Garfield Junior High School - Gleaner Yearbook (Berkeley, CA)

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Trinidad The long, white sweep of a sandy beach Kimmed arotmd tuith cocoanut palms; The gold green flash of a paraquet , A purple perfumed orchid spray; The lazy drift of a butterfly Across a tender bamboo screen, The sweet hot scent of cinnamon Captain Kidd, and Tort O’Spain, Captured galleons — the Spanish Main — All these things are brought to me When I hear the surge of a restless sea. Betty Ricker, Low Nine. FLANDERS FIELDS In a nearby field the larks sang gaily; a laughing stream bubbled over the rocks and the roots of the giant aged oaks of the narrow, little glen. But a low rumbling sound that seemed to shake the very earth drew nearer, and little groups of terrified peasants hurriedly passed. Suddenly, the lark stopped singing, and the rumbling and roaring seemed to penetrate into us, numbing and dulling our senses. Then soon a steady tramp, tramp, tramp, was heard, and rows of grim-faced men filed past — all marching toward the roar. Every few minutes there was a rush of peasants, with all their possessions in little carts, which they pulled behind them. Another group of grim-faced men filed past; grim-faced, for this was a grim business — war. Still more passed, some dressed in the skyblue of France, others in the uniforms of England, with colorful banners flying above. Overhead, we heard roars; and looking up, we discovered the eyes of the army,” the air corps, flying to their stations. Suddenly, a rising scream was heard, and the earth rose beneath our feet. But where was the stream? Where were the oaks? Instead, we saw a great gaping hole which the little stream was filling rapidly, as though ashamed of its wound. The roar could then be distinguished as the rattle of machine guns, the roars of the cannon; and still the grim-faced men filed past in ever increasing numbers. The time changes. The location is the same; the lark again sings; the stream bubbles and laughs, but the scene seems different. What can it be? Now we see. The harvest in the distant field is that of Death, not that of the peasant. The scene is one of almost indescribable beauty, and the hallowed place can not fail to impress us. » . », v . «», y Although our strife-torn world seems on the verge of another great catastrophe, we hope it will listen to the mute lesson this and countless similar places tell. We also hope it will not be necessary for Death to reap again a harvest, more terrible than the last. Then this poem will not have been written in vain:

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Sonnet: The Storm Swirling, twirling , round me whirling, Th rough the air the raindrops fly From a sad and sombre sky That weeps great bitter tears. Flashing, lashing, loudly crashing, The lightning breaks and thunder roars. As cries within grim Hades’ doors Are heard midst whistling winds. Oh tempest! wreaking vengeance On this Earth with raging force, Abate that hate and fury so deep within your soul, And return to heaven’s dome again your cruel and mighty lance. So let Apollo with his faery steeds once more o’er heaven’s course Go forth and with a joyous sun this dreary Earth, condole. Patty Jane Parrish, High Nine. Homesickness Beyond Fort Sherman’s palm trees Red glows the dying sun, And in the blue arch overhead The stars shine one by one. (g We dream of tropic waters, Of friendships strong and true, Blue sky, soft mist, and friendly stars Panama, we dream of you ! Barbara Matthews, Low Nine. April Sidewalks drying from the cool April rain — Green grass springing between the blue and gray stones, A yellow tabby-cat dreaming in the sun. Daffodils and crocuses waving on the hillside — Green ivy blowing on worn gray trails — And the cool , rain-freshened wind Swirling the green leaves from the elm trees — Berkeley . . . in April. Patricia Danforth, High Nine.

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In Flanders Fields” In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row, That mark our place, and in the sky, T he larks, still bravely singing, fly, Scarce heard amid the guns below. We are the dead ; short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders field. Take up our quarrel with the foe, To you from failing hands we tljrow The torch-, be yours to hold it high. If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders fields. — John D. McCrae. Philip Taylor, Low Nine. MYSTERY IN THE STORM A dim, sinister figure slips through the storm, stealthy, as though it feared it could be heard or seen through the rushing rain and the rolling thunder. It slips toward a dark forbidding house. A light flashes on in the house, and the figure freezes, as immovable as the rock by which it stands. The light goes out. The figure moves on. It is almost at the house now. A flash of lightning reveals for an instant the form of a young boy. He cannot be over fifteen, and he looks honest. What can his purpose be that he steals so carefully, so stealthily? Crime? No, he appears to be an honest lad, and yet, so did Billy the Kid. Now he is at the house. He circles it slowly, as if to locate an open window or a crack of light, but finds neither. He seems baffled for a moment; then a low laugh escapes his lips. He moves quickly toward a great tree which stands near the house. Up he climbs — up the slippery tree, which rocks and sways in the furious grip of the storm. Now he works his way out on a limb — out till it seems that the slim branch must break. Now he is at an unlocked window. He raises it slowly, an inch at a time. He slips in. He closes the window. He moves across the room; then, a board squeaks underfoot. A figure moves on the bed and lets out a low, startled cry.