Sarah Dix Hamlin School - Epilogue Yearbook (San Francisco, CA)

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Impression., J HE thick, sickish sweet odor of ether mingles with that of sterile rubber. Per- meating the atmosphere, penetrating every corner, is the strong, clean smell of antiseptic. Outside the rubber-lined doors, pink carnations, placed there for the night, exude their distinctively spicy aroma. On the smooth white tile corridor is heard the squishing sound of rubber soles treading softly, silently, and the rustling of a crisply starched, snowy uniform. From a nearby room comes the faint tinkling of chipped ice on glass. There is a hushed, expectant stillness, broken now by the Htful sobbing of a tiny child. A silent white form glides briskly by the partly opened door. The sobbing ceases and all is very still once more. , MARIORIE CROMWELL, 40 Woods in Fall The rain slides from the leaves To soak the mold and raise the river bed: The wind rustles the brush: Summers glow is dead. BETSY I-IILLER, ,39 'Persian Carpeb fi HAT unfathomable mysteries lie behind these intricately woven master- ' pieces? Are the weird combinations of color symbolic of magic moon-lit gardens and scented nights, of veiled sylphs and flowing dances? Or do they represent the narrow, winding streets covered with filth and saturated with foul air, and the wizened, hunched merchants, who pass gnarled Fingers over the soft fibres of their thick nap? Have their springy depths been trod by the short, stubby feet of an Oriental poten- tate, by the smooth, olive feet of a graceful dancer, by the light patter of a dark child? Or have their unwieldy bulks been artlessly hung in a smoke-filled tent, reeking with strange smells, to be carelessly pushed aside by the grimy Fingers of a swarthy nomad? The confusion of golden tones, of russet, saffron, rich crimson, like the noon-day sun, or the purples and indigoes of desert nights, are no more mysterious than the

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hadn't meant itg she couldn't have. Oh, what was the use? Why did this have to happen just when he was getting ahead of the others? I-le still couldn't quite believe it. It just wasn't fair, but he would show her. I-le'd make her regret it, and then if she tried to make up, he would calmly look the other way and change the subject. Then she would he sorry that she had made him suffer. With the thought of revenge in his mind the freckled face broke into a quick grin of anticipation, but almost immediately lapsed hack into a worried frown. Finally he spoke his thoughts aloud in a voice which bespoke his disappointment: Aw, Mom, why di'ja have to throw my spider collection away? LORABELLE WRAITH, T39 The CDeserL, The sun is rising, Rising over rolling hills of lnfeless sand 1 Rising over 'vast expansions of grey desertj Rising over barren desolation. This blazing hall appearing in the Cast- Why comes it here? ff ere nothing grows, nor breathes, nor lives: ff ere, in this loneliness, lies nothing. At noon should creature chance to see this place, The sands would seem molten undef' The heat, useless heat, good onhf for creating 'Uisions of cool lakes on the rim of the horizon. At evening, the glories of the sunset Waste their beauty on this wilderness, Which seems to extend even to the cloudless heavens. At night the heat gives way to sweeping cwinds, Whose frozen jingers scoop up the sand Only to plant it elsewhere, Molding, and remolding this tractless waste. Then, at dawn, all is still. The cold cvanishesg the sands lie quiet, And, even as now, the sun rises. KINTA KINSLOW, ,39

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Q E L l Y l creators of these multicolored works of art. Have the weavers concealed secrets of their unexplainable race, in their depths? Do they tell of the ever-shifting sands of the vast desert, of the high, eerie wailing of priests from shining minarets, and of the faint, metallic tinkle of swaying camel bells? As the nimble Hngers move swiftly and care- fully over the ancient looms. an undying patience is woven into the tangled patterns. And now, profane, foreign feet unheedingly trample these silent keepers of secrets, faintly smelling of sandalwood .... ls the mystery forgotten? LUcY HARDING, '41 'To a Qardenia LOVEUI lady nestled therLJ In a gown of 'velvet 'whites Trimmed with brightest green there is - 'You are star for just one ni3hL,. ALLACE DUTHIE, '39 Qrumming Feet., ARIO collapsed on the deck of the sluggishly-rolling 'KPolly. The planks beneath his ear trembled soddenly as men, women, and children monoto- nously, heartbrokenly plodded up the gangplank and fell exhausted on the deck. Mario's eyes focused uncomprehendingly on the apathetic line that stumbled wearily past him. He clutched a grimy bundle to his breast with an equally grimy hand. His torn, blood-caked feet throbbed dully. He slowly realized that the pulsing of his feet corresponded with the mournful tread of the mounting people, corresponded with the vague beat of his heart under his bruised and broken ribs, corresponded with the now-dim rhythm of his heartbreaking journey. The Valezes-Mama, Papa, Pepe, Mario, and Tosca-lived in the small village of Santa Maria. They had a little chicken farm and sold chickens and eggs to a big town nearby, and once in a while they trained a cock for fighting. Then, slowly in the naive little village fierce arguments broke out. The Valezes were not disturbed by these disputes even when rumors of war filtered through to their ears. But when a hastily roused band of soldiers marched into the village and drafted the men of the town, including Papa and Pepe, the remaining Valezes were stunned with surpriseg