - 'Frances Fisher. Indian Legend ANY moons ago in the land of many ma-tafokfkas or snowflakes, a heautiful Indian maiden named Ivfaftah, lived in a great forest with her people. Maftah loved the forest with its soft carpet of pine needles. She loved to hear the pines whisper to the wind and see the hirds flutter among the green hranehes. In the spring a great variety of wild flowers made a heautiful trimming on the forest floor. Maftah would sit for hours hy the sparkling hrook that danced over mosscovered stones, and think of all the heautiful things around her. She would wander through the forest and play with tiny hear cuhs. who had just awakened from their long winter sleep. In the autumn she would help the squirrels stoi'e food for the winter hy gathering nuts and placing them in small piles on the ground. The wild inhahitants of the forest never feared Maftah. They lovcd her and knew she would not harm them, Une dewy morning Maftah wandered through the forest to the great mountain. Huge houlders. which had rolled from the snowy heights, were piled high at the edge of the forest, Maftah was looking to see if she could find a new kind of flower among these great rocks. She was walking along at the very top, when suddenly her foot slipped. She fell many thousands of feet and was killed. Then was a mournful time for the wild inhahitants of the forest. The next summer as the Indians were getting water from the tiny hrooklet, one of the young warriors spied a heautiiul pink flower growing in the water. Look, he cried, it is a token of friendship to Maftah from her heloved flowers. Martha Kuppelei, Page 14