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

Page 26 text:

All of a sudden, he felt a sharp tug on his line which he had tied to his big toe. The tug became very sharp, and the raft started to glide, with increasing momentum, toward the marshy end of the lake. Soon, the raft was flying through the water as though it was a surfboard. It was a queer sight to see the clumsy raft with the prostrate hermit on it roaring along at a terrific rate. As the raft neared the marshy part of the lake, a huge sea serpent arose to the surface of the water, with the fishing line hanging from its mouth, spitting a great amount of hre and smoke as the terrified hermit dived into the rushes. The poor hermit thought all was lost; but for- tunately the line broke, and he was tossed headlong into the mud. What happened to him after he got ashore is not known. But people in a town about ten miles away, say that they saw a white streak go through the main street. If it was the hermit, I do not know. A visitor at the lake was heard to say, Nothing ever happens here, 5 ' but if he had only known of the experience that the unfortunate hermit had gone through, he would certainly have retracted his statement. Mflville Puterbaugh, High Nine. The Building Digging and delving a hundred feet down, Digging with caisson and spade, Piercing the soft mud dozen to bed rock, Thus the foundations are laid. Blasting and tearing while moving along; T oivers of steel now reveal, Now comes the roaring of hammers Pounding in rivets of steel. Rearing and plunging the riveters ride Skyward on slim strands of ivire, Clutching to eye beams a quarter mile zip, High over smoke and o’er fire. Stone work noiv rises o’er tumidt of tozvn; Rooms now appear in the ivall; See, the building appeareth at last, Appeareth noiv, never to fall. Frank Ryan, High Nine.

Page 25 text:

A MODERN TEARJERKER The other day, on my morning promenade, I happened to observe an old acquaintance who was sadly gazing at a popcorn wagon. I was sur- prised to note his usual jovial countenance faded to a frown. Being very sympathetic, I asked what might be the trouble. He sadly unfolded his tale of woe. It was such a story as one seldom hears. It seems that he had invested his life’s (wife’s) savings in an Arizona ranch of four hundred acres. Upon two hundred acres, he cultivated popcorn, while he used the remaining acres for cattle grazing. All was going fine with our friend on the ranch. The popcorn was progressing splendidly and the cattle were fat and sleek. It looked like a banner year for our hero and he had already ordered an elaborate popcorn wagon with streamlined chassis and a jazz-playing whistle which was to be the pride and joy of all Arizona. The wagon was well on its way when the inevitable happened. A hot blast of wind which i s common in this desert region swept over our hero’s farm. This occurrence, being filled with hot air like our story, proceeded to pop the corn on the spot. The cattle, observing the snowy white heaps and thinking that it was snow, nonchalantly froze to death. The corn popping attracted pigs who cleaned the field of the popcorn in a very short time. This terrible disaster wiped out our hero’s farm and his life’s (wife’s) savings, leaving him penniless and without his popcorn wagon. Moral: Don’t pop corn without a whistle; raise grapefruit in Arizona. Bob McCarthy, High Nine. NOTHING EVER HAPPENS In a lake like this nothing ever happens,” said the old hermit, as he whittled on a stout, oak limb which he used to push his raft about. A fool I was to abandon civilization and come to this dead place and — ,” his voice trailed off until the words were merely movements on his lips. The lake was about five miles long and about three miles in width. At the east end it backed up against a rocky shore which grew into a tall, slanting cliff in which were many caves. Here the hermit had his home. On the west end the lake widened considerably, but it was full of rushes and was quite marshy. On the north and south sides it met with glistening, white, sandy shores, and then came a deep pine forest which grew denser as it grew outward. From a bird’s eye view it was a most beautiful sight, a turquoise center with a border of white opal, and the final emerald circle. The old hermit looked up at the sun and calculated the time to be about eleven-thirty. Guess I’ll drop my line and catch a fish for lunch.” One could sense the pain of hunger in his voice. Twelve o’clock rolled by, but no fish did the ravenously hungry hermit catch from the clear blue depths.

Page 27 text:

WHALES I had known Captain Warshaw for sixteen years but had never gone on one of his whaling trips. Finally, he persuaded me and I promised to be ready at 6 o’clock the next morning. True to my word, I was stumbling along the Monterey docks in the fog at ten minutes to six. Getting under way just after the fog had raised, we set out into the bay on a small whaler. Most of the crew were Swedes, but they seemed to know what they were about. After losing my breakfast and the n lunch, we, or rather the look-out up in the crow’s-nest, sighted a school of whales, just what we were looking for. We at once started in pursuit. Following the mammals, I was nearly left behind a few times when the boat quickly turned in pursuit. The harpooner at the gun, after getting in position, shot the harpoon. Then began a merry chase. Another harpoon was shot and the water became colored a deep, vivid red. After two or three hours of fighting, we succeeded in killing a whale, and then set out after another one. With the one tied to the side weighting the boat to a slanting position, our speed was slackened, and we were unable to get in position for a shot at the second whale, and so headed toward Santa Cruz. After leaving our catch at the whaling station, we were overtaken by the incoming fog. Utterly lost, we finally and suddenly ran with a crashing, scraping sound upon the rocks just off Capitola. Signaling with flaming rockets did no good, so Captain Warshaw, deciding I was the jinx, put me into a life-boat with part of the crew. Of course, we had to scramble off the high side of the boat, but when that was accomplished and we had a good start, quite calmly we crashed over a submerged rock and lost the bottom of our frail craft. Wading in to shore, with visions of those whales just behind, my first, and probably last, whaling expedition ended. Madelyn McGlynn, High Nine. JUST FOR SPITE On a day like this, ’most anything could happen,” said our neigh- bor’s dog to a yellow mutt from down the street somewhere. Yes,” the mutt replied, my master might give me a bath for a change, or it might snow, or even that dinky l ittle dog next door might come down off his high horse and play with us.” Now, I happened to be sitting on a silk pillow in the sun-room over- looking our neighbor’s garden, and I knew those two dogs could see me. So I, with my most disdainful manner, turned up my Pomeranian nose, gave my tail a flip, and waddled off. But when I got out of their sight I felt very different, indeed, and very angrily took refuge in my mistress’ lap. While I was sitting there, listening to her baby talk, a sudden feeling crept over me which I cannot describe, but which made me feel as strong as an ox, as big as an elephant, and as fierce as a lion; and I made up my