Oak Grove Coburn High School - Oak Leaves Yearbook (Vassalboro, ME)

Page 30 text:

OAK LEAVES SHEPHlERD'S THOUGHTS The sky was dark, and the night was cold But a star showne in that sky. Two shepherds stood upon a hill, And- spoke their casual thoughts. One grumbled-what was life- The rose he picked had thorns. The other smiled, and thanked his God: The thorns he picked had roses. ELEANOR IRELAND. Why must I stay at home, I, who long for life? Why must I be safe and sheltered, I, who would face 1ife's storms and tears Strong and proud and unafraid? Why must I be held apart from love, I, who would answer love's strong call With gay and fearless giving of myself? Why was I born, awake To the songs and silences of the world, Alive to all the tortured beauty of the human soul? I feel, and may not know, I see, and may not touch. Life's treasure lies almost within my grasp- Why must I stay at home? ETHEL WENTWORTH. A star peppered sky, A shadowy moon, A velvety sheen on the sea, A wavering pine Like a becoming sign Is calling and calling to me. N. G., '39. 28

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OAK LEAVES SUBWAY TRAIN The great black dragon Roars on in the dark, With its two bright green eyes, And its sides all aglow with a yellow light Gleaming forth from the curving sides. But though a dragon in movement and shape, And though it often spurts fireg It's a friendly beast To the workers and poor Who toil in a great cold city. APACHE TRAIL DOROTHY ROBINS, '38. With the beat of hoofs on the pine-strewn path, And the jangle of bright steel bits, We go galloping on- ' Down the winding trail All orange and yellow and red. With the neigh of a horse ringing through the air, And the .snap of breaking twigs, We canter along- Down the sun-striped path All orange and yellow and red. LITTLE BROWN HAT DOROTHY ROBINS, '38 My feelings for you grew stronger every day, Little 'brown hat. Although you are tow and shaggy and I shall keep you always, Little brown hat. unfit to wear, Fond memories you bring, if one day in Spring When we were caught in a showerg A gallant young man with an umbrella quite grand Is now our lover forever. 27 BEVERLY J OH NS

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OAK LEAVES FRCM OUR YOUNGER PENS A PASTORAL SYMPHONY The twin peaks of Dent du Midi beyond the Rhone valley are bathed in the rosy glow of dawn and then a great ball of fire suddenly rises above the sharp jagged peaks of the mountain back of our little Swiss village that is tucked away in a remote Alpine- valley. On this particular morning, busy, chattering women with large and full brightly colored skirts, bustle about filling the market-place with a cheery din and carrying large baskets under their arms or on their heads. But above the friendly greetings is the clear echo of church 'bells wafted along the valley, calling the simple country folk to their matins. Strong and sturdy Swiss men with heavy, muddy boots are trudging toward the fields. Wrinkled old women, worn from years of hard work, are carrying heavy baskets of clothing toward the fountain in the center of the town. Here the pure water from the mountain stream flows through an old pipe and here the good-natured housewives scrub with zest their rough, homespun clothes. Small dogs are playing in the street while boys and girls with school bags swinging over their shoulders are on their way to school, calling to the dogs and laughing gaily as they hurry toward the little wooden schoolhouse. As the peasant farmers drive their ambling, mooing cows along the street the bells that hang around their necks to prevent them from getting lost, are tinkling sweetly in the early morning. Small boys are driving fiocks of goats and sheep to the pasture for the day. An old man with a long white beard is sitting on the wooden steps of his ancient Swiss chalet that has a picturesque balcony jutting out above the door. The sills of the balcony are decorated with gayly blooming plants that give an air of sweet contentment. The old Swiss is whittling clever little figures and souvenirs from Wood and arranging them beside him with real pride in his craft. The apple trees with their mass of pink and white blossoms are like great bouquets scattered along the valley, while the fields are carpeted' with masses of bloom in great patterns of gold, white and blue. There is a faint echo of yodelling from the mountain tops and there is fragrance on every breeze for it is Spring in the Alps and there is beauty everywhere. NANCY GATCHELL, '41. 29