Polytechnic High School - Caerulea Yearbook (Long Beach, CA)

Page 18 text:

WWIWWWWWWWWW WW WWWWWWI WIWIWIWWWIWIWWIWWWWI WWWW WW WW WWWWWanIFWmW WWW WWW WW. f . ngWW WWWWWWWWW WWIWWWI WWW IWWWWW WWWII WWWW llIWIIIIIWIWWlI W. .. LWWWWWWWWW William Corey Even today, on the great Antelope plains, some of the glamour and romance of old, some of that swagger and daring still clings to the drivers of the desert and mountain stages, especially to the mail- stage driver, for thru him, connection with the outside is kept. On the desert, the arrival of the maiI-stage is THE event. The driver of the maiI-stage on the Bakersiield-Lost Hills run was the only living thing that had ever touched Little Yellow Dog kindly, and because of that the cur worshipped him as greatly as a small dog could. With so little animation that he disregarded the countless swarm- ing flies, Little Yellow Dog lay in the shadqw' in front of old CapWs saloon, watching out over mile after mile of sage- -brush and sand for the daily mailestage from outside . He was small and gracefully slender, of a light tan color, with pointed ears and nose much like that 01 a iox. His eyes were small and bright. Save for the buzz of flies, a dead silence enclosed the desert. All about and among the scattered shacks of Lost Hills the mid- day heatedevils danced crazily. The scorching rays of the sun Were reflected by the alkali and sheet iron in a blinding glare. A11 life was held in a coma, and the air was saturated with the spicy tang 0f the sage-hrush. A whistle blew at a faraoff oiI-camp as Link: Yellow Dog sighted.

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LITERARY MY KINGDOM Eva Richardson '20 Musing tonight, my memory strays, Back to my childhood home; And I wonder who's wading my streams. And roaming where I used to roam. I wonder who's climbing my flovfring hills So high, so straight, so steep! And Pd like to know whds fishing now, In my river so wide and deep. I wonder whose youthful laughter Shrills on the wildwood air, If his feet which tread my moist brown earth Like mine used to be, are. bare. Who's using my 01' swim hole? Or climbing my whisp'ring tree? Now what fellow is walking my woods. Seeing what I used to see? Who's picking my dcw-kisscd blueberries. Feasting on them today? Is he chasing the birds and squirrels That I used to tease in my play? I wonder who rules my boyhood kingdom Back in the fragrant pine; He may hold it today or tomorrow- In mcm'ry Twill always be minel

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Nineteen Twenty on the eastern horizon, a low and glisten- ing dust cloud. He arose and directed his pointed little ears and nose toward it. It was the mail-stage, still a score of miles BWaY. but coming with a smooth roar of its twin six cylinders and a bright reflec- tion from its shining sides. The Post-master of Lost Hills was a fat and lazy desert rat . Wrapped in ice creams and a dirty silk shirt, with a frayed slouch Panama hat over his ruddy, dripping face, he came out of the Post- olfice shack, perspiring and sweating at the heat, and watched the approaching dust-cloud. On time all til, he muttered. Why can't that fool driver on the mountain run get in on time? He mapped his dripping forehead and face with a bandana. The stage neared. Its roar could now be heard. Little Yellow Dog loped out to meet itea low, slinking lope, for his mother had been a swift-fox, that wary, seldom-seen phantom of the western plains. He glanced back over his shoulder at the sleeping dogs of the townsite. His mouth was opened wide because of the heat and also because he was smiling. The few hours that the stage was in Were, for him, joyful, generous, and kindly hours, spent with the Mm . Cool water l3 rarityL a iuicy steak-bone, or a piece of bread were the wonderful things he received. but best of all, protection from the dirty gaunt pack of beggar dogs, who despised him because of his wild blood so plainly shown in his very appearance.