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

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OAK LEAVES 1949 SOUTH CAROLINA An almost mechanical-sounding whir of bees in the snow-like bank of cherokee roses pierces my ear. The slender flexible body of a black snake twines itself around the gnarled limbs of the old mulberry tree. Here and there a dewey jonquil sparkles with its reflection of the sun. The boxwoods. now flourishing tender green leaves give forth a delicate odor as the winter- tanned ones drop to the ground. Spring is really here-spring in the Southland. CORNELIA GRAY, '50, FOLKS, FACTS, FUN Mr. Owen, Mrs. Owen, Teachers, and the Staff, Many girls in corridors, Gaiety in their laugh, Ivy on the buildings, Rustling in the breeze, Skating parties and class plays, Lovely formal teas. Oak Grove for me! MARY LEE WOOD, '50. 22

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OAK LEAVES 1949 OCTOBER EVENING Midnight descending, silence extending, Stars shining over the town, Moonshine on the trees, And a mysterious breeze Flutters my hair and my gown. Darkness intensely, shadows immensely, Hover and cover each past, Dark houses are still, As mine on this hill, Everyone's sleeping-almost. DIONY STODDARD, '49 NIGHTFALL The sun falls low beyond the sea, Gulls swoop, and then soar high, Soft breezes gently touch the trees And faintly, softly sigh. The mists creep inland toward the shore As dusk begins to fade, The clouds above melt, disappear, The red sky turns to jade. The evening darkens into night, Cool waves lap on the sand, All cares of day pass with the light And peace reigns through the land. MIMI LOGAN, '49 VOICE OF THE LAKE' Your joyful ripple summons me, To linger by the hour And listen to your haunting plea, For wood, for grass, for flower. But, most of all, I love your voice- Rare liquid melodies, Your song is dear to me. Rejoice! My thought you speak with ease. 'A lake is the landscapes most beautiful and expressive feature. From 'I'horeau's Walden' ELIN BROWN, '51 21

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OAK LEAVES 1949 DREAM-CHILD fApologies to Charles Lambl Children are often apt and able to stretch their imaginations to an amaz- ing extent after they have snuggled up under the warm comforter, and mother and father have kissed them all and turned out the lights for the night, all except the one in the hall, even if the door is ajar with a shoe in it to prevent any possibility of the wind blowing it shut. It was with this thought in mind that I slowly rose to go to my young daughter who was standing in bare feet and her bunny-pajamas fChris called them by that intriguing name because they were covered with sleepy- eyed cotton-tailsl , at the top of the stairs, calling tearfully to tell me that there was an awful big bear in her room and she was afraid that it would eat her up while she was asleep. We walked back together to her tiny blue and white room with its forget-me-not wall-paper, she quickly slipped back into bed and down under the covers so that only her two wide, startled eyes peeped over to watch me as I carefully searched under the bed, behind the curtains, and in the closet to see if I could find the horrible beast. After I had looked, as a last possible resort, through her small bureau drawers, into which she thought the creature might have climbed if she had been mistaken and it was only a small bear, Chris was finally convinced that it must have climbed out the window, and she wriggled her toes and sighed a great sigh of relief. Bears are awfully funny animals, - yawn -1, aren't they mommy ? she said in a long, careful sentence punctuated with a yawn. Yes, Christine, I guess they are, I answered, but not half as funny as you, and I leaned down to pinch her little snub nose, which she immediate- ly wrinkled up so that it was even smaller than before. She squeezed my fingers in her two tiny hands as she said, Good-night and sweet dreams, and asked me to kiss her again before I turned out the light. I bent quickly over the small tousled head with its tangled curls, but as I drew near, it faded and then disappeared and only the white pillow remained in its place. And suddenly I realized as I sat up in my bed with a little start that I had been dreaming, Chris was only a dream-child, and it was morning again. MIMI LOGAN, '49, CHILE Chile,-what does this word mean to me? Why, whenever I think of it, does a warm, sweet emotion flow into the sanctuary of my heart? When I say Chile, I see a long irregular coastline, bordered by the green and blue-gray Pacific, this ocean which in parts caresses the white sand, and in some others, furiously beats at the indifferent rocks. I see the many islands in the south, where centuries ago the Araucanos defended vigorous- ly their last bits of unconquered land from the irresistible pressure of the Spaniards. I think of 1541, when the first city, Santiago, was founded, 23