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

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gilded letters, forming the word Captain, stood in sharp contrast with the heavy oak door. In answer to my knock Captain Whalton admitted me to his office. Captain Whalton was a large, portly man, having iron gray hair and a moustache. His Irish blue eyes were shaded by gray, thick eyebrows. The impression was altogether favorable. After relating my complete story. Captain Whalton ' s face relaxed into a quizzical smile. I shall certainly do my utmost to solve this most baffling mystery, again his smile broadened. Now this Mr. Randall is but an acquaintance of mine. I have never had any reason to mistrust him; however, he will be closely watched. I deem it advisable to let the matter be kept from the public until we have a more definite light on the situation. The remainder of today will be spent to good advantage by my detectives. I am quite sure that your jewels will soon be located. In the event that they are not, however, we shall be right on the job, his blue eyes twinkled, his delightful smile spread across his face, lining it with merry wrinkles. Confident and hoping that my worries would soon be over, I returned to my cabin with a somewhat buoyant step. Opening the door, Icarelesslv glanced into the room. My face froze; then the ice broke. I cannot recall how long I stood in the doorway and laughed. Jocket was sitting on my dressing table coyly powdering her face and daintily fingering the beautiful diamond necklace around her neck. Elaine West, Low Nine. The Butterfly As down the garden patio I strolled, I sail ' upon tloe wall, A little loome of fairy mould, Wloich lay, so still and small. So day by day I watched it th ere, Until at last I saw ' . Instead of ugly greyish ivalls, A thing to fill with awe! A butterfly with painted wings. Upon a leaf nearby. Had left the now deserted home. Out in the world to fly. — Marjorie Larmour, High Eight.

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Homeward Bound The roaring brook rns oed madly, Doivn to the wide spread sea, It gurgled and gushed and leaped In seeming joyous glee. It reached the first line breakers And mingling in the foam It nestled in the curling crests, Where at last it found its home. — Jane Armitage, High Seven. BELIEVE IT OR NOT! Gone! Gone! The words raced through my brain hke a cyclone. With icy fingers I clutched the bed for support. My throat was dry; I almost choked. They can ' t be, the words stumbled out of my mouth and formed the sentence. Over and over again I repeated it while the real truth kept pounding in my head hke a hammer. Once more I glanced at the small, black, leather box, but only the smooth, white satin lining of the box greeted my searching eye. It was true! The fear that had seized me only five minutes before had given way to reality. The jewels were stolen! After regaining my composure I searched frantically in every nook and cranny in a vain attempt to recover the beautiful diamond necklace. The search was for naught! I could scarcely comprehend this astounding acknowledgement. I stumbled blindly out of the cabin to get a breath of fresh, salt air. The motion of the boat sickened me. I felt giddy. I swayed mechanically as I groped my way to the rail. A small, dark ob- ject darted across my path causing me to stumble. The catastrophe, which might have happened, didn ' t occur as a Mr. Randall, a passenger on the ship, passing by at the crucial moment, steadied my arm and aided me to regain my footing. Mr. Randall gallantly tipped his hat and pointedly smiled at me. I looked around to see what had caused the disturbance. To my astonishment I saw the retreating figure of my pet monkey, Jocket, disappear around a corner. I could not suppress a giggle as I recalled the timely appearance of my benefactor. Then I recalled his apparent joviality. Something mysterious lurked beneath his mask of friendliness. This little incident, unimportant as it was, brought me down to earth with a bang and left me with a mind clear for action. The next most logical thing to do was to confide in Captain Whalton, explain the entire situation, and take his advice as to the next step to recover my stolen jewels. Tremblingly I walked up the stairs and knocked on a door. Large

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By the Sea By the shore of the sea at fiuilight, I long to sit on t oe sand. While softly approaching conies t je night, Bringing peace o ' er all t oe land. I hear the leaves as they sing to me, Stories of vikings bold. Whose sJjips once sailed upon tloe sea, In days tJjat ivere of old. Then as the tide conies slowly in. Beating its waves ' gainst tloe sloore. Something stirs me deep wit Join — An urge to sail once more. — Dorothy Price, High Eight. (NO A DESERT SCENE The sun is hot upon this scene of stillness; of quiet. It is early in the morning and there is a slight crispness in the air as the sun peeks over the mesa and illumines the painted landscape with its golden luster. A lone giant cactus looms against the yellow fringed sky like a tall monu- ment to the supreme stillness of the desert. The ground is rocky and here and there is dotted with sagebrush and other hardy plants. In the distance lies a range of barren purple colored mountains tipped by a crown of orange where the sun ' s rays strike. A sky of deep blue fading to yellow-orange at the horizon blends with the range. High up in the heavens floats a vulture, a gliding scavenger of the desert, never seeming to flap his white tipped wings. There is a faint rustling among the parched bushes and a little lizard, who had previously been sunning itself, scampers off into a murky crevice in the rocks among the bushes. Wafted softly by the morning air a song is brought to our ears. It is a cowboy song and sure enough a mounted figure is seen approaching and pouring out his soul in jolly tunes. We see him more clearly and notice the bright colors of his outfit. He wends his way onward and, turning, is soon lost to view but his song is still ringing in our ears. It is still haunting us as we turn thoughtf uly back to our cabin. In a few minutes all is again still on the desert. The sun rises higher, shortening the shadows and casting a glare on the surrounding landscape. Such is the desert; the always changing, rest- less scenery that strangely produces the opposite effect on all that gaze upon it. — Brandon Howell, High Nine. 1