Galileo High School - Telescope Yearbook (San Francisco, CA)

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LITERARY

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'THE TELESCOPE December, 1927 lTwenty-Eightl 'THE GARTHLY GPARADISE F Heaven or Hell I have no power to sing, I cannot ease the burden of your fears, Or make quick-coming death a little thing, Or bring again the pleasure of past years, Nor for my words shall ye forget your tears, Or hope again for aught that I can say, The idle singer of an empty day. The heavy trouble, the bewildering care That weighs us down who live and earn our These idle verses have no power to bear: So let me sing of names remembered, Because they, living not, can ne'er be dead, Or long time take their memory quite away From us poor singers of an empty day. So with this earthly paradise it is, If ye will read aright, and pardon me, Who strive to build a shadowy isle of bliss, M idmost the beating of the steely sea, bread , Where tossed about all hearts of men must be, Whose ravening monsters mighty men shall sl Not the poor singer of an empty day. ay, -WILLIAM MORRIS

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THE 'TELESCOPE December, 1927 Wip Venn Rinlkle By R1cKs-OVIATT, '28 IP was a good guy. He couldn't hop: he swallowed his .3 75 of one per cent like nobody's business and shot pool as if he was washing dishes. He was just a darn good fellow. He hardly looked as though his tailors were Hart, Schaffner and Marx: he wore no cravats: and the closest he ever came to a pair of shoes was once when a salesman gave him a bottle of shoe polish which the poor egg promptly drank. All of Local No. 23 of the Barber's Union was thrown in gaol one morning after having given him the old ride, and for trying to make a bird out of him by applying tar and feathers. In short, Wip looked like the fellow from the place where the busses don't go to. Had be been 44 hundredths pyorrhea, sore pard? She was needed it. She was so mean that the that her old man had either lived in tion agent. All her love, if any, and believe it or not, the immediate traced to the eldest one. 99 44!l00 per cent pure, his wife would have begrudged him any one of the per cent. No peddlers frequented her block: the price of dandruif, halitosis teeth and a good kind, though-she hard rolling pin is plenty high, eh. only hit Wip when she thought he sports in the village all warranted Chicago or else had been a prohibi- was bestowed upon the children. ancestry of Jesse James has been Sylvester von Walkoutside, III, the mange, but he was as meek as be in old Lady Rinkle's way. She when in a playful mood, and Syl since for fear she might want to It was after a wild all night orgy nice little fistic massage from Mrs. hero decided to go places and shoot DON DOUGLASS, '28 Literary Editor his dog, looked like an attack of his master. Far be it from him to bobbed his tail with a fork once vester has been sleeping outside ever pet him. at Ye Getswakked Inn and a Wip the next morning that our snipe. Taking enough ammuni- tion to fight the war all over again, Wip jumped in his Hivver and toddled off. He stopped about six miles up the road at a place where it looked as though he might have some luck. Leaving the rubber burner by the highway, he struck off through the woods. He came upon a path which seemed to him rather wide for this part of the country, but banishing the thought he trudged on. Turning with the path he suddenly came upon a marvelous eight-point buck. Taking careful aim he pulled the trigger, but the bally idiot just stood there waiting to be shot again. The second shot brought a bald man out of a house which stood amazingly close but which poor Wip had only just noticed. What the blankety blank do ya mean by shootin' my statue, ya blankety blank? he was greeted. Completely bewildered by the action in the last few minutes, Wip moved unconsciously away, swearing all the time at that cock-eyed varnish the innkeeper had shellacked his stomach with the night before. Going back to the lizzie, Wip drained the gas tank and drank the contents, so that instead of hiccing he was honking. After stumbling along the highway for three quarters of an hour and- having his pants torn off by a passing stage, Wip decided to hit for the wilds where his garb and feelings would harmonize better with his surroundings. Accordingly he left the high- way to the road hogs and the puncture weed and cut off through Ike McWeeney's beet patch and headed for the mountains. In due course of time Wip reached the five thousand foot level of the good old Kill-the-Cats range, where he decided to take a little beauty nap. At this point Slyvester became estranged from his master after a bitterly contested battle beween the two as to whether the third man in the ring at Chicago last September could count up to ten or not. Walking up a hill is no gent's job, decided Wip after walking the better part of the afternoon. Why the devil hadn't he gone around the hill and taken the scenic railroad to the top, anyway. Wip was fizzing like the fuse for a twenty-ton charge of dynamite when he thought he heard someone calling his name! Impossible. What would anyone want of him on a mountain and ITh1'rtyj