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

Page 67 text:

Mario felt a delicious floating sensation. For the first time since the war had started, he felt at peace. His body seemed to be detached from the earth and earthly pain. The doctor spoke again, but failed to rouse him. He doesn't seem to have any inclination to liveg he isnlt fighting at all. His poor little body is simply a skeleton held together by flimsy material. Look at those feet! There is a sole of caked blood and dust on them! His ribs on this side are all broken, but he doesn't seem to be feeling any pain, now. Mario's dream changed. Now he saw feet, feet, millions of feet, marching up and down, slowly and monotonously, wearily and heartbrokenly marching, stum- bling, dragging on in an apathetic rhythm. Plunk-Plunk-Plunk-Plunk. He saw Tosca's feet moving in rhythm, clad in his scuffed shoesg he saw the feet of Papa and Pepe, marching bravely into the distanceg he saw his mother's feet as she ran into the crumbling house after her red shoesg he saw a maimed pair of dusty feet marching wearily along and recognized them as his own. The feet moved into infinitesimal space and in their stead he saw the faces of Papa, Mama, and Tosca. They stretched down their arms. The doctor spoke. He is almost gone. His pulse is very faint.', Once more the appealing arms reached toward him. He stretched his arms to meet theirs and dropped. For the arms had disappeared and the shining, bright faces had dimmed. Up, up went Mario's soul supported on millions of tired, joyful feet. He was going home. The doctor bent low. His face was puzzled when he straightened up. All he said was, 'l:eet. Drumming feet.' HELEN Ayciuoc, '41 Snowflako MAGINE looking through a powerful microscope at a tiny snowflake. Your breath would be taken away at the lace-like beauty of this infinitesimal structure. How could Mother Nature have created so many millions of these magnificent, dainty things? To the naked eye all they appear to be are unnaturally small crystals. But under the microscope you find each one as different as can be. Be it plain or intricate, all are perfect hexagonal forms. One may look like several jumping-jacks springing from their nucleus, another like a plain, everyday linoleum design. Still another may be the makings of a graceful and courtly plume. Do we steal our ideas for jumping-jacks, linoleum designs, and plumes from Nature's workshop, or does Nature take her ideas for snowflake patterns from man-made things? CHARLOTTE GEARY, '41

Page 66 text:

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,

Page 68 text:

,Afternoons at a Symphony fBlare of trumpet! mighty roll of drum! Mystic power of violin, breadth of shining horn., Pouring out song in vibrations strong, The gentle touch ofgraceful harp, the crystal note offlutL1 Qlorious melody flowing full and ebbing slow Like pounding breakers on a sun-lit shore: The somber bass, the cymbals clung, gay tambourine, and clicle of castaneL, Enhance us, listening 'with open soul, Transport us into blisqful reuerie.J. JANE M11.1.1s, ,39 Preview QE, . .4 STARED moodily at the painting before me. The heavy, old fashioned frame inwas a perfect setting for the portrait it enclosed. It was a hard face that stared back J at me, a face that reflected a stubborn, indomitable will, the will of a woman who had always had her own way. Her lips were set grimly, a slight cynical twist to one N corner. The chin was sharp, as sharp and cutting as her tongue must have once been. Her eyes, set off by dark, Hne eyebrows and lashes, held a diabolical gleam, a gleam of triumph, perhaps, in the knowledge that she was supreme ruler of her family and so-called friends. The cheeks were lined, and her brow, though broad, was devoid of all serenity and tranquillity. Only her hands showed rest. They seemed strangely white and young looking as they lay against the sumptuous black dress. They were out of place, too fragile and delicate to be those of the tyrannical old woman. The Hngers were small, and the nails perfectly pear-shaped. They looked defenseless, helpless, and lost in the heavy folds where they rested. My eyes travelled again to the face, compelled by the still living force of her will. l sighed, depressed. Would l, some day, resemble her? Would my family, years hence, see in me what l see in my great- great-grandmother? l turned away still wondering. Posterity will be the judge. PA'rsY MCEWEN, 341