Willard Middle School - Target Yearbook (Berkeley, CA)

 - Class of 1916

Page 8 of 48

 

Willard Middle School - Target Yearbook (Berkeley, CA) online yearbook collection, 1916 Edition, Page 8 of 48
Page 8 of 48



Willard Middle School - Target Yearbook (Berkeley, CA) online yearbook collection, 1916 Edition, Page 7
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Page 8 text:

6 THE TARGET The Though it has been over twelve years since " The Target " made its first appearance in print it seems but 3 r esterday that a joyous, strong, intel- ligent body of twenty-seven boys and sixteen girls, whom I was privileged for three years to call mine, con- ceived the idea of its publication. Whatever success it achieved at that time was due to the loyal, enthusias- tic service of every member of the " June Class of 1904, " who never tired in their efforts to make " The Target " worth} ' of McKinley School. Had the venture failed, we shoulG have felt the effort worth while, for arget we grew in the doing, better than we knew. That " The Target " has lived on through so many years as the of- ficial organ of McKinley is very grat- ifying; that it has attained such a high standard among school produc- tions is evidence that the same fine spirit of endeavor that characterized the class that launched it still per- vades the school life of your school. That " The Target ' has become an im- portant factor in the school and com- munity is very pleasing to those who have loved it longest and best. ELIZABETH MILLER.

Page 7 text:

THE TARGET 5 when I stopped on the road to rest a few moments, I was caught and brought here before all you people, " said the Prince, out of breath. He pardoned Father Pepio, on con- dition that he would be more careful in the future. The Priest lived to an old age, but he never again told the village folk of his deeds of valor. LEILA SHIELDS. THE GARDEN As I first opened the massive iron gate, I stepped back in surprise, for I had not expected the garden of this deserted house to be so wonderful. The tall, stately hollyhocks reached almost up to the front windows of the old-fashioned house. A large elm tree shaded the left side and on the right was a patch of green lawn sprinkled with daisies. A fountain, which I could see had not been used for years, stood in the center of this patch. As I walked around to the back of the house I saw there were wonder- ful beds of old-fashioned flowers — peonies, foxgloves and syringa. The roses were in bloom, too, yellow, red, white and pink ones. Climbing over the back porch was a Cecil Bruner and the well was covered with dusty ivy. A small summer house almost covered with morning glories invited me. As I stood in the garden alone, I thought of the city and the build- ings so near. I walked slowly to the front again and passed through the gate. A FLOCK OF ANGELS. After a short period of West Point life, George Grayson found it no bed of roses. He was precisely the type of plebe that the yearlings took most delight in tormenting and he got more than his full share. Before his first guard duty he was carefully crossquestioned by " Pete " Bennett, the ringleader of his tor- mentors, as to just what he would do were every conceivable emergency to arise on his post. When he arrived at his place, how- ever, all was quiet, and, he reflected, " At last I ' m rid of those pests for a little while at least. That Pete is officer of the guard to-night, though, and I suppose he ' ll be able to find something to do to me. " Several times during the evening he thought he heard peculiar noises in the great elm tree at one end of his beat, but decided it to be only the summer breeze. Promptly as the clock struck eight, fearful noises, moans and se pulchral groans issued from the tree-top, mak- ing his hair stand on end. Wh-wh-oo-oo g-g-oes there? " he chattered, his knees trembling and his face ashen. Clear and sweet came the answer, " A flock of angels descending on your post. " At that two ruffians rushed out from behind a hedge, took his gun away and left him stretched flat upon the ground. Crash! Smash! Thump! came the sound of a heavy falling body. With a final crash " Pete " appeared out of the elm and gave poor Grayson five demerits for " not saluting an officer when he appears on your post. " MARJORIE LEVIN. KATHARINE WILDER.



Page 9 text:

THE TARGET 7 " Here ' s Rosemary — That ' s For Remembrance It is good for a graduate to look back upon the years that are gone, to cast up the accounts of his mem- ories, to think of those days of be- ginnings when the seeds of am- bitions and ideals were being set in the garden of his life. It is good to remember because the memory fills one ' s heart with gratitiide. Shall I tell you the manner of my remem- brance? Just two weeks ago I wandered thru an old garden that is spread be- neath great gnarled oaks beside a happy singing stream. It was very late, and dark, for only the blue star- shine lit the garden paths. I paused in passing to watch the water break in hurried spray over the brown stones, but hardly had I bent to look, when out from a clump of ferns, pushing aside the damp fronds in his hurry, plunged an elf — hand high, dressed all in green with a flower cap tilted back from his smiling face, and a spray of Rosemary between his lips. I remem- ber noticing a book, almost as big as himself, strapped under his arm. Without a word of warning he clam- bered up beside me, and I, astonished, felt myself shrinking to his size. I closed my eyes. When I opened them again, he had spread the book out on his knees and was smiling at the pictures there and talking half aloud with now and then a smile. As [ looked over his shoulder, the night and the starlit garden seemed to van- ish quite away. Only I heard his gay little whispering voice crooning a song that I half remembered. Let us off and away, while the mem- ories stay, To that far land the elf children made, To the land of recalling, where dream petals, falling, Bring thoughts that are never to fade. Let us pause as we skim o ' er the dream pages dim, Where the old days by magic are shown, Let us look and be glad, for the dear days we had Still live — yea they never have flown! Beneath his hurrying fingers the pictures seemed alive. They showed me those happy hours seven years ago when McKinley school was home to the ' 09 class. Again I hurried into the building with its wide, cool halls and its shuttered windows, in and out of the familiar class rooms. Now the " Target " staff was gathered in Miss Fisher ' s room discussing plans for the last issue — for stories and poems and the prophecy. Then, as the elf turned the heavy pages, I saw the old assembly hall. It was Lin- coln ' s birthday and we were gathered together to sing and speak of the man whom we had grown to love. I heard the songs again and felt the uplift of the assembly as we sang to- gether. I saw Miss Ellerhorst at the piano leading and singing with us, for our enthusiasm was hers. Before I had time to linger over the picture, he turned the pages with a chuckle. It was graduation day. We were hurry- ing to and fro from Wilkins ' Hall

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