Westwood High School - Chipmunk Yearbook (Westwood, CA)

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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.

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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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THE CHIPMUNK Page Thirty-one Then an idea seemed to come into his head, for he stood up, clapped his hands together and began to talk. By Jove, I have it! I have an idea! Won’t the boss pat me on the back when he sees the results of it, though? “ 1 hat’s a pippin of an idea. I’ll have to write it down, however.” So saying, he dug up a pencil and paper and scribbled something on it. Then he rushed out of the room. “That fellow has nothing wrong with him. . . The other people just shun him so that, in his friendless life, he has developed a complex tor talking to himself and they think he’s crazy. . . I’ll bet he has a good idea for some invention or an improvement on something.” This is what ran through Mr. Scotesly’s mind as he sat on the living room floor, all alone. After two or three minutes waiting, Oliver saw Mr. Murray re- enter the living room with a small, round, tin box in his hand. It looked very much like a girl’s compact. He rushed out again, returning with a small cloth. “What the dickens is he going to do now?” Oliver questioned him- self in his mind. “Well, wait and see.” James was talking to himself all this time about his idea and his boss, although he never mentioned his inspiration. Mr. Murray opened his small round box revealing some black, dull substance. “This will knock the boss for a carload of cream-puffs,” Mr. Murray said. He began to sing. “I’ve got the idea, I’ve got the idea, Oh, what an idea, Oh, what an idea, It’s got a prospect, you’d walk a mile to see.” “Yes, sir, I’ll have to congratulate myself on this. I’m going to shine my shoes.” “Caramba!” exclaimed Oliver, as he rushed out the door. Never did he come near Mr. Murray again. Vernon Newton ’29 WHEN A FELLOW NEEDS A FRIEND I remember reading that: “A wise man keeps his friendship in constant repair. It is like a beautiful plant, and if you neglect it, and have it forgotten it will die.” This is more than true. Some will say that a friend is needed when one is in difficult trouble, or sick, or poor. But I believe that friends are always needed. For a friend is one of the best things one can have in life—better than money, very often. For there are times when sympathy and understand- ing counts for more than any thing else. I heard some one read or say—“A friend is like a good coat that can be worn in all weather.” I have had such a friend but not such a coat.