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

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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

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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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THE HISTORY OF A HEN Mildred A. Jordan, S'14. My mother intended to kill the little, soreheaded chick that had strayed to our place, but it found a soft spot, without any difficulty, in my childish heart, and I determined that die it should not. It was indeed a sad picture that chick, standing on long, gawky legs and seeming to care very little about its drooped head. I sat on the wash bench, with my chin in my hand and pondered. Finally I had an inspiration. I had seen Ellen Green-Ellen Green was the cook- put common coal oil on the heads of chickens afflicted in this manner. That would surely save the chick, I decided, if I could only keep him hidden in a safe place. With few objections on the part of the chicken, I wrapped him in my checked apron, then found a soap box, and journeyed far down past the garden into the weed patch, put the chicken under the box and went to find the oil can. I had just succeeded in locating it when my mother came out and asked me what I was doing there. At last, however, she went away. I got the can and slipped back to my patient. I fished out the disconsolate fowl, placed him between my knees and be- gan the treatment. After putting the oil on his head, I decided that as he was a very sick chicken, it would be well to anoint the whole body. Proudly I tended him every day, watching over him with the most tender care, thinking always of the lusty cock that would astonish my cruel family. My hopes were almost dashed on the third day when his feathers began to come off one by one. When I tried to make them grow again by putting on more oil, he strongly objected and I decided that he was getting better. In a week he was well and running about. I-Iow proud I was! One day my mother informed me that my chicken had laid an egg. Laid an egg? I was disgusted. He was a hen. It grew into a big, fat hen, perfectly willing to adopt any stray little chick that happened along, a proverbial stepmother, my father said. He added that it was crazy, that the oil had gone to its head, but I always in- sisted that thc poor thing must have had typhoid. l34l