Siskiyou Union High School - White and Gold Yearbook (Weed, CA)

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Uncle Kim would be awfully mad if I were expelled, said Mary Jo. I-Ie thinks I do so badly in school anyway. I'll try ever so hard now, if only you'll give me a chance. At the door Mary jo stopped and looked back a little fearfully. I'm sorry I'm always late, she apologized quickly. I won't be now. Then she was walking back toward Mr. Busby's desk once more. Thank you, she repeated breathlessly. After the way I've acted, why are you doing this for me, Mr. Busby? Mr. Busby drummed on the desk with a slender, yellow pencil, I have a sister, hc contemplated sternly, yet with a certain gentleness, too, who is sixteen. WILLA BLAKE '35 Yrvlea High School. WIND OF THE HILL No one can tell me, Nobody knows, Where the wind comes from, Where the wind goes. It's flying from somewhere As fast as it can, I couldn't keep up with it, Not if I ran. But if I stopped holding The string of my kite It would blow with the wind For a day and a night. And then when I found it, W'herever it blew, I should know that the wind I-Iad been going there too. So then I could tell them Where the wind goes, But where the wind comes from Nobody knows. NVINII-iRIiD ALLQXANDHR '34 W4'1'rf High Srlmof. Gwzrnzl l.ifc'rurySr'c'Iim1 1 Pixuii 20

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but there his interest seems to cease. I feel sorry for the child, said Miss Hanley, in a way. Mr. Busby was undeniably the peppiest teacher the English IV class had ever known. He kept the little class in a state of continual animation. He was stern, and he was just. Among themselves his pupils wove fantastic tales about his private life and marvelled at the soulfulness of his eyes. At times Mr. Busby felt exactly like a queer circus animal, surrounded by a group of curious and doting observers. The Poetry Contest was just one of Mr. Busby's plans to hold the interest and atten- tion of his class. After they had delved into the fundamentals of versification and discussed pentameters and trochaics to their fullest extent, Mr. Busby offered a prize to the girl who should submit the best poem, to be judged by the other members of the faculty. The English IV class suddenly became poetry conscious. Students who had never thought of poems beyond the vague, hazy comprehension that such a thing existed, scribbled feverishly far into the nights and slept a troubled sleep with anapestic and trochaic verse flitting through their bewildered dreams. Not too surprisedly, Mary Jo Benton was presented with a dainty pen and pencil set as the prize. The judges said that there was something quite remarkable in her simply perfect little verse. Mary jo, said Mr. Busby, as that young lady tripped eomplacently into the class- room, twenty minutes late, the day after her triumph, please see me a minute after class. Okay, assented Mary blithely, and powdered her nose covertly behind a book. That poem you wrote, said Mr. Busby, as the rest of the English class filed chatter- ing away, are you quite certain that it is entirely original? Sure, replied Mary Jo. Mr. Busby spoke slowly as if he were feeling his way. I wonder if this is yours? he asked, and produced a tiny, cloth-bound volume of poems. Mary Jo snatched at it and gave a little cry. Where did you find that? she demanded. Mr. Busby was examining the fly-leaf critically, though he had read its inscription before, From Uncle Kim to Mary Jo, and he did not answer immediately. Finally, he closed the book and regarded Mary Jo sternly. Besides being the shirking, deceiving deed that it is, do you know what you've done, Mary Jo? he asked. Do you realize that this is a very grave offense that will subject you to expulsion? Mary -Io's red head was on the desk now and she had begun to cry. I'm sorry, Mr. Busby, she choked. I didn't think you would ever know. They were such unknown poems that a friend of Uncle Kim's wrote. I only wanted you to like me a little. You've a queer way, said Mr. Busby dryly, of showing your need for affection. Toying with the shabby little book of poems, Mr. Busby remembered Miss Hanley's precise voice when she had said, 1 feel sorry for the child, in a wayf, She appeared such a forlorn, neglected little creature before him now, that Mr. Busby could see his Aunt's point. Mary Jo was not the aggressive, conceited little snip he had known now. She was a lonely, bewildered child, whose uncle's interest seemed to stop at a critical point, and who needed the love and guidance of the parents she had not. How old are you, Mary jo? asked Mr. Busby, not unkindly. Mary ,Io raised a drawn, tear-drenched face. S-sixteen, she stammered. Well, take your book and don't be careless and leave it on your desk after this when you leave a class, he suggested. Mary jo's brown eyes were hopefully unbelieving. You won't expel me then? You aren't going to write Uncle Kim about me? I'll give the prize back, Mr. Busby. Can't you fix it some way? I'll try, said Mr. Busby grimly. General Liferary Sevfiml 1 PAGE 19

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AN OLD CANNON FIRST PRIZE EssAY The late autumn sun fell upon the beautiful big courthouse which lay basking in its warmth. The cheery rays seemed to brighten even the leafless trees and the little old rusty cannon that stood out in front. Dear me, sighed the poplar, how fast che time flies. It seems only yesterday that the people were celebrating Armistice Day and today they are celebrating it again. It is one day worth remembering, replied the old cannon in a hol- low voice. You must be very old and very wise, ventured the tree, hoping he would continue, for the cannon was not at all sociable and seldom spoke. I have seen many generationsf, replied the cannon in his mournful tones. For many years I was stationed at a brave little fort in the wilder- ness. I was young then. I thrilled with the thought of war. Many and rash were the words I spoke to the enemy. I was filled with pride at my good work. How important I thought my work to mankind. Later the fort was torn down and a town was built, fields were cleared far into the wilderness. There was no further use for me. I was set aside. Years passed, finally I was brought here, but I have not ceased to hear of war. Here in my secluded place I have watched this city grow. I have seen its boys marching to military music, I have seen its mothers broken-hearted, I have seen the havoc, the suffering, and the sorrow of war. Many times when I heard the shrill call of the fife, the reverberat- ing beat of the drum, the tread of feet, I have sighed, not because I was too old to partake in the struggle, but because I saw the terrible wrong in the very cause for which I was made. Far more beneficial to humanity is yon fountain with its spray of diamonds than I with my missiles of distress and destruction. I only hope to remain in this prominent spot as a reminder to all, not of the bravery of their ancestors, but of their misery and folly. Here the hollow voice of the old cannon trailed away and he con- tinued to face the street in silence, the rays of the setting sun lighting for a moment his stern old features. LORLNIZ MUNKMAN '35 Bzzflr' Vuffvy Higlw Srlmof. Gwirral Lilvrary Section 1 PAGE 21