Pasadena Chronicle, April 27, 1928

PASADENA CHRONICLE LITERARY SDPPLEMENT VOL. XIX PASADENA, CALIFORNIA, FRIDAY, APRIL 27, 1928 NO. 28 Literary Section for Local Authors Since the discontinuation of publication of the “Item”, there have been few opportunities for the students of Pasadena high school to show their literary abil¬ ity. To remedy this condition, and to allow the amateur authors to make good, this supplement of the “Chronicle” is published. The material published in this section is printed just as it came from the English classes. For the most part, it represents the best theme from each class contribut¬ ing. The supplement staff wishes to thank the English department for is kind co-operation and aid in furnishing material for the section. Thanks are due to members of the print shop force who have giv¬ en extra time and work to make the supplement possible. When the supplement was first suggested the size of the issue or the response of the classes could not be determined. The contribu¬ tions came in such quantities, how¬ ever, that in spite of a four page supplement, all of them could not be printed. Many of those not published in this issue will be run from time to time in the regular “Chronicle” feature columns. An attempt has been made to give a fair representation from all clas¬ ses sending material. If the literary section meets with popular approval it may be continued from time to time. “ Califc orma By B. J. Reed We wrote to a friend back East one day, And told him all we thought to say; We filled a dozen pages or more With the glories of this far West¬ ern shore. He said, when he answered in re¬ ply, “I thought heaven was up on high ; From what you say of your state so fair, I think that heaven must be out there.” “If your highways all are paved so grand, And stars so bright o’er all the land, The mountain streams beyond com¬ pare, Then surely heaven must be out there.” “The rising sun, you say, is fine, The early morning like red wine ; To be sure,” he said, “I must de¬ clare, From what you write me; heaven is there.” “You say it’s filled with those who play, And more are coming every day; Yet, there is always room to spare. Please tell me more of heaven out there.” L “A Pawnshop Pilgrimage” by Katherine Bacon YES, SIR, somet’ingfor you?” The little shopkeeper beam¬ ed over his wire-rimmed glas¬ ses and rubbed his blue-veined hands with evident delight. “No thanks,” the author smiled. “To tell the truth, I’m looking for an idea for my next story. Do you care if I stay over there and just watch the people awhile?” “No — no, sure! Many people come here. My wife she tells me I keep shop for pilgrims. All day they come and go.” He chuckled and continued to rub his hands as he led the author to a chair in the corner. “Sit all you vish.” At that moment arrived the morning's first visitor, a tired lit¬ tle woman, her face sad with wor¬ ry, her hands red and swollen from scrubbing. There was a lazy husband, scrawny children and a tiny shack reflected in those tired eyes. The heavy watch she laid on the counter was not being turn¬ ed in to buy luxuries. No — those three dollar bills that she seized so eagerly spelled bread and pota¬ toes for the whole family. Tired and sad, but she did no mind los¬ ing the old watch. Not -when it meant happiness for her family. Close on her heels came another — a pretty girl still close to twen¬ ty, the author decided. Her dress was of flimsy satin; her hat of black straw; the pumps she wore fairly carried their recent label of $3.25. Her eyes were cold and hard like blue glass. “Bessie!” The little man’s voice was amazed. “You out — since ven ?” “Oh — a week now. Got any jewelry?” The girls voice was indifferent. “Jewels? Where did you get money so soon? Say, Bess, you ain’t up to any of your old tricks again?” “Never mind,” she snapped, “When I go to jail, its nobody’s business.” The old man was silenced; but as she pocketed her purchases and turned to go he spoke again. “You be careful. It ain’t — ” The door banged shut. Quiet, while the shopkeeper bit his pencil and entered strange fig¬ ures in his book. With a squeak the door opened. What did this couple want? Ah yes — “May we look at wedding rings?” The mans voice was weak and he coughed violently; but he smiled at the girl — a smile that only partly erased the worried frown on her forehead. “Don’t worry,” the smile tried to say. When we’re married — you’ll take care of me.” “Look Mary — like this?” He held up a narrow gold band. “Oh, its lovely!” Her eyes shone. “We’ll take it.” He smiled at the old man, and his thin hands slowly handled the money. “Thanks—” and they were gone like shadows, leaving a faint mem¬ ory in that shop so full of mem¬ ories. “Got any use for this?” A hear¬ ty voice startled the man once more bent over his books. The newcomer was not unlike an Au¬ tumn wind, the author reflected, with breezy good nature written all over his shining, round face. What if his cuffs were frayed and his shoe-seams splitting? His heart was whole. “Veil, mebbe,” the shopkeeper scratched his head and contem¬ plated his diamond cuff links. “Three dollars.” “Make it five, Pop. Have to have it.” Vat’s the matter — gambling again ? “Yep! Nothing like it.” “I got too many of your things now, Dan,” said the Jew with a certain dry laugh. “Never mind,” the fat one laugh¬ ed. “I’ll get 'em soon,” and he departed with characteristic sud¬ denness. The old man mumbled over his pencil; flies buzzed undisturbed for many minutes; and the author seemed to see the spirits of other customers surging like a tide through the shop — some wistful; some unhappy; some bitter; few without heartaches. Outside, brakes broke the silence of the oppresive heat, and the au- (' Continued on page four) L “Danar, the Viking by Elinor Spencer 1 J THE WAVES dashed high over the bow of the Hawk, a great bird shaped vessel that was the pride of Danar, the Viking. Into the warm colorful harbours of the South it had sail¬ ed, striking terror into the hearts of the lazy sailors as Danar and his men leaped skillfully into the fray bent on returning laden with rich plunder. Never was Danar so happy as when he stood in the prow of that proud vessel, direct¬ ing her men, struggling with his lifelong enemy, the sea. A thrill¬ ing, unconquerable enemy it was, and yet he loved it better than his dearest friend. So it was today as he stood bathed in the gentle spray that rose in a rainbow mist. The wind blew his blond hair back from His face, and he sang for pure joy, sang a rollicking victory song. The sun, high in the heavens above him, shone down with great warmth, and he knew that he was far, far south, almost far enough. Still, ere he changed the course of the Hawk, he waited till the sand had once more ceased to flow in the hour glass. Then he turned to the east. All night the Hawk sailed, and far into the next day. Clearer and clearer on the horizon rose the coast of France. A tiny harbour appeared among the cliffs. The birdlike Hawk swooped to¬ wards it and settled daintily in its quiet waters. Danar looked around him in dis¬ may. This was not the port he had meant to find. Here were on¬ ly bleak deserted cliffs. But no — a tiny hamlet was nestled among the rocks. True, it was not the wealthy city Danar wanted, but here were people. They were ga¬ thering upon the shore, and their very clothes showed poverty. “Give, and do not take,” said Danar, and knowing that his men would obey, he left them to wan¬ der off among the cliffs. He reached the top, and there the rocks gave way to pastures, bril¬ liant with the flowers of an early spring. He gazed in rapture. All the beauty of the world was there. The air was balmy and perfume¬ laden. Danar breathed deeply, throwing back his head. He trod lightly lest he crush the blossoms. Then to his ear there came the sound of a maiden’s soft singing. A clear young voice rose and fell in a light sweet melody. Danar, the versatile, understood the words. He listened enchanted to the song, and to the voice that sang it. “Little flowers, brilliant flowers, Bowing gently to the breeze, E’en the slightest wind can bend you, Bow you down unto the ground. “Little flowers, humble flowers, Charming is your attitude, Gracefully swaying, highly colored Resting places for the butterflies. Danar listened to the music and as the song went on, he followed the sweet sounds. Noiselessly he stepped, lest he should mar the melody. Rounding a gentle knoll, he came upon the singer, a dark¬ haired French maid. Danar only saw her back as she gat gaily plucking the flowers near her. A wreath of wild red trumpet blos¬ soms nestled in her hair and al¬ most matched her wide, bright skirt. Danar paused close behind her, but so silent his steps had been that she sang on unaware of his presence. As the last note died away, Danar spoke. His voice was rich and melodious, and so blended with the echos of the song that the maid was not even startled. “That was a beautiful song. Do not stop singing. Another, sing another.” Then as the girl sprang up, poised for instant flight, he begged, "Do not be afraid of me. It is only I, Danar.” Perhaps it was was his tone, or perhaps it was the gentle look in his eyes. Who knows? This much is certain. Ar- lette of France did not run from the Viking. She sang again, and yet again. A week passed and then another. The proud Hawk still stayed in the harbour, neglected, while Dan- ar’s men made merry in the town. Because they had followed Danar’s orders, because they had given and not taken, the townsfolk wel¬ comed them, and they were glad to stay. But when a third week passed away, and Danar made no move to go, they grew impatient. “It is the lass that keeps him,” they said. “When he is married, he will sail again.” The wedding came and went. Still Danar stay¬ ed. At last the men sent Olga to their master to ask when he would leave. “Never,” answered Danar. “I have promised to stay here. I will never sail again. Olga, you have served me well. Take the Hawk and go.” Then the men laughed at Danar, scoffed an scorned him, saying, “It is the wench. He who has conquered all men in strife must do the bidding of his wife.” How could they know why Dan¬ ar stayed? They had not seen how Arlette looked when she had begged, “Stay with me. I cannot bear your cold, rough climate. Oh Danar, stay with me.” And Dan¬ ar, his heart or’eflowing with his new-born love, had promised to stay with her and her people, in her land forever. A year passed, and yet another. The proud Hawk still rode the foaming waters, but a new man directed the sailors, a new man who was not so gentle with the ship, not so sure in directing the course. The change saddened the lovely Hawk. She forgot her name, and dipped her head be¬ neath the waves at every pace. No longer did she proudly skim (Continued on page four) “ Harmony of Spring ’ By Ruth Shell I i The Palm Trees By Harold Sanders As I look across the Canyon, Palms I see of royal grandeur, Heads so high and trunks so lofty Like a king among his subjects. What a sight of royal beauty With their outspread leaves aforming Shelter for the weary traveler As he journeys o’er the desert. Roots they have far reaching deeply Down to moisture everlasting From whence come the cooling water Searched for by the weary traveler. These do grow in California ’Pon the desert called Col’rado Loved by Indian, Padre, settler As a place for rest and shelter. A subtle something calls today, To lead our wandering steps astray, The birch path by the wooded hill, Holds for us all a magic still. Bright spring drapes flowers every¬ where ; Where snows once fell they blossom fair. Their sweetness floats upon the breeze, And lingers in the locust trees. Around us are the woods of May, Where bubbling brooklets laugh and play. The ferns which by their sides are seen, Are fresh with God’s eternal green. From yonder bush the bunting’s song, Comes to us as we stroll along, Down through the trees those soft notes fly To tell of a mate in the nest near¬ by. The shadows lengthen in the glade, Where trees a leafy arch have made. Between their tops the clouds peep through, And build a bridge of rainbow hue. There’s something in us seems to be A tune with this sweet harmony That comes from out the rosy west. The Earthquake at Santa Barbara By Helen Lee It was early morning in the peaceful city of Santa Barbara. The buildings of the city towered high in the darkened sky, making one think of great powerful giants that would never be destroyed. No one was in the streets, and every¬ thing was ghastly still. The beau¬ tiful green hills in the distance and the city just below them made a fine picture. The churches, the public buildings, the libraries, and the homes lay perfectly in the landscape. The trees and the flowers wore the coloring of God’s handiwork. Suddenly, without warning, this perfect picture was shaken, as if a powerful king had seized it and was shaking it with strong, bony hands. The city, which had ap¬ peared so peaceful and beautiful before, came crashing to the ground. The beautiful buildings, which had cost money and hours of labor were in ruins. When morning dawned, it was a very different place from what it had been the night before. From nearby hills, it looked like a mass of rubbish, and the people who had escaped from the clutches of death’s hard, worn fingers looked like small ants. Down along the coast, signals of distress were sent, and doctors and nurses came on trains, in auto¬ mobiles, and buses. They be¬ gan to arrive at Santa Barbara at ten twenty-two o’clock, and the re¬ lief stations were soon very busy. This was one of the greatest disasters that California has ever known. “He Who Laughs Last” ANNE VICTORIA was her name. Bobbing around in the cool, clear, green depths, her black eyes sparkling with joy, she in no way seemed to fit the ponderous name bestowed upon her. “Vic!” shrilled a girl’s voice. The small speaker poised on the edge of the pool, added “I’ll save you,” and plunged in. Anne Vic kicked her feet lazily, raised her arms above her head and abruptly disappeared. Coming up the next moment, Anne Vic could see no other sign of her would-be rescuer than a cloud of churning water, from which now an arm, now a leg, protruded. She sighed and went under again. The second reappearance found the churning water very little nearer, and when the churner arrived Anne Vic was coming up for the third time. “I’m drowned,” announced the rescued one cheerfully, turning on her back to be towed ashore. “You’¬ re a world champion for speed ; you did that thirty feet in about sixty minutes flat.” The smaller girl did not reply. Upon reaching the edge of the pool, rescued and res¬ cuer climbed out and waited for dismissal, Anne Vic expressing her elation over her own death by im¬ aginary playing on a harp and fluttering invisible wings. “Mary, you did very well. I only wish all the others in my classes did as well,” said the swimming teacher. “You may go now.” “Mar yiew did ver-ee well,” mocked Anne Vic as soon as they were out of hearing distance of their instructor. “Gee, I’m glad I am a good swimmer.” “Well, you needn’t be so smart about it; you can’t do that well,” was the spirited retort. “I’m not taking life-saving, old dear. If I were, I shouldn’t be com¬ mitting suicide five times every Saturday morning,” laughed Anne Vic. * * * “So this,” remarked Anne Vic to herself, “is a New England summer morning. It feels more like an Arctic winter morning.” Adjust¬ ing her cap, she shouted a “hurry up” to the girls still picking their by Inez Effinger way over the rock-strewn beach and waded in. The water was icy, the breakers rough, but Anne Vic’s motto was, “He who fears cold wa¬ ter is a ‘fraid cat;” she dived through the thundering walls of water as they confronted her in rapid succession. She was swim¬ ming easily in the smoother sea beyond the breakers when her friends entered the water. The last one to brave the chilling- ocean was a blonde girl who wore no cap. It was apparent from her inquires that she was seeking Anne Victoria, and that she had not seen her for years. One of the bathers finally pointed out the red-capped head visible beyond the increasingly rough breakers; a few moments later another head was visible in the smoother water, mov¬ ing towards the red cap with the clean precision that only fine swimmers can master. Just as the girls near the beach were wading to land, a sharp cry, a cry of surprise and fear, rose above the din of roaring waters. The red cap, which had turned and headed to safety, disappeared, then reappeared, floundering helplessly. No speed of those on the beach could save the girl who had gone too far; they could only watch, un¬ able to hear the cry that reached the sinking swimmer’s ears, “Vic! I’ll save you!” Was it someone calling her, or was she just remembering that day in the swimming pool, when she had put her hands above her head and gone down? Anne Vic did not know. How silly she had been! The water was warmer, but the cramp wouldn’t get out of her knee. Before she knew it, she went under again. Her head was buzzing furiously, her whole body afire with the struggle to reach the surface, when she got her head above water. “If I go down again,” Anne Vic gasped, “I’ll know how the passengers felt when the Lu¬ sitania sank.” Her whole leg was paralized. Anne Vic screamed again, and started down for the third time. A dozen hands grasped at the (Continued on page four)