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

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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

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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.

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mind right then that no one was going to call me a dinky stuck-up dog. The things that happened after that are almost unbelievable, but when that feeling left me, and I had fought almost every dog in the neighbor- hood, rolled in every mud puddle, and chased all the cars, I, instead of being a petted lap dog, was a very battered, be-draggled, but victorious Pomeranian, who had had his day. Olive Clarke, High Nine. UNMARKED GRAVES One day this summer, during my vacation in the Mother Lode coun- try, I chanced upon two crude unmarked graves. After considerable inquiry, my curiosity concerning these graves was gratified by the oldest man in the countryside, who related the following true story: Two Swedish sailors, Ole and Lars, deserted their ships in the San Francisco Harbor in 1850, and went mining. They were fairly success- ful, but as soon as each had a bag of yellow dust, the gold started to burn their pockets” and they resolved to go back to San Francisco and have a good time. They felt very rich as they sewed the gold into their belts, slung their roll of blankets over their shoulders and grabbed a piece of bacon. However, after they had walked half a day in the hot Cali- fornia sunshine, they became weary. Upon seeing what they thought was a gray horse in the distance, they decided that, being such rich men, they should ride. They resolved to catch the steed, which looked rather wild. They pursued it up a canyon and, alas, discovered too late, that it was a Grizzly bear. Now Ole and Lars are buried, side by side, just a half day’s journey from their old diggings. Mercedes Stroube, High Eight. The King’s Mishap T he King was on his trusty steed, As he went to the fair. Alas! he did not know what fate Had sent to meet him there. Suddenly from the deep, dark wood The enemy’s army came. The King ’most fell from his trusty steed, As he clung to his horse’s mane. The battle ensued in wonderful style, But nary a man teas hurt-, Until the King fell off his horse And tore his silken shirt. r( Alas, Alack, and deary me,” The frightened monarch cried; But is it note the Baron Blimp,