Lompoc High School - La Purisima Yearbook (Lompoc, CA)

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about a mile down the road from the Del la Guerda rancho. Before they had left the gate, however, they heard the shouts and hoarse cries of what they knew from past experience to be the bandits of Diaz. Before there was time to make any defense, the yard in back of the house was alive with the horses of the outlaws, and the rough, uncouth marauders had forced their way into the kitchen, where they laughingly overcame old Paquita, who was bravely defending her realm with a rolling pin and a barrage of kettles and pans. . During the uproar, Mercedes had seized the frightened child and, running to the little chapel at the end of the garden, had placed him under the little altar. Then she had returned to her mother to help in preparing the food the bandits were bawling for. Finally, when the thieves l1ad roared and eaten their content, they began to prowl about the place, stripping it systematically. At last one of them saw the light from the candles in the chapel shining on the garden path. Bueno',, he muttered, the Chapel. Here there should be rich choice. Raising his voice, he called to his comrades, Follow meghere is the chapel. This is the best furnished raneho we've found yet I As he neared the end of the path, his followers heard him catch his breath in a muttered, Sanctissima!,' And there he stood, rooted to the spot, in the little pathway. As the others caught up with him they, too, were awe-stricken, and the laughter died in their throats. For there in the doorway, with the light from the altar candles shining on his golden curls, stood little Pepito-a vision of the Christ-child. The sight of all the strange men had startled him, and unable to move he stood there, looking back at them silently. Madre de Dios, whispered the leader, this place is not for us. VVe go. And silently they turned, mounted, and rode away. Lothele Miller. THE SIGN OF THE RED LETTER My name is of little importance, but you may care to know that I am a professor of psychology in Durham University. From my professorial realm in the sciences, it is an easy step to the realm of the supernatural. And it is there that my hobby lies. My specialty being man's physical mind, it is indeed doubly interesting for me to observe the working of my mind when confronting what is said to be the supernatural. Now, I am not a spiritualist, nor do I really believe in supernatural manifestations. But, in justice to myself, I must say that I have stood ready to revise my beliefs when I receive what I consider to be convincing evidence of a preternatural appearance. My method of investigation is purely scientific, for I am in this to solve the problem without a doubt. I am a member of various societies for psychic research, and I have attained quite a bit of distinction by my studies of the miracu- lous. As I have stated, I was not a believer in the supernatural, but I must admit that my convictions are somewhat shaken by the events I am about to record. My hobby of investigating cases of so-called spookiness has made me the cause for a deal of humor here at the University, among my colleagues of less serious pursuits. But, among all my fellow faculty-members here at Durham, one alone shared my interest in the superhuman, and that one was the Dean of University College, a learned and fine man, who, I learned, came from Grassington, in York. He was headmaster of Bishop Hatfield's Hall when I came here fresh from Oxford. He befriended me a great dealg and, when he bceame dean and I the master of phychology, we were inseparable. Now to the story: 13

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THE CHRISTMAS VISION Standing at the door of the rambling old adobe house, nestling among the foot- hills, was a young girl of about sixteen. She was dressed in a full skirt of bright, flowered material, and a sleeveless bolcro of black velvet over a light white blouse. Her black hair was parted in the middle, waving back to be held in place by a big shell comb, and forming a frame for the oval face with its dark eyes and flushed cheeks, which seemed to be rellecting the gorgeous blaze of the sunset. Slowly, as she watched it, the California sun sank into its bed of rose and golden clouds, piled high over thc horizon of the sea, and casting lights of purple, yellow, and crimson over the Islands below. 'Further back, on the foot hills, the oaks glistened as the sun shone on their leaves, newly washed by a passing shower. The rain in the valley had frozen as it passed the higher slopes of the mountains, and now the summits glistened white with snow. The snow and the red berries on the hills were all that told one that it was Christmas- Christmas in California. As the girl stood there, watching the sun go down, a little boy came around the corner of the house, dragging a resisting yellow puppy by a rope about its neck. The child was about four years old, and in the sunset light he looked like a little cherub with his wide blue eyes, and his golden curls cropped close to his head. Why, Pepito! exclaimed the girl, turning toward him. I thot that you'd gone home to la madrecita long ago! It's almost dark now-you'll have to stay until we can take you home. Don't care, returned Pepito, nonchalantly, Peppy like 'tay wiz 'Cedes, and he sat down on the step at her feet, looking up at Mercedes adorably. He knew he was a long way from home, but he also knew that he had done this many times before, and that l1e'd always gotten home safely-usually via Don De la Guerda's big roan horse, and nothing suited Pepito better than to be hoisted into the saddle before the Don and galloped home to his madrecita's waiting arms. As Mercedes was thinking of how she could get the little fellow home as soon as possibe after dinner, her mother, the Senora De la Guerda, came thru the hall- way behind her. Madre mia, said Mercedes, here is Pepito O'Farrelll again. The little picarito hasn't gone home, and now that it is turning dark his mother will be afraid for him. What can we do? The senora his mother knows where he is, returned the dona, we shall have your father return him home as soon as dinner is over. We had best make ready for chapel now, hija mia. Nina has prepared for the Christmas services, and your father will soon be here. How beautiful it is for Christmas eve! Listen, I hear El Rey's hoof beats on the road now-your father is coming. ln a minute the Senor De la Guerda rode into the yard and dismounted. Ah! buenos noches, mis queridos! he cried. lsn't this a wonderful eve for Christmas? Ay, and whom have we here? swinging the gurgling Pepito high aloft. Why aren't you home, you little scamp? Seheming for a ride home on El Rey, I'l1 wager, If you aren't careful about straying from home, Diaz, the bandit, will catch you. He specializes on little runaway American boys! Hush, Ramon, said the senora. You should not frighten the child with such ,,, tales. I fear it may not all be tale telling that I hear, returned the Don more seriously. Only this day, in the village, it was heard that Diaz has been working up and down the coast again, burning and plundering the ranches. Ay, but surely he would not rob nor burn on a holy eve, said Mercedes. Come, let's get ready for chapel. There goes Paquita's dinner gong now! After dinner the senor started out with Pepito for the boy's home, which lay 12

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On a nice, yet a little windy, day in the early spring of the year 1892, I had just procured a copy of a treatise on the supernatural, written by a monk of the 11th century. I was anxious to see what progress had been made at that early date toward the exploration of the supernatural world. He cited several cases of ghostliness, but the keynote of his work was the idea of the hand of man behind the phenomena. Then I confess, I agreed with him. I was settled deep in my arm-chair, enjoying my treasure, before a fire pre- pared for me by the landlady. I had prepared for a solid day's pleasure with this old monk, for it was Ash Wednesday, and the day had been declared a full holiday. The manuscript was growing particularly interesting. My old monk was in the midst of a recital of a rather interesting story telling of the ghost of Buckden, in West Riding, in York. It seems that it had inhabited the place from prehistoric times. This was the one case the monk could not explain. This so-called ghost was supposed to have appeared at irregular intervals, sometimes eighty years, and sometimes fifty. At these appearances, a member of a certain family either died a mysterious death or was murdered. The story of this spirit was guarded rather closely and hardly told outside the family upon whom this malignant phantom vented his wrath. He could in no way account for these occurrences. So, it was with a certain degree of impatience that I opened the door, after repeated knockings, about four o'clock in the afternoon. To my surprise, it was my friend, the dean. I explained my reluctance to admit him, but he seemed preoccupied. After being rid of his wraps, and seated in a chair near mine, he looked at me. and said, The ghost of Buckden has given his sign again. Now, the manner in which he said this was enough to cause cold chills to run up and down one's back. The expression of horror, the sound of it in his voice, the absentminded fidgeting, were enough to fascinate the listener and cause him to want to know the facts in the case, notwithstanding the evident horror of it. Here was my friend, not usually one to be frightened easily, horrified and fearful at the mention or thought of The Ghost of Buckden. I knew that he had come from Grassington, about ten miles from Buckden, but, as his name did not coincide with that given in the monk's tale, I could see no reason for his fear other than the natural sympathy of one neighbor for another. He presently roused himself and, without commenting, handed me a letter, or rather a note, scribbled on coarse, blue paper in black ink, in a small cramped hand of an old person. It read: Grassington, Feb. 20, 1892. My dear cousin: We have received another sign. I wonder who it will be this time. Martin. The dean was gazing across the room with an absolutely terrified look. I sat there contemplating for a few minutes when he shook his head, turned to me and said, My friend, evidently the meaning of this does not impress you. I should not have expected it to do so. For years, my family has been horrified by the death of one of us by some means for which we can in no way account. We would find a piece of paper with the solitary Greek letter Sigma. Within, sometimes fl few days, sometimes a month, one would be killed or die. The last appearance was in 1830, when my grandfather was murdered. They found him with a dagger stuck through a piece of paper with the Sigma on it, into his heart. 14-