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

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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

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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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so stunned that they lingered near the village, when, a few days later, the battle centered around their beloved home. While Tosca and Mario gazed in horrified fasci- nation, the house collapsed on their mother who had returned to her home to rescue her red wedding shoes. ln stupor they followed the general evacuation from the village. The dazed crowd drifted mournfully along toward some vague destination. Mario now felt himself grown up and took care of his only sister. She became fretful as the discomforts of the journey increased. Later her brain refused to function and she tramped along without question or murmur. She was wearing Mario's over- sized shoes, his last pair, and had his coat over her shoulders. Mario too was insensible to suffering or bereavement. Days of hardship, nights of exhaustion were before them and then passed unnoticed. Finally Tosca's frail frame refused to endure any more. One morning Mario awoke to find her lying still beside him. No attempt to waken or move her succeeded. lmpassively he said a prayer over her cooling body, covered it with his coat, took his almost worn-out shoes from her feet, and went on his way. He was free of feeling by this time. His mother had ceased to be even a memory, and Tosca soon was a vague shadow in the tragic past. Papa and Pepe had never been heard from and he did not think of them at all. He tramped insensibly along, clutch- ing his dirty bundle containing his worn-out shoes, a crucihx, a blurred picture of Papa and Mama, and a once-clean shirt. He treasured that bundle and kept it close to him night and day. Every night he took the crucihx from the shirt in which he had carefully wrapped it, and prayed before it. It soon became an unconscious gesture, for his mind was dead though his body was not. One day the stream of refugees merged with other streams, and a few days later the crowd entered Bilbao. The stream gathered headway as it neared the waterfront and as it reached the refugee ships, it was frantic. Mario, infected by the quickening pulse of the crowd, pushed forward, but his exhausted body failed him and the press of the crowd knocked him down. He lay stunned and passive beneath the bruising, crushing feet of the frantic crowd until a compassionate countryman rescued him and carried him aboard the refugee merchant-ship, Polly,,, where he was put on the deck. The boy lay there throbbing slowly with a pain that came and went with his breathing. He slipped into a black mist through which came a foreign voice, soothing. He's in bad shape. He opened his eyes, and when they cleared of the film he saw a kindly man bend- ing over him. He and his companion, a younger man, were in white. The man pressed his side gently. Ir caused him a shooting, comet-like pain and his mind floated off into space. When he returned to a heavy-lidded consciousness, he heard the man speaking again. He seems to be in a comaf,