Oakland Technical High School - Talisman Yearbook (Oakland, CA)

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store devoted to the hair goods businesss. Over the door is the name of T. Mooney. Farther up the street, | come to a large bank and office build- ing containing the Schwartz Security Bank. The list of tenants in its offices contains the names of Grant Du Bois, broker, Marcus Crocker, head of the Crocker Matrimonial Agency, and Harold Weeks, the archi- tect. Part of the ground floor is occupied by the offices and agency of Carl Riegelman, the famous traveler, and head of the “Riegelman Tours for Tired Teachers.” Next door is the Reid Drug Company of which Kenneth Reid is the head. I pass from the business district now and seem to be getting into the Auto Row. I come to a magnificent building, and, in large letters over the ground floor I see the title, “Complex Motor Co., Guy Calden, local distributer.” Gazing through the plate-glass windows of the spa- cious agency I see Mr. Calden himself explaining the superiority of the Complex Car to Ross Mack, the president of the Mack Music Company. A few blocks below there is a beautiful park and here a large crowd is gathered, listening to Vernon Ferry’s Band. After passing to the manu- facturing district I see the Chevrolet Automobile factory where Francis Weaver is chief engineer and Fritz Schuler his assistant. Across the way is the Harley Davidson motorcycle factory of which Robert Fones is chief engineer.” The seer rubs his hand over his eyes once or twice. “The vision is growing rather disconnected and vague,” he says. “I seem to see the United States Army with Major-General Bryan Shid- ler in command, also Walter Welch, head of the wireless department of both the Army and Navy. I am getting rather confused. I seem to be in the tropics, in Guatemala. | find the name of a great mining engineer here, Vernon Taylor. The vision now takes me back to our own coun- try again and | see a prosperous looking farm. The owner, Francis Coyle, is standing on the wide veranda of the house talking to Walter Bolles, a tramp who has applied for work on this farm. He seems—ah! The vision has faded. I can reveal nothing further to you, my friends. LESLIE EAGAR. WALTER BOLLES.

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STEVE MADDEN, SHERRIFF By J. Wilbur Eber Ss} ONGFELLOW has said that the setting of a hope is like the setting of the sun. If this is so, it should cause no great grief or anxiety, for what is more promising and hopeful than the colored sky at the close of day? There is scarcely a person who has not heard that a red sunset is a positive indication of a bright, clear morrow. We watch for it at twilight and rejoice when we see the flame color spreading over the horizon. And it was so with the girl, who sat on a horse on an old mountain trail, her lips parted and her eyes half closed, as she breathed deeply the pure air and watched the beautiful sky. Soft, billowy clouds, their edges a faint rose shading into delicate pink and white, floated around in a semi-circle, where the great, fiery sun had disappeared from sight. Nearer the horizon the color was a vivid red—that red which when painted in pictures appears exaggerated, but fascinating and beautiful at times. Here and there it was streaked with yellow and brilliant orange, giving a hint of the oriental. To the east the mountains were purple, the rocks showing against them a dull red. Far away to the north the last rays of the departed ball shone on snow-capped peaks, bringing out a contrast with the hazy blue of the hills. At sunset, as at moonrise, we see things in a different light: every- thing is changed and we regard both in awe. It was so with the girl. “King,” she breathed to the horse, “isn’t it beautiful? Why, it looks almost sacred. I feel that we human beings have no right to watch it, for it seems but for the gods. It wouldn’t be very surprising to see Diana floating down from yonder peak, or to see Neptune waving his arms above that mountain lake, would it? You’d rather expect it, wouldn’t you, King?” And her voice trailed off into a whisper. The colors were gradually fading, and mellow twilight began to creep in. The trees in the distance grew black and their outlines melted into the shadow. The winding trail down the mountain could still be dis- cerned faintly, but here and there it was lost completely in the shadows of the thick brush. The splendor of the day was dying. The silent darkness creeping in and the muffled whir of the night hawks seemed a death knell of the parting day. The girl shivered slightly and pulled the reins. “Come, King,” she said, “it’s getting late.” The horse understood, and with the sure-footedness of a mountain goat, the animal picked his