South Pasadena High School - Copa de Oro Yearbook (South Pasadena, CA)

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far-off sea where their small sailing boats, loaded with fishes, are tossing over the angry waves of the roughest northern water just as leaves dance on the brook. A sound, not very distinct at first but that grows louder every mo- ment, bringing fear and dread to the already sunken-hearted villager of the windy coast, begins, gradually, to approach the desolate coast. Whence it comes no one knows, but every one is strangely informed, by nature, of some dreadful thing that this well-known sound prophesies. The wind is faster than the most apprehensive thoughts of the fisher- men’s wives; the mountain-like tide with an incredible force and speed assails the low coast as a vast army attacks an unfortified castle; it now reaches the nearest cottages. Then the eries of children and women shrill loudly against the rush- ing water, calling for unobtainable rescue, but these prayers of the poor peasants do not appease the anger fo the North Sea: it chases the inno- cents, who run for their lives, mercilessly and soon overtakes them, cover- ing their feet and heads with its freezing mantle. So on savagely marches the envious assailant as if it were his intention to conquer all. MRS. BLOX ETHEL WALKER, 712 Mrs. Blox was an exceedingly thin and wiry woman,—indeed, her whole being bespoke the wiriness of a spring. Her small. thin face was aided considerably toward still further thinness by the quite novel arrangement of her sparce, iron-gray hair—at least novel beside the present-day styles of hairdressing. What little she owned was drawn back tightly from all sides and secured with a monstrous back-comb. One could never imagine a single lock of her hair ever escaping from the grip of that comb. It stood up straight at the back of her head, bright with fantastic gilt figures, and with a ridge of spikes along the top as straight and sharp and elongated as the woman herself. Beyond this comb hung a few little corkscrew curls, freshly made over each morning and strangely stiff and unnatural; under the tenacious hold of the comb, they bobbed and danced with every move of her head. Her eyes, too, were small, sharp, and steel-gray in color, and further accentuated by spectacles. The eyes had also a wiry look in them which pierced into and through whomsoever or whatsoever she regarded. She was continually pursing her lips into a long, straight line, and her nose, thin and pointed, bespoke an ever-ready tendency to reach out into the world. Her spare and spiral form was clothed in a remarkable costume, remarkable in its fit and pattern. As to the first, she was not to blame for the manner in which it fitted: no one could have taken away the appearance of its being loosely hung from her shoulders, as though it would fall off any minute. The pattern was the most hideous procurable for money, but happily, was partly covered by a white apron. Lastly, her blue stockings and rather

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Christians really suffered. Below are passages with high walls, in which there are tiers upon tiers of shelves. Here the Christians would climb up and secret themselves, living so for months at a time. Numberless human bones are strewn about, and there are two skeletons whose long and silky hair is in perfect condition. Under a glass case is a wax figure of Saint Cecelia, showing how she was martyred. There she lies, face downward, her hands clutching a crucifix, while the cruel cuts of the axe show plainly where the blood seems to trickle slowly over the snowy neck. Just at this particular moment, when I was deeply impressed by the horror of this scene, as we were walking down a little incline, my foot slipped upon the damp soil and I arrived at the bottom a little more quickly than the others, minus my candle, and was assured by a ll I looked none the better for my hasty journey. The Catacombs are a perfect labyrinth and extend for miles. Should you lose your way, escape is impossible. The only chance is that a monk might be wandering through and therefore rescue you. These Trappist monks have a large factory where they manufacture the most deliciou- chocolate and butterscotch, and by selling this, together with many nov- elties, they are able to attain quite a nice amount of money. There is a saying that if you live in Rome three years, you will then desire to live ten, for only then does one realize what a tremendous amount there is to be seen and learned. The last place of mention, how- ever, that will undoubtedly interest all, is the little Chapel of Scala Santa. Here are the steps from the house of Pilate, which Jesus de- scended after His terrible scourging. Great blood stains mar them badly, but they are now covered in wood, in order that they may be well pre- served. Anyone who wishes to ascend these stairs must do so upon his knees, saying a prayer at each step; when the altar which is at the sum- mit is reached, he must remain there some time, saying over several prayers; then the descent is made in the same way—of course, being still upon the knees. Throughout the world there are numberless places of interest and beauty, each seeming to surpass the other, and well it has been said, “See Naples and die,” but my choice, as is the choice of many others, would be the “Eternal City.” | Echoes of Description From the Class Room | TSU NAMI—A TIDAL WAVE SHIGEYOSHI FUKASAWA, 712 The day is cold and cloudy with the continuous wind blowing from the snow-covered ice-land of northern Siberia; all the fishermen’s wives, with their children, are thinking deeply about their fathers’ fates on the

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large, gray felt slippers gave a most grotesque appearance to this most pecuilar and striking old lady. A PASTORAL IN PROSE ETHEL WALKER, ’12 High up among the grassy precipices of a Scotland mountain, sits a lone shepherd with his straying flock of mountain sheep. He sits upon a low, flat rock overlooking the rough crags and huge rocks below him, which are dotted here and there with scraggly cactus and dwarfed bushes. Stretching far away are the rolling slopes and hollows of the hills, where little hamlets nestle against each other. It is now dusk, and the stars are beginning to twinkle in the dark blue overhead. Looming up against the semidarkness of the dizzy crags is the still form of a shepherd dog guarding the straggling herd. The cool evening breeze ripples over the coarse, tufted grass, and the scented air smells sweet. The young shepherd boy draws out his flute and begins to play. Its plaintive melody sounds sweet and clear in the evening air, breaking the silence of the heights. They are the only living creatures in this wilderness of rocks—the shepherd, his sheep, and the dog. The breeze whispers in harmony with the flute of the boy, and only the pale, cold stars look down, and wink their eyes solemly at the vast solitude. THE CAT HELEN ROYCE, ’12 The cat is a small canine animal with fur, except in extreme in- stances when the conventional covering has been gently amputated through pugilistic endeavors. There are different kinds of cats. Some are black, others gray, maltese, white, tiger or yellow. The color is not so important, however, as the disposition. All cats can purr. That is not a real accomplishment in vocal art—for a cat. It is the gentle, talented little pet that can sing, who is most appreciated—especially by the neighbors. The real prima-donna must be a high soprano, a very high soprano. The highest kind of a soprano cat is the one that sings on the highest fence, nearest the bedroom windows. Cats have capricious appe- tites. They like milk, also mice and ice cream. Cats have tails, some- times long, sleek, and furry; sometimes short, raw, and furless. It de- pends usually upon how long ago they, and their social companions, had their last cat-tail, after-opera dinner. Cats are extremely affectionate. They have a pleasing, winning little way of running their soft little bodies suddenly against the feet of their master or mistress, who has just en- tered the dark house late at night and has forgotten that a dear little pussy is waiting with a tender welcome. Cats are fond of chickens. In- deed this affection is sometimes almost pathetic in its intensity, especially pathetic for the chicken. Cats are soft and squashy, and they wriggle and squirm when you hold them. This is undoubtedly caused by their