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

Page 21 text:

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.

Page 20 text:

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:

Page 22 text:

The boy leaps; there is a slight struggle. A low menacing whisper! Something glints in the hands of the intruder — then silence. The visitor stands and strides swiftly to the hall. He walks a few steps, then, turns and enters another room. He closes the door softly. Then he laughs, a low, nervous, shaky laugh, and mutters, Whew! I made it! I am sure not going to stay out until twelve when dad tells me to come at ten again, and I’m sure glad Jimmy took that nickel. He won’t tell.” John Brenneis, Low Nine. CHORNIE Hello! Anyone at home?” I wonder where Mother can be.” A note!” Oh dear, oh dear, how could that dog have swallowed another wash- rag. That will make the third this week.” If anyone had told me that one small Scottie pup could possibly encompass the number and variety of things that Chornie does, I would have doubted his veracity. But one learns! Take for example today. The first cheep of the bird brings a little black head to the crack of the door. Then a flash and a bounce — a very wet, warm tongue and a wet, cold nose play indiscriminately from ear to ear, while four, small feet beat a joyful tattoo on your stomach. It’s morning! and of course you get up. You reach for your shoes and socks, put beside the bed the night before. One shoe may be under the desk but one will surely be half way down the stairs. And the socks? Look at them! If it were only the toes the mend would not show, but it’s alwavs the heels which seem to be the choicest morsels. So the red socks seek their fellows in the ragbag. You make a mental note to put the shoes and socks on the bureau hereafter. Hair combed; dress on at last. Down to breakfast? No. Where’s the belt? The back door slams. Across the muddy garden you see a flash of red trailing on the ground — the belt, but in no condition to wear. While you are at school, there are, of course, many things that need attending to at home. Mother collects the laundry first. I’ll do a little helpful sorting of laundry,” thinks Chornie. Then — Far too many corners on most towels.” So he co-operates, assiduously taking off the corners, giving the laundry the opportunity to take out the middle. The next interesting thing to be done is the mopping of floors. Both parties expend great effort on this. What matter if the poor mop is nearly bald at the end of the procedure? No bits of mop are to be seen. What happened to them?” I wonder.