John Burroughs Middle School - Burr Yearbook (Los Angeles, CA)

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VICTORY GARDENERS VICTORY GARDENITIS PLAGUES J.B. BOYS By JIM APPELL Under the direction of Mr. Vance, the plot of ground once adorned by flowers has been transformed into neat rows of every known vegetable. J.B. boys have really got in the swing of things as far as Victory gardening. Instead of the usual girl talk, A9 boys have been known to confer on the best and easiest way of raising corn, beans, peas, and etc. Not only at school have the boys gone ground-minded, but at the homes of J.B. boys can be seen neat rows of vegetables that would be the pride of any farmer or farmerette. A RED LETTER DAY By CAROLYN WYSE It was as pretty as it was real, and as I twirled about my room I realized that my wish had finally become a reality. With the excitement of the day, and the thrill of the latest addition to m y wardrobe, I began to grow extremely drowsy. Before I knew it I was off into deep slumber. I shall never forget that Red Letter Day, for I fell asleep in my first formal. THE VICTORY GARDEN By MURIEL BROWN He worked so hard, he bent his back, He forced the plough ' till he thought it would crack. He watered the ground both night and morn, But through all this he was still forlorn. His constant vigil did not ease, So that bird nor bug could there stay in peace. He searched the small, dark brown expanse, But nary a green sprout did his sight enhance. Then one morning he came to look again, And there near the fence by the little brown wren, He called his family io come and see, They came but laughed to a great degree. Bud why did they laugh when he finally did succeed? Oh! Could it be that the sprout was just a weed? WHAT TO DO By GILBERT SHEA Shall I listen to the radio or do my home- work? That is the question. Henry Aldrich is on my list and so is my algebra. Ellery Queen resides on my list as likewise does my Latin. They ought to assign homework when good programs aren ' t on (which would be never). I ' ll try listening to the radio and doing my homework all at once. I hope it works. PAGE TWENTY-FOUR

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A? : ??. . r £ THE NEWSPAPER By LOIS PETTEGREW The newspaper lands with a thud near the door, And Sis steps out and stoops to the floor. At the headlines she glances and says, What a bore! As she turns the pages with news galore She spies the page she ' s looking for. Bud comes in all out of sorts, He looks at the paper, Oh, boy! Sports! He grabs the paper from astonished Sis, The front page rips, but who cares about this? Mom comes in and glances at Bud, Oh, my goodness, just look at that mud! Now Bud, you go out and take off your shoes, As she picks up the paper and looks through the news. What a sweet little recipe. I just must have it, And she cuts it out, a usual habit. Dad comes in all tired from work And looks at the paper with a smirk. Who cut up this paper, and where ' s the front page? Nobody answers, but all stand amazed. Next morning the paper is all in a heap, It looks like something you should not keep. The maid comes in and looks at the bale, This will make good lining for my garbage paid. And that is the end of all its capers, It always happens to the Jones ' papers. THE UNCONQUERABLE CHINESE By BARBARA COTNER The Chinese race are a pople of hig spirits and aching hearts for the love of their fellow man. They have wronged no one and do not wish to be wronged by the hard-pressed aggressor. They are at peace with them- selves. Their are no hard, bitter feelings against fellow man. It is true that the Chinese have taken a lot in the last years, but they still go on living in their quiet, simple way. They could have a reason for hatred filled in their hearts, but they only think of the good things that they are thankful for, the good earth, the soil in which they have worked for hundreds of years. This soil has given them their villages, their food, their clothing and their own peaceful land, China. China means a great deal to these simple people. They have fought for it and loved it like a mother loves her child. They have not fought in vain. Though blood and tears may spread for many miles, they will keep love in their hearts and continue to till the soil, the good earth, until the end of time, and when the end of time comes they will still be a free nation, proud of the soil they call China, for the Chinese are an unconquer- able race. DESTINATION UNKNOWN By LOUISE KOSCHES All aboard! A few late comers jumped on board as the train lurched and then slowly started up the track. The shrill last minute whistle blared forth, the red light flashed a final warning, and they were off — destination unknown. A look back at the deserted station made one boy suddenly realize that this was the last time in many months, maybe forever, that he would be able to see his home, his town, and his familiar countryside. His fam- ily hadn ' t even been there to see him off as no one was able to know a troop train ' s time schedule. Oh, yes, they ' d said goodbye at home, Mom had cried a little too, as she wished her only son good luck in the army, and as dad and sis said to be sure and write. It wasn ' t the same, he thought, but as he glanced around at his silent comrades he saw that he wasn ' t the only one feeling just a slight wave of homesickness. The train had gathered speed now, and as he had a last glimpse of the station with its flag now a mere speck in the distance, he realized that it would be with his help that his family and friends would remain free and safe, and of out the enemy ' s brutal hands. As the train wheels rolled on he turned forward and looked ahead into the future, his future — destination unknown. PAGE TWENTY-THREE

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A NIGHT TO REMEMBER By ERNESTINE HIGGINS As it is usually known, sudden storms are common along the Eastern seaboard. I was staying at a stately mansion, that had been turned into a private club, spending the re- maining month of my vacation. It was late afternoon, and I was sitting on the steps of the spacious veranda, lazily watching my four weary friends coming up the path. It was a hot, sweltering day — one of those days when all you think of is keeping cool. Nearly everyone was back from the beach, either lying on his bed upstairs or lounging on the veranda waiting for dinner. A sultry sort of peaceful quietness hung over us, and the only noise was the soft clatter of dishes and the buzzing of those infernal mos- quitoes. None of us was prepared or even expected what was to come. After dinner we all gathered in the large living room, for tonight was Tuesday night when the members of the Club participated in some kind of entertainment. Usually it was the younger crowd that depicted some of the things that had occurred during the week. It was about ten o ' clock when the crack of lightning and the rumble of the thunder pierced the gaiety. Ten minutes later the lights went out. A heavy wind started, and, before we could get out on the veranda to put the chairs against the wall, the wind had switched, upturned and thoroughly dishev- eled them. Scurrying around in the dark with the wind howling, the rain driving on the veranda, and most of us wearing rubber soled shoes, was no picnic. Finally, after fixing the chairs, putting down the windows in the up- stairs rooms, and bumping into each other, we landed in one piece back in the living room. By this time the older people decided that the wisest thing to do was to go upstairs and leave us to the downstairs. At four o ' clock the next morning the lights went on; the storm was over. That night will always be remem- bered by all of us who were there with the ghost stories made real by the darkness, the rain beating against the window sills, and the fierceness of the blinding lightning and thun- der. But that morning, as the sun came up in the eastern sky, we all knew that the day would be a perfect one. OUR SHIPS WILL SAIL ON By MARCIA SHER Although this war will bring, Disaster and remorse, Our ships will sail onward With freedom as their course. WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO PRESERVE FREEDOM? By SHERWOOD FEINBERG Far away on the battlefield of Guadalcanal a lifeless Marine lies in the muck and mire of a calmmy South Sea swamp. He died that we Americans at home might live to enjoy the freedom and the principles of a democratic life. His body reflects the determination of the American fighting man. We have been troubled with petty rationing difficulties here at home, but we have not yet been called upon for the supreme sacrifice, the surrender of our very existence, so that other Americans might live in a world free from the menace of dictators, storm troopers and the chilling staccato of a firing squad. He died that we might live. But have American people done enough fighting on the home front to justify the slaughter of even one of our country ' s fighters? Some of us here at home are putting forth the maximum effort, but even that is not enough, for our greatest effort can not bring back the lives of our doughboys. The maxi- mum can never equal the American blood that has painted a crimson trail of success on allth e battlefields of the globe. STAGE FRIGHT By GLORIA HYDE There I stood in the wings of the audi torium. The music came to an end and the dancers glided off the stage. I had a horrible elevator feeling in my stomach as I heard my chord. For one sickening moment I knew that I could not step out onto that stage — and then there I was. The music started and I was miraculously turning and swaying with the music. The hours and days of practicing had not been in vain. I didn ' t forget the dance. Suddenly it was all over, the bowing, applause, and excitement. But now that it was all over I strangely knew that I had wanted it to last forever. After all my fear and stagefright I had wanted my first recital to last always. A CHILD ' S PRAYER By MIGNON MASOWITZ Protect my father, please, dear Lord, So he ' ll come back to us some day, To live the way that free folks should, With liberty to laugh and play. Let me be brave enough to stand, Without the fear of war ' s defeat. Give me now a helping hand So future trials I ' ll bravely meet. PAGE TWENTY-FIVE