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

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PRAYER FOR GREECE By JOHN MESTAKIDIS Oh, ancient little kingdom So far beyond the sea; Land of the Goddess Athena, Our prayers are all for thee; How bravely you defended Your land of long plateaus Against a cruel invader, A ruthless Fascist foe. Oh, land of faith undaunted, Land loved, I know, by God, In thy Hellenic heavens His angels do applaud. Ah, through this faith undying Has come Greek victory; The tide of the world conflict Has turned because of thee! The world has come to love you, Defender of the hour; God guide you to Valona With sacred, magic power! Oh, nation brave and bleeding, Master of Fascist might! Drive on with God and Britain, Valona is in sight. It cannot be that He ' d allow The Nazis to invade Thy honored land, in view of The stand brave Greece has made. And should that be within the plan, I know that some way He Shall lead thy legions once again To final victory! ONE MATCH By ROGER HUFFMAN It came in a huge log and it went out of the sawmill a match. The huge log was over three hundred feet tall, but it was no danger to the rest of the forest. The match was only three inches tall, but it had the power to kill every tree in the forest. ' i | ALGEBRA-. ' ; spmvc fe ' i .fc. ARE THEY WORTH IT? By LOUISE SARGENT The room had the capacity to hold ten girls, but there were twenty-five occupying it. It was so packed one could hardly move. And the noise could be heard at least four blocks away. As I entered this madhouse, or so it seemed, I was almost knocked down. Girls were pushing and shoving their way to the mirror so they could comb their lovely curls and be sure that every single hair was in its proper place. One might have thought she was in a soda fountain instead of a powder room, as such names like cherry-coke, raspberry, and strawberry could be faintly heard above the talking and yelling, as the lipsticks were passed from one girl to another. Of course there was powder and perfume and maybe a little rouge here and there. About one-half an hour later I emerged, all fresh and madeup. I slowly walked out onto the dance floor with one of my friends, and near us stood a group of young boys with no particular inclination to dance. Thus we made up for the undeserving and unappreciative males. Are they worth it? PAGE THIRTY-ONE

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5 r am p s THE DESERT TODAY By EDMUND KIESSLING Wind-swept sands; purple mountains in the distant haze; beautiful sunsets and sparkling clear nights are just a few of the desert ' s treasures. How many of you have ever spent a night on the desert where the fragrance of desert sage reigns over all and you feel as though you could touch the twinkling stars? The desert in the daytime also has its strange and fascinating attractions, such as the cheerful whistle of the desert wren or the surprise of desert animals scurrying to and fro. Many people look upon the desert as a bar- ren waste. It is true that many a gold-thirsty miner succumbed to the desert ' s cruel ways but untold numbers of travelers have found that the peace, quiet and beauty of the desert is unmatched by seashore or mountains. Now the desert has gone to war like all good Americans. No, it hasn ' t picked up a gun and gone forth to meet the enemy but today army camps sprayl over the white sands. Acres of guayule have been planted upon its rich surface and war factories now dot its vast stretches. When the war is over people will again return to the desert which will still be waiting for them as it has always been waiting. THE DRUMS By GLORIA HYDE It ' s strange what music does to a person. Yesterday our class was listening to a record o fthe Rhumba and Samba rhythms. The rec- ords started, and as the rhythm became more intense I glanced at the pupils sitting near me. Everybody was beating out their rhythm in some way, tapping their feet or their fingers, or hitting a pencil against a desk. As I looked at them I wondered what they were seeing in their mind ' s eye. Perhaps they were thinking of the same things I was. Natives, paddling down some sultry, tropical river, overhung with vines and spongy moss. Chanting, chanting so that they would row faster and get their car- goes to market sooner. Then again my friends may have been thinking of a small native village, silhouetted against a black sky. The natives beating out rhythms, planning songs for some coming festival. I wonder what they were thinking of. I wonder if they, too, were lost in the magic spell of those throbbing drums. PAGE THIRTY

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