Watsonville High School - Manzanita Yearbook (Watsonville, CA)

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Page Thirty Elie Green :Seem Sail Euniglyt The trees tonight, all white with snow Bending laden limbs so low. Lack the joy that's in the air When the children, young and fair. Gayly fly o'er snow and ice Seeking thrills despite advice, Heeding not the warning sign Of dangers they are sure to find. 'Till some, more daring than the rest, Break through the ice and end the quest! These trees with boughs of shining white Whisper of follies of youth tonight. But soon bright Spring will come and bring Fresh colors, flowers, birds to sing. 'Twill cheer the trees. and add new sights, In which the children find safe delight. +DOROTHY BRADLEY 'Z 8 fStudents' Versions of a Poem Wz'th a Refrain! . Spring To the old swimmin' hole so gay! Why should we demerits fear? The sun is shining bright today, Hi! hif Spring is here. And though the exes, dreaded so, Like bears are creeping from their lair Upon us, to the creek we'll go! Hi? hi! Spring is here. PHILIP BAKER Suit Breanua Soft dreamsf Like feathered wings they float. Soft dreams Are wings for fairy boats. Softly through the realm of sleepiness they'r Gently kissed by light wings of hope. Soft dreams! They bring us promises anew. MAXINE MCKIBBEN '28 e drifted

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Eflnur Zhang, flgearsa fljnrfue Svheltereh 155 EE. the last exf lf I pass this. l'll be through for good and all. Life, the world, opportunity, all beckoning from beyond the day of graduation. But thengall the fun, the dances. the classes that Q-HXNS-' were cut so abandonedly, the good pals, the demerits that weren't perhaps deserved, but were accepted unmurmuringly because I knew l'd get by without 'em other times when they were deserved. The teachers that were 'AfiXed only to find out that they knew all the time, the games, the good old assemblies and oh-everything! Leave it all now, just when one can really appreciate the sparkle and tingle of it? No. no, hand in a blank paper and then there will be another year casting its bright reflection ahead. 'Surely just one year more won't hurt. and oh, it's so hard to give it all up at once: we may bluff that we're glad to leave: but 'way down underneath we all want to stay on and on-indefinitely. But nay-remember Black and Gold. - Four long years you've sheltered us, And then there comes a day When we must leave you far behind And seek our own life's way. Other joyous times may come When each must do his part And home and country will be first In every loyal heart. When each must do his part-yes. that's itf lt wouldn't be fair that way. Come on: let's go. Answer those questionsf' The paper was written in a rush and handed in: and another blase Senior strolled nonchalantly out the door, whistling as he went--but-the tune he whistled was Black and Gold. -JERRY DR1sCo1.L mg Bleu Just keep me free to hear the song Of swiftly running brooks. Or peaceful streams that glide along Through wind swept fields and shady nooks. And never let the burdens blind My eyes to pathways small. The outdoor trails that twist and wind Through trees that lift up still and tall. Or guide my feet when doubts arise To where the sunshine pours A golden glory of the skies On God's untainted Out-of-Doors! L. CoRDozA '30 Page Twenrif-Nine

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Ili illlluzt Bane at Refrain He was a noble student But he wrecked his splendid brain Writing for the class in English A poem with a refrain. He Worked through all his waking hours But his working was in vain For he couldn't write a poem And give it a refrain, He was discovered walking One night in the driving rain Ashouting to the howling wind HAnd it must have a refrain! His decline was very rapid: He soon was judged insane: And in his ward he shouted. V It must have a refrain? He was buried in the family lot Some peace at last to gain. And when they Wrote his epitaph They gave it a refrain. They put him in a padded cell But he broke the iron chain, And Wrote upon the floor the words It must have a refrainf' GRACE EDWARDS '28 Eight Zines Gbnlg He didn't eat, he didn't sleep, He sat there sad and lonely. His task was hard and yet it was To write but eight lines only. Paper was scattered. paper was torn, He still sat sad and lonely, He took his pen and all he Wrote Was, 'iThis is my eighth line only. GEORGE LELAND '29 Page Thirty-One