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

Page 32 text:

affectionate delight at being held. Cats can swim, run, and do acrobatic tricks. They are, in fact, quite athletic, and the way in which several sportive kittens play together with a spool of thread or a ball of yarn has often tenderly reminded me of scenes on a college gridiron. Altogether, cats are adorable little beasts, companiable, conforting, entertaining, and affectionate, and it is no wonder that these exemplary little pets are so generally favored and loved. MOUSER VERA VAN EMAN, 714 Mouser was preparing for his dinner; that is, he settled himself com- fortably by a mouse-hole in the callar and waited for his dinner to come to him. Perhaps he knew the old proverb, “All things come to himi who waits”. It was sometimes a long time that he was forced to sit thus, but, by great diligence and his ability in that direction, Mouser had wor. his name, just as he expected on this particular day to win his dinner. Fres- ently his ears straightened and his tail flipped back and forth, while the stars at night could not compare with his bright and gleaming eyes, for he scented a mouse, and, more than that, he heard it and his instinct told him that it was to be a large one. At a faint sound, Mouser grew rigid and motionless. There was one terrible moment of suspense, a quick pounce, then a shrill little squeak and Mouser had his dinner. EVENING VERA VAN EMAN, ’14 Through the half-open door of Grandma’s room could be seen the dear old lady, placidly knitting by the fire, in the deepening twilight. Tabitha, her old pet cat, was dozing at her feet and would, now and then, yawn, open one eye, and close it again, in cat fashion. Upon an old-fash- ioned chair by Grandma’s side was a pile of neatly folded garments to be mended, and a basket of bright colored yarns, for Grandma did not enjoy idleness. Presently the tired fingers stopped, the ball slipped from their loosening grasp and rolled away under the old writing desk, and Tabitha and her mistress were asleep. PERSONAL DESCRIPTION ALICE WOODRUFF, ‘12 Billy was tired, Bill was mad, and he made an imposing little figure as he stamped his way through the dusty fields on his way to the swim- ming hole after being kept in late at school. He was a boy of nine, but small for his age, and as quick as a grasshopper. His little freckled face with its dancing brown eyes, little snub nose and red lips which disclosed a set of tiny white teeth, brimmed over with fun and childish innocence when Billy was happy, but, when he was mad, his brown eyes became dark and his little nose tilted into an ugly curve.

Page 31 text:

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

Page 33 text:

His clothes were similar to those worn by all country school boys; trousers patched in places with material that did not match, a blouse of faded blue with a patch at each elbow, and a large battered straw hat Of course, he was barefooted and one small toe bore the remains of a rag which had been tied on fresh that morning to protect a bruise. Over his shoulder was swung a strap which held together two worn-out and dilapi- dated books. His right trouser’s pocket was stretched to its utmost to hold the large rosy apple which had been picked and stuffed in there by Billy as he passed a nearby orchard. PARODY ON LONGFELLOW’S “EXCELSIOR” ALICE WOODRUFF, ‘12 The sunbeams bright were falling fast As up the Mount Lowe trail we passed. Fach in his hand a package bore, But most important of the store, Sapolio. We’d traveled far’ neath the sun’s bright ray In hope we’d find snow on the way. Our clothes and hands were dirty, too, Altho’ before our start we’d used Sapolio. But as the top just came in sight, Our hearts were filled with great delight; For, in our pathway, snow we found. With other things, fell to the ground Sapolio. And when we’d had snow-ball game, We turned our steps toward home, quite lame. But ere the steep descent was made, We, to our dirty hands applied Sapolio. The good effects of this fine soap Did not last long, as one might hope; For, when we reached our homes that night, Again we used with all our might Sapolio.