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

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AFRAID OF WATER (Taken from Life) Shorty was afraid of water. You must understand that. He was chilled to the bone at the sight of that great monster, the ocean, and by the equally terror-inspiring bay. All this was not without reason. When Shorty was two years old, (the time when most fears begin), an assmine uncle think- ing he could teach Shorty to swim, threw him in the water, and he consumed so much of it that he had never forgotten that un- happy incident, even when he had reached the age of seventeen. Shorty was a Scout. A good scout, too, everybody acknowledged it. He had been in the scout movement for five years and held the highest office his troop could give him. Next year his scout master, Mr. Wiseman, recognizing the boy ' s stellar qual- ity of leadership, was to promote him to the coveted position of assistant scout master. But there was one fly in the ointment. There is a test for first class scouts to pass which requires that they shall swim fifty yards. Shorty couldn ' t do this. And yet, it was his one great ambition to become a first class scout before giving up his position as senior patrol leader for that of assistant scout master. Bl diligent practice Shorty had learned to swim, although water still held all its old terrors for him. He was to go over to Sutro Baths with some other scouts to pass the final barrier between himself and the first class badge. Mr. Wiseman and most of the troop were going over to Sutro, partly to swim, but mostly to root for Shorty. On the way over he noticed that the bay was quite rough. This made him loose much of his confidence, he knew not why, but he wisely joined himself to his hilarious com- rades. Ihe trip through the streets of San Fran- cisco seemed ages to Shorty, but in a very short time really, they were at Sutro Baths. Shorty undressed with a beating heart and quivering pulse. He went down stairs to the baths in a trance. It seemed to him that his fellows ' hearty words of encouragement made him feel stronger and more able to overcome his fear. Ah! He was off! Five, ten, twenty, thirty yards passed, and still going strong. But a careless swim- mer passing by gave Shorty a mouthful, and down he went. Up again, with the old fear still strong in his heart. Ten yards more, with aching arms and bursting head. There ' s no turning back now, said Shorty to himself. Only ten yards more. Stroke, stroke, stroke, stroke, three pre- cious yards passed. There were no outsiders in the tank now, for they had grou ;ed them- selves around the finish line. Two yards more and with a sob and a gasp down went Shorty. With fighting spirit still intact, he rose and continued his efforts. Six strokes more, and Shorty, a victor in spite of his fears, crossed the line! Not a yard further, either, for down he went as he saw the fifty mark flashing by. Get him! shouted Mr. Wiseman. Willing hands rescued Shorty, and hauled him out of the pool. He went to his locker and dressed. Oh, would the fellows never come? Would his head-ache ever stop? He didn ' t know he had so many places in his anatomy for muscles to ache. But he should worry, he was a first class scout. Gee! Think of it! Wouldn ' t mother and dad be proud! Shorty was carried down to the street-car in a triumphal procession by his friends. The return car-ride was one long series of congratulations. When he got on the ferry, he very wisely went below for a cup of coffee to stimulate his jagged nerves. Wow, that was good. Makes me feel like a new man. Guess I ' ll go up on deck. As Shorty was strolling along the lower deck, he heard the stentorian cry, Man Overboard. With one swift, appraising glance, Shorty took in the situation. All the scouts were on the upper deck. Quick, something must be done, for twenty-five yards astern Shorty could see a wisp of white, which he knew must be a baby. It had already gone down once. Throwing off his coat, Shorty dived after the marooned babe. He made twenty yards without mishap for he was swimming head-on against the swell, but about five yards from the object of his efforts he shipped a sea. Would he never learn to close his mouth when he was swimming ? At last he had the baby safe in his grasp and turned around. Horror of horrors, the distance between himself and the boat had been trebled! Shorty was a true scout, and scouts are always prepared. So, grasping the child with one arm, he set out to swim twice as far as he had ever done before. How he made it he scarcely knew, for his water-logged boots hindered him cruelly. He did not know that a life-boat had been sent out after him, he did not know that he was picked up almost drowned and the baby almost as bad, while still a good dis- tance from the ferry. The first thing he remembered was that he was lying on a bench with admiring deck hands attending him and keeping the crowd back, while a tearful mother was smothering him with grateful kisses. And that ' s why the National Council awarded Shorty the gold medal for heroism, which is the highest honor the scouts can receive. And that ' s why Dan .beard called it the bravest thing he had ever heard of a scout doing, for, as he said, you conquered your fear at the time when most other scouts in your position would have said ' Let some one else save her; I almost drowned myself once today. ' I congratulate you. You are a Scout. David Lyon L-9.

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POETRY CONTEST First Prize CHRISTMAS LANTERNS Crusted with uncounted gems, Those stars so distant, cold and true. Like daisies in the early morn, Through challiced flowers bright with dew. Those lanterns of the evening sky, Shine in the distant lake below, And whisper the wondrous Christmas tale, Ever to those who do not know. And if you ask the white gold stars, That twinkle on the Milky Way, If they remember, they will tell, The ' wondrous story of Christmas Day. ON CHRISTMAS EVE God reste ye, merrie gentlemen, I hark to the old, old hymn As I climb the stairs on Christmas Eve, The candle flick ' ring dim. The carols float on waves of sound, Through the evening clear and still, As the childish voices rise again: Peace on earth, to all, good will. And my heart leaps up at the thought of the morrow, The happiest of days, And I raise my eyes, up to the skies, And whisper words of praise. CHRISTMAS MORN The blue and the white, the silver and gold, What wonderful colors shine, On my window Jack frost paints castles and fields, And many a rare design. The sun is glist ' ning bright and clear, The wind doth sharply blow, Ah, Hark! The caroling, too, I hear, Come in echoes across the snow! My heart is thrilling with gladness and joy, My heart is light and gay, As my voice rises high with a Christmas Hymn, On this wondrous Christmas Day. Betsy Ailing H-7. Second Prize AN ALIEN ' S HYMN Oh, glorious ground of Freedom ' s pride! Thy memories in my heart abide. No land but thee hath homes like thine, In none more ardent faith doth shine. No land with thee doth compare, I long thy glories to declare, America! America! — Telete Lester H-9. Third Prize WINTER Outside a cold and wint ' ry scene; O ' er all the snow, a silv ' ry sheen. The homes and farms are all in white, A splendid silence, calm and bright. No trace of road lies winding there, All in whiteness, cold and bare. The leafless trees all shivering stand, Like sentinels who guard our land. Stern, unbending, stark and straight, Resigned with courage to endure their fate. Their arms outstretched to God above, In silent thanks for His wondrous Love. The rippling lake lies frozen o ' er; Summer breezes waft no more. The ice lies slippery, smooth and still And merry youngsters skate at will. Where lilies used to rise and sink, The pond is now a skating-rink. A belated wind sweeps over all, And gently the snowflakes start to fall. The brightness fades as night draws near; Silence reigns, uncanny queer, All but the wind, that moans and whines With shivering puff ' s among the pines. Elizabeth Barnes H-8. BOOKS I like to read in books of old, Of knights so brave, and pirates bold, Of very rich men, and ladies gay, Why I could sit and read all day, I sit by the fire when the day is done, And read of the works of Stevenson, It matters not whether false or true, I think reading is a wonderful thing, don ' t you? George Fox L-7.

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DALE BROWN ' S FINISH The irregular hum of rapidly revolving motors quickly overcame the nervous ieel- ing Dale .brown had felt for the past week. His specially built Daisy, with a straight eight Miller special motor, awaited him at the pits of the Indianapolis Speedway, where Dale was to be give his chance to show his skill in the first big race of his career. His assigned mechanic was just entering the driver ' s entrance with a truck loaded with accessories and a supply of gasoline for the monster racing machine. Dale proceeded to the pits, and after fueling his machine, climbed to the driver ' s seat and with a relaxed feeling, let out the clutch and raced down the track. Once more the newcomer was himself, a cool, daring driver about to demonstrate his ability to the overcrowded grandstand spectators. As he rounded the curves he realized with a thrill that Daisy never ran better in third gear. Throttling the motor even higher, he threw the gear into fourth speed and was well satisfied. Driving around the oval several times, Dale finally drew up before the grandstand to receive expressions of en- couragement from one who had promised — if he won the race. This encouragement was all that he needed and Daie left the stand with a small white glove, her token of good luck. huriymg back to his place in line, Dale waited for final instructions from the star- ter, and with a deafening roar the ten machines were off, with Joe Boyer, veteran of the racing bowl, in the lead. Dale was riding calmly in fourth place, less than a rod behind Tommy Milton, his closest friend, and nearly ten yaras m the rear of the car driven by Cliff Durant, also a warm personal friend. At the end of the first lap Dale was riding in second place, a few feet behind Tommy Milton, now the pace setter. As they rounded the first curve, Dale threw his throbbing monster alongside Milton ' s Duesenberg, and, in fourth speed at ap- proximately one hundered and twenty miles an hour, passed the leader. Perhaps Dale ' s matter-of-fact driving was prompted by the presence of a dainty white glove in his shirt pocket, for after covering a hundred miles, his first race had netted him eleven hundred dollars lap money. Great indeed was the chagrin of Dale as he saw Harlan Fengler, a persistent chaser, driving a Frontenac, spurt along side and for half a mile strive to pass him. Finally, however, the tug-o-war ceased when the steering knuckle of Fengler ' s car broke causing one of the rear wheels of the Frontenac to injure Dale ' s mechanic. Dale had to halt at the pits to remove the helper. Without waiting for a new mechanic Dale dashed off, but for some reason the throttle foot seemed to have lost its nerve. Suddenly calling to mind the eyes of his sweetheart, and the little glove in the pocket nearest his heart, he put an added effort to his driving until he had reached third place. With a final spurt that brought the spectators to their feet, Dale swung Daisy over the line to win the honors of being first. But that was not all that he won. He was seen to leave the race track with other than a mechanic. He also drove a record breaking race to the minister ' s house. Dale Brown finished a marked veteran, a winner, and a happy groom. Joseph Sheridan L-9. THE HUMMING BIRD Whir-r — A flash! a dash, and away! As light and as swift as the steed of a fay. A tiny jewelled midget peeks through our green vine Hiding in tangles of purest jasmine. Seeking honey from these snow-white flowers. Enchanting, enhancing these lovely bowers. Flitting and flutt ' ring through shade and through sun, Black beads of eyes shine with mischief and fun. But who is this birdling, so blithe and so free ? A throat of crimson rubies has he, ' Neath it, a necktie of emerald green He may be swift charger of bright fairy Queen! A gay little elfin-bird, dainty and fleet A-darting and finding gold nectar sweet. But hark! He is off! To Fairyland gone! Through dale and through forest, where dance the young fawns. Now, who can he be? Oh, haven ' t you heard ? He ' s a tiny, tiny humming bird! Phyllis Preston L-8. THE HAWAIIAN Aloha, in plain English, Welcome, is the keynote of Hawaiian hospitality. The heathen Hawaiian, a semi-civilized savage, as self-satisfied modern man called him, is certainly more advanced in the arts of socia- bility and good nature than many modern men. In the twentieth century when the struggle for existence and step-fast-or- be-walked-over are the prevalent tones of every-day life, the easy-going, passive, let tomorrow take care of itself Hawaiian must go down before the aggressiveness and business is business policies of our more strenuous civilization. In the land of milk and honey where one picked one ' s meals off the trees and sat the rest of the day enjoying balmy breezes under plumy cocoa-palms, it is little wonder that the Hawaiian saw no need of unnecessary exertions. With his customary hospitality, he welcomed gladly the strang- ers from across the waters, who gave him gin and whiskey in return for his cocoanuts, and sha nty tenements for his plantations. But the easy-going, child-like, the trusting- everybody Hawaiian does not step fast enough and is left pitifully behind. And so, the Hawaiian will soon be a thing of the Past. James Hu L-9.