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

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The cause of this silence was there on the table , Steaming and bubbling as best it teas able. From it was spreading in vapors so fine All through the room an odor divine. Though it may seem to you, so lowly to be, ’Twas as essence of beauty that moment to me. It may seem so common, so vulgar to you, But to me it teas heavenly, that good ol’ beef stew! John Brenneis, Low Nine. SOMETHING I LEARNED FROM A FOREIGNER This is a story of harvesting in the Caucasus as told to me by my father, who spent some of his childhood years in that country. His grand- mother lived in a little town called Gori. She owned a vineyard about five miles outside of this town. Every autumn she would take all of her belongings and pile them on an arba (a two-wheeled cart drawn by buf- faloes) . This done, she would climb up on top and sit there. Thus she journeyed to her vineyard. After she arrived, she unloaded and settled herself for a stay of about six weeks. A few days later, the harvesting began. When all the grapes were picked, they were put into a very large vat. His grandmother then washed the feet of the gardener, who immediately stepped into the vat and crushed the grapes, the juice running out from a spout and into a huge jar which was sunken into the ground. The grape juice was not allowed to ferment in this, so it was transferred into buffalo skins. Then they were placed on the arba and taken to Gori. It was then emptied into large earthen cracks buried in the cellar. After it had fermented, the cracks were capped until wanted. Grandmother always saved some of the juice to make a kind of candy called tschustschella. This is made by stringing nuts and raisins and dipping them in some grape juice that had been thickened with potato starch. This was allowed to hang up for a few days, and, when well set, put away to become a favorite sweet- meat for the children during the coming months. Thus ends harvest time in the Caucasus and my story. Sophie Zane, High Seven. At Noon A tray gives a clank, Down falls a spoon; A call for some food , — That’s Garfield — at noon.

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Heralding forth The coming night. The great round moon Comes o’er the hills, Lighting even The smallest rills. And then the stars Come one by one, Until the sky Is over-run. Allen Sugden, High Nine. The Loveliest Thing (A Girl’s Idea) T he loveliest thing I have yet to see, Although I don’t know just what it will be, Maybe a flower so perfect and bright, Or it may be sunset changing to night. I’ve often thought when I saw the sunrise, That this beauty must be like a Paradise; Could it be stately trees reaching the sky, Or the mountain’s white crests that divide heavens high The loveliest thing I think I do see, Lovelier than all is friendship to me. Friendship that’s staunch and sturdy and bold, Friendship like this God gave us to hold. Emily Stout, Low Nine. The Loveliest Thing (A Boy’s Idea) T’was a cold and blustery winter day, And the children entering from hearty play, Into the kitchen so ivarm and good smelling, With boisterous whooping and howling and yelling. Then there suddenly settled a hush o’er the kids, A hush so loud you could hear the pot lids Yammering and Hammering as though from below The devil’s oivn helpers were tv anting to go.

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A rush to a seat, Food all gone too soon, A rush to get out , — T hat’s Garfield — at noon. Kenneth Coates, High Eight. The Happy T hi •ee Fitter, Fatter, Fitter, Fatter, Down the winding street Came three little children, In spite of rain and sleet. Thin ragged coats scarce kept them warm, But they just laughed with glee, For love they had, the greatest charm Of all — the happy three. Barbara Grenelle, Low Seven. SUN ON THE DESERT It was a hot day, a hot day even for the desert. The burning sands quivered and rolled as they lay unprotected from the scorching noon- day sun. The sky, blue as the mountain stream, was stained only by a small cotton-like cloud floating lazily about, but in the distance the sand and sky seemed to blend together almost as one. The only thing that broke that endless line was a small clump of trees away to the south. Beneath this grove, a lake spread far out over the land, reflecting the blue of the sky. The cool shade of the tall palms protected the patch of green grass nestled close to the trees. Then lake, trees, and grass all were gone, like a faded dream. A mirage! Hinsdale Latour, High Eight. My Grandmother’ s Garden 1 love to gaze out of the window At my Grandmother’s garden so fair, Seeing birds and butterflies flitting Around the sweet flowers dozen there. She has roses and stocks and carnations, There are hollyhocks graceful and tall That bloom in the summer and springtime, And chrysanthemums gay in the fall. Paul Eiben, Low Seven.