Polytechnic High School - Polytechnic Student Yearbook (Los Angeles, CA)

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THE LAST OF THE TRIBE Harry Bowers, W'16. High on the cliff the ehieftaiu stands Erect, supreme. His chest expands, Strong are the arms which cross his breast, His eyes are fixed upon yon crest Clothed in a soft, white clinging mist, Patched with red where the sunshine kissed This flowing mantle. On beyond, As if from touch of magic wand, The curling smoke from a watch-fire grows And loses itself at the evening's close Tn the shrouding fogs of the vale below. On farther, then, the silent flow Of a river slips as a silver thread Drawn by hands through cloth of red, And then is lost in a mystic maze Of fertile fields. The rigid gaze Of the ehieftain who is standing there Erect on the elif, doth wander where The land of his fathers, in solitude, Lies nestled in canyons, at some time hewed By cleaving winds, from mountains high. Now stretching forth his arms, a sigh Escapes his lips so tight compressed. His heart beats fast, for his latest quest Ile knows must now be ended here. Weirdly he chants a song, for near In shadows deep, there lurks grim death Awaiting the time, when, with his breath. Ile can still the heart of the chieftain old. The bronze arms fall, they having sold Their strength to him who saw, and then His chanting ceases. Far down the glen Its echo wanders through the trees. The dying chief sinks to his knees, Reclines against the mountain side. The land whereon his grand-sires died Ile sees no more. llis eyes grow dim, As the orb of day o'er the distant rim Of the l1ill-tops shines no more. Dark night Shuts off on tl1e lonely height l32l

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Well, far be it from me to say whether I care if she goes or not, he answered. But what kind of an edjication d'ye think she will get, settin' around at home? And he stalked out of the room, slamming the door. Anne stayed at home, and worried about Miss Macgregor all the afternoon. She wanted to go to the hospital, but-she feared her uncle's wrath. Finally, towards evening, she summoned enough courage, and snatching her sunbonnet, started off. But in stories they usually leave flowers with a notef' thought Anne. She had only one bush of flowers-a red geranium that Miss Macgregor had given her a year before. Her uncle had complained about it, and told her that he didn 't want the place messed up with flowers. Vegetables was all right, but he never could see the sense o' flowers. There were only five blossoms on the bush, but these Anne picked carefully, wrapped them in some white tissue paper that had come on gifts the Christmas before, and in the middle, she placed a note, carefully written on lined paper. She carried them to the town hospital where a kind-faced nurse took them, and told her that Miss Macgregor would have received them herself, but she was sleeping. Anne, assured that her teacher would be at school within a week, hurried out with a light heart. At the curb a limousine drew up, and Marjorie, rich, fortunate Marjorie, stepped out. She carried a long green box-the kind that the town florist used. At the sight of her, Anne suddenly became ashamed. I ought to have known better than to give her old red gcraniums when she will get hot-house flowers, she scolded, hurrying along. An hour later, Miss Macgregor, awakening, found two bouquets on the table beside her. One consisted of half a dozen perfect American Beauty roses 5 the other, of five geranium blossoms. Beside each was the note that had come with it. She opened a delicate pink envelope, and read: Dear Miss Macgregor: I was very sorry to hear of your accident, and trust that you will be at school soon again. US- 1 mcere y, Marjorie Mallond. She .laid it aside and picked up the second. It said: My dear, dear teacher: . I missed you so much at school this morning, and was awfully sorry to hear that you get hurt. I don't like the teacher we have, and hope you will get well soon. Lots and lots of love from HA Q .nne. HP. S. These geranyums are off that bush you gave me. And the school-teacher, with tears in her eyes, looking into the flowers, saw more beauty in the heart of the geranium than she did in the hot-house rose. l31l

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The game of death enacting there. And now the moon comes from her lair, And rising high among the stars She sheds her light in silver bars Between the rocks and finds the place Where lies the chief with upturned face To the stars which blink above his head- The last of the tribe, the chief, is dead! ABOUT NOTHING AT ALL Phyllis Harrington, W'15. Nothing at all, O Fellow-student, is the burden of your parents' argu- ments-the thing for which the ice man charges your father exorbitantly- the plate of fudge after your small brother has visited it-the theme of your neigbbor's gossip-the thing which you fear in the dark-your teaeher's ad- monitions-what you see in looking into a school inkwell-your rival debater's ideas-the contents of your mind during an attempt to write a composition. By these attributes is it known. Nothing at all cometh and sitteth like that bird of Poe, above your door, yet, being importuned to leave, ever ad- vanceth closer, and, mingling with your work, diluteth it. Tt leaveth you when you would entertain a guest with light frivolities-but cometh back when you must needs bc working. Tt is the resource of the would-be polite, who in an unguarded moment have forgotten themselves. and now must ex- plain thc occasion of their exclamationg it is that murmuring to yourself which doth oecnr when an adjective-less individual treads on one for bothj of your pedal extremities. T recall. amongst many childhood events, a vaudeville show that once held my youthful attention. 'Twas there. from the parlance of a comedian, I re- ceived my first inkling of the value of nothing-at-all. The details of his declar- ation and of the process by which T arrived at a high valuation of nothing- at-all, T would withhold. even though T still retain a recollection of themg for T cannot but agree, School-fellow. with our mutual friend, Miss H---, in her abhorrence of a superfluity of irksome contingencies, yet. like her, T deplore as much a paucity of phraseological diction. Such is the qnandary that T contemplate. T perceive that the fulfillment of my own prophecy has overtaken me and my subject has entered into the context of my essay irretrievably. 1 This is nothing-at-all. T331