Westwood High School - Chipmunk Yearbook (Westwood, CA)

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THE CHIPMUNK Page Twenty-nine A NIGHTMARE Jane sat in the living room, moodily staring into the fire which cheerfully burned in the huge red brick fireplace. What shall I do?” she mused, growing more despondent than ever, as she reflected on the previous departure of her family to spend the day with a relative. “Of course”, she ejaculated with a fresh outburst of indignation, “it had to be I that remained at home, and today of all days!” “To be sure,” she hesitatingly admitted to herself, “there are my lessons, hateful things, which I ought to do—but, and she dwindled off into the series of mumbling statements, and continued her distracted gaze. Suddenly Jane straightened. Was it possible? “No, I'm only dreaming,” she breathed. She looked again, and there, standing atop of a burning coal, was a queer little man dressed in a flaming red suit. “Follow me,” were his only words, and before Jane was fully aware of this strange experience, she found herself following this un- known personage throughout winding halls, which appeared to her as part of an immense castle. Presently the couple approached a small room, but before either of them were able to gain entrance, there emerged from the door, a tall, thin, shallow-faced, uninteresting individual dressed in a fashionable black suit of evening clothes. Suddenly, he saw Jane, and with a long, accusing finger, he point- ed at her and screeched in a clear distinct voice, “Oh-ho-young lady. So you have been neglecting me lately. Oh what won’t I do! Oh!”—and he ended with a dismal wail. So astonished was Jane, that she remain- ed speechless, eyeing the stranger with an uncontrollable fear. Presently her eyes noted that the word “English” was written in bold white letters across the front of a large black derby worn by this strange personage. At this point Jane’s observation was interrupted by the appearance of three more such beings, labeled “Algebra”, “Spanish”, and “History.” It grew suddenly dim, except for a flickering light now and then, which only tended to increase the fear of poor Jane. Soon she was aware that grimacing faces were peering at her throughout the im- pending gloom. With a screach of terror, June turned to flee from these joykillers, and found herself going down, down and down to unknown depths. Desperately, she attempted to stop her fatal flight, but to no avail, for suddenly she landed with a terific crash on the brown rug in front of the fireplace. Sleepily, she rubbed her eyes. Why—where were those gruesome figures, English, Algebra, Spanish and History? Gone? Oh no, there they were, all four, peacefully lying on the library table, waiting to be mastered. Fern Dixon ’29.

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Pajre Twenty-eijrht THE CHIPMUNK There was a young, first-class man on the team who was not on it for his pleasure. The others didn’t know anything about him but that he was honest and all for West Point. After the coach had cheered the team just before the last quarter, they went on the field. “Signals!” The ball was passed. Down the field went Williams, right beside the man with the ball. A man on the An- napolis team got the man with the ball, but just before he went down, he passed it to Williams. This changed things a bit. Ahead of Williams was the enemy. His head swam and his heart was sick. He couldn’t make it! But he must! Through the line he plunged! He felt a sharp pain in his neck, the field turned around and around, but he didn’t go down. He cleared the line. He was staggering, but he went as fast as he could for the goal- post. Slower and slow'er he went. Every muscle was protesting, and the other team was right behind him. After what seemed a long time he saw a white and black post on each side of him, fell on the ball, and knew no more. When he opened his eyes, he was surrounded by twenty-one fel- lows in football uniform and many others who were not in uniform. A young man in white was talking to the coach, who stood near, and said, “He’s a gritty little chap! When a man with a twisted neck will make a record run like that, there’s more to him than you think Williams grinned and said, “Say, Doc, I had to do it.” Russell Hutchinson ’31. FOOTBALL Can you hear the thumping ball, and big bodies’ thudding fall As they pound that hundred yards of fierce-fought turf— Feel the dull ache of defeat, taste the wine of vict’ry sweet, As they surge, retreat, and batter like the surf? Like to those who held the pass under stern Leonidas, Are the teams which fight against unequal odds— As upon a battlefield, swift to charge and slow to yield, While the outcome’s on the knees of grinning gods. Ah, youth! Oh, ecstasy and thrills! The cheering rises to the hills, When an unexpected touchdown turns the game— With mingled brains and brawn these lads fight till strength is gone: Here’s high strategy and drama; here is fame! Coaches, players, rooters, friends know uncertainty that rends As the precious moment swiftly tick away; From the agonized suspense, and unbridled vehemence, It’s a limp, exhausted throng that leaves the fray. Anonymous.

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Page Thirty THE CHIPMUNK POETRY Poetry’s a lotta bunk— Who wants to be a poet? I think Pll write a line or two— But when I try, 0 Gee! Pm sunk! I never was a poet, nor ever will be, likely— And as the sunny days go by I think of things Pd like to write But all I do is sit and sigh— Perhaps Pll write some by and by— But now as through my nature springs Like fire, an urge to write these things, When I get a pencil in my hand— Thoughts leap right out and run away— Who wants to be a poet anyway? Faith Mullen ’30. A FIRST CLASS CANDIDATE FOR NAPA James Murray had always had a reputation as a sort of “half cracked individual,” ever since that day in nineteen hundred and thirty when he came walking into the living room of the boarding house, into which he has just moved, on his hands, shouting: “Long live Abe Lincoln.” Now Oliver Scotesly, a very optimistic young man residing in a neighboring boarding-house, was very curious about Mr. Murray and, not taking much stock in the stories that had been circulated about James, decided to see for himself. Besides being young, good-looking, optimistic and curious, Oliver Scotesly was lucky, exceedingly lucky. He chose a night to spy upon Mr. Murray, and, as it happened, everybody in the house he was interested in left, excepting James Murray. Oliver stalked up to the house at eight-thirty, on the selfappoint- ed evening. He opened the door cautiously and stepped into the living room. The last strains of some idiotic orchestra piece were just dying away. James was sitting in an easy-chair, staring into the fireplace, in which a merry, dancing blaze cracked. The room was dimly lighted, so Oliver sat down on the floor be- hind the center table, near James. Mr. Murray’s gaze began to rove after a while. He looked at the models and vases on the mantel-piece, then at his none-too-clean suit. His eyes finally fell and his gaze rested on his scuffed, well used, and unshined shoes.