Roosevelt High School - Bwana Yearbook (St Louis, MO)

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angle. When l emerged again, l was well scratched and covered with a nice collection of beggar lice, burs, and thorns. My reward was ample, however, for l found myself on a high, woody lookout with a river, 'way below on my left, and a rampart of bluffs across the valley on my right. Crystal-clear water spread out in its shining fullness below me. A tiny canoe darted out from the deep shadows and then gradually crossed the steadily-moving stream towards a bank of white sand on the opposite side. The two men, laboring with their paddles, seemed to be mere pygmies, while the steep banks were like the great jaws of some ancient mastodon slowly closing upon them. Up, up from the wooded banks, where their bases were hidden, towered the bluffs. The little White puffs of clouds that floated above appeared to sift through the boughs of the hundred-year-old oaks on the summit. On the gray limestone face were myriads of black cracks, red streaks of iron ore, yellow layers of clay, and green dabs of moss: all of which seemed to form gigantic, painted pictographs of a bygone race. A flock of bank swallows, which appeared to be the size of flies, circled and turned and circled again in front of the great bluff, thinking, perhaps, that they saw the image of a giant thunder bird. Having thus satisfied myself, l began cautiously to descend the mountain- side. But l started a miniature avalanche of small stones and branches which clatter- ed downward with a great noise, startling a gray, furry animal which l had not noticed. lt bounded fifteen feet seemingly in all direc- tions at once, and fi- nally shot down the mountain like a cannon- ball with hair. This was a lonely jackrabbit which had been crossing the mountain, but after that fright, l believe he decided to remain for the rest of his life in the valley from which he had come. At length l reached the valley and wandered down it for the remainder Sixteen

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IN SEARCH OF WILD LIFE HE orthodox time to begin a earch for wild life is shortly after sunrise. The beauties and inspirations of sunrise have been described in prose and poetry for so many centuries that many people think little W can be said about them, yet it must also be admitted that each sunrise is different from every other and holds its own individuality. At the very start of this day of my search for beauty in nature, a great beam of yellow light shot up from behind the black outline of forest trees. It illuminated the lacy, early morning clouds. The brilliant edges of the clouds were reflected on the surface of dark river and showed where the green rafts of water plants were Hoating. I And the light awakened the little wood-folk, who greeted the new day with a loud whist- 1 ling, chirping, and chat- tering. ln a hop, skip, and jump one can reach the place on the road where l had wandered since breakfast. Old Sol was well on his way along the beaten path, and Mother Nature, like all good wives, once the master of the house has left, was busying herself with domestic duties. Two noisy dra- matists, Punch, the squirrel, and Judy, the blue jay, chattered and screeched at my clumsy stumbling and scraping over the rough road. A diminutive field-mouse scurried across the trail at my feet, while seemingly at the very zenith of the blue there slowly circled a great, red-shouldered hawk. l paid little attention to these creatures, but con- tinued at a brisk pace, hoping to see larger game. Alas, l was dis- appointed, and after three miles of fruitless search, turned towards a cool, inviting nook under the leafy boughs. It was a desolate shade such as Shakespeare had described, and its very desolation brought back my tranquility and the ambition to continue the search. But instead of heading toward the trail, l decided to strike off through the brush at a different Fifteen

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of the day, seeing only three other creatures--a pair of cotton-mouths and a snapping turtle. These cold-blooded denizens of the river were engaged in a battle to the death. Their slimy bodies lashing the water to foam seemed to hark back to prehistoric ages when giant reptiles and creatures of the deep fought ghastly wars with each other. And now, as l recognized familiar landmarks and knew I was near camp, Old Sol, who had completed his day's journey, disappeared beneath the horizon, while l witnessed the glory of the sun-set. Towards me rolled the lazy Gasconade. And the glowing colors of the sunset on the surface of the water, slowly shitfing and changing with the current, added to my deep contentment. Where the river came into view at a distant bend, it was like polished gold, for there it was most exposed to the sun. Midway down its channel, the river was a translucent strawberry-pink, for there it reflected the images of the clouds. And below me, the water was a pure deep green, for there the stream was shallow, and water-weeds grew in abundance. Had l been asked, during the evening conversation, whether my venture had been successful, I would have said that outwardly it had not. But in rny heart would have rested a feeling of satisfaction for what l had seen. CLARENCE KARR FIREFLIES ON A SUMMER NIGHT The night is dark, And in the park Flint countless firefliesg Now off, now on, And now theg'ue gone, To drop-and then arise. A pale gold light, Yet it is bright Against the inky blue. Elusive and gay They flit away No one knows where lo. Audrey Boelling Seventeen