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

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portrait in a Duurmag 'HERE is a quiet doorway down the street that on sparkling, sunny days becomes the frame of a serene little picture. Within this wooden entrance, an aged couple, wrapped protectively in faded plaid blankets, lean back against chairs well worn with use, drinking in the radiance around them. So often do I pass this quaint scene that it has unconsciously become mingled with the paintings over my bookshelves. M It never changes. The golden fringes of sunlight brush softly against the wrinkled faces, sweeping lightly here and there - to pause for a mo- ment upon the woman's ileshless fingers - to pass over a face shrunken and lined but softened with restful pleasure-to flicker into the thought- ful blue eyes of the old man beside her, and then, unable to match the undying light already in those eyes, to travel on - up to a pale green cage hanging at one side, to streak a joyful bird with shadowy stripes, and Hnally - to return once more to the frail figures. Like ancient sovereigns these two sit, presiding over the dainty pots of red geraniums arranged in respectful rows near the blanketed feet. The yellow canary sings to them, and the apricot gold day, which only such an artist as the sun could paint, is theirs. NANCY BENT '4 5 March in San Francisco San Francisco on a windy March afternoon . . . The cold glittering sunshine, The scattered white clouds Driven hard across the intense blue sky. San Francisco, with its crowded sidewalks . . . Bright skirts snapping in the wind, Spring veils and ribbons flying. Market Street . . .in the heart of the city, Its brisk atmosphere throbbing with color and activity, Blue, gray, khaki uniforms, white caps and foreign faces. The crowded street cars thundering noisily down the tracks, Vivid flags riding the wind.

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S28 HE SEA. Treacherous, cruel, indomitable. Never has any force of nature had such an effect on men's lives as the sea. As I stand on her white sands staring out to where the gray-green of her swells meets the blue-grey of the sky, I hear a voice like that of a siren in the pounding of her surf, and I am drawn irresistibly towards her as my ancestors were centuries before me. Men grow to hate her for her treachery but once under her spell return again and again, for reasons that they can not define, to ight her and end their lives in her cold green embrace. She is timeless. When the Earth was still young she tossed shells upon her beaches to amuse our predecessors, as one would toss coins to a beggar. The very rocks she breaks upon wear away under the perpetual motion of her tides. Continents disappear and mountains are born from her depths, but only she remains to mock the passing of the ages. In some she fosters love, but none may come to know her. Even while she sleeps, sparkling like a blue diamond under cloudless skies, she claims in her calms her toll of lives of the men who trespass upon her surface. She teases them with salt in her waters, and when she awakens she romps with her ally, the wind, flinging their ships on the rocks like discarded toys. VVherever I go I am conscious of her presence. I turn to her shores blindly, seeking solace in the cold clean winds that whip across the dunes and around the rocks, but all I hear is mockery in her voice and laughter in her waves, I realize that I am but a pawn in the hands of time and my life is but a second in her existence. I remain transfixed once more by the power of this unconquerable being. MARIE BROWN ,45 junglz Shadz , The sun glanced cautiously through the trees. The shade was hot and green, And in that crawling, fetid growth Crouched the foe, unseen. A sharp shot hung on the heavy airg' Then silence closed around. Another precious, unlived life Seeped into the ground. MARIE BROWN '4 5

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The cable-cars, the very symbol of San Francisco, Hurtling madly down Nob Hill, Throttles wide open, passengers hanging on for dear life, Bells beating out a sharp, gay rhythm, A warning to anything in their way. The flower-vendor on Stockton Street, Proudly pacing up and down before his stand With its bright awning and fresh spring ilowers . . . A tranquil spot in the bustling street. The fruit-wagon on Sutter Street, A composition in color with its high-piled Apples, oranges, and grapefruit, The peddler calling his wares nearby . . . The sad-eyed old horse never moving a muscle Except to switch off an occasional fly. Chinatown, with its delightful air of another world, The crowds of servicemen being the only reminder of a modern age. The Civic Center, where swarms of pigeons are feeding on the lawns The quiet majesty of great buildings, Old people resting on the stone steps of the Library, Thoughtfully absorbing the thin sunshine. Now a vigorous walk up the steep hills, The biting cold wind a challenge to every step. A sweeping view of the bay your reward at the top: Icy gray water ribbed with white caps, An occasional sail boat, a gleaming speck on its surface. Wiiad, wind . . . wind! Whipping your face as you t11I'I1, shivering and exhilarated. BETSY SMITH '4 5 youth He talked to me of things he'd never talked about before. His deepest thoughts, his dreams, his hidden fears were all revealed, For he was Youth, it was not his, this savage world of war That Peace, from Strife and Horror born, had never really healed. EVELYN DULL '4 5