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

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,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

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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

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Parisian., mi HAVE seen a great many people and most of them are blurred in my memory, L but she is not. I can close my eyes today and see her grizzled hair, see the twinkle in her eyes and the way she limped. She was old when I Hrst saw her, but to me she has always been the most honest woman I have ever known, with a tinge of ironic humor to soften her alarming frankness. She took me driving in Versailles when I was ten, and afterwards to a smart cafe for a lemon ice. lust as I was hopping out of the car, I stepped on her foot. Frightened, I drew back profusely apologizing, only to he interrupted by her saying in a deep voice, Go ahead and step on it all you want. It,s only a wooden leg. From that minute onward I loved her! ll SARAH DAv1s, ,39 Spring Thoughts fPoppies x7l4ustard Red and exciting 'Deep yellow Are grouped in sixes and sevens Blends with mountain brown. Over the grassy plain. Resisting the cwind's flight. Lupinea fDaisies Tall and cool White and petite: Wave in the breezeJ Peelgfrorn their hiding place, Like a blue-tippedflanie. The lovers' delight. IEAN SHEPPARD, ,39 A Wyoming Vignettea UT of the still blue night an eerie howl, rising and falling, resounded amid IN , purple canyons. A baby snake darted his black head and bright red tongue T X from his stony crib. Then with a sleepy hiss he recoiled his sequin body. The prairie dog snuggled close in his warm dirt hole. Lifting his small, moist nose, he sniffed the sweet night air, then covered his furry face with a softly padded paw. The sage rustled in solemn waves beneath the luminous moon. IOAN HUBBARD, ,42