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

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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

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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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Thr Elmakming The clear brook flowed on swiftly He stood so very carefully And the south wind sang a song, And sniffed the fragrant air, While the sun cast its golden shafts He peered into a hawthorne bush Upon the small tan fawn. But found no creature there. The fawn now eyed with interest Then opened wide his brown eyes The bright pattern, on his hide, And, with paint brush tail unfurled, Of sun and shadow, leaf-like ghosts He pranced from glade to beaten path That swayed from side to side. Into the great, wide world. JOAN WOHLENBERG '46 Ginquain Imagzs Excited horses, Smoke, A smooth gallop over fieldsg A thin grey coil Pink coats of huntsmen flashing by - From the small red end The full cry of panting hounds . . . Cf the long white cigarette A fox exhausted. Smouldering in ashes. Deep night Chimes, Of velvet blue, Church bells, One tiny star - a chip of the moong Deep-throated and clear, A soft breeze, a Heeting thought Echoing over crisp winter air Of someone far away. And soft snow falls. GAIL ST. AUBYN '45 lllukkll Slowly rises the shining moon, Which caresses the mourning pine. The night-blooming cereus soon Unfolds its Soft White Petals, Then with the first cock's crow The moon, now pale, sinks low, Opens its throat of deepest yellow And the flower fades forever. To the evening air so soft and mellow ELLAIN RUSSELL '45 ' Thr Shnmzr A sudden shower - And then the sun, The cool drops fall, Mid gray clouds swirled, An answer to Shines forth to meet The parched earth's call. A freshened world. 5 BETSY SMITH '45