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Page 12 text:
10 THE TARGET Marie slipped out the back door and ran as fast as her feet could take her. As she reached the pine trees and their gloomy height she wished for Sweetie. Marie walked farther and farther. When she became hun- gry she sat down and ate her cookie and banana. Soon she spied an open spot with green grass and pretty flowers. “It’s now half past twelve and she hasn’t come yet,” said Mrs. Man- ning. “I guess she went to Mrs. Smith’s for lunch. They will bring her home. Of course the dog is with her.” Marie spent the afternoon playing with the flowers and building grass huts. Suddenly the sun disappeared behind a large black cloud. “The clouds is goin’ to rain. I must go home,” thought Marie. Just then there was a loud clap of thunder and a drenching rain. Marie was very wet. She put out her hand to find her hat but instead she felt a rope. She followed the rope and came to something warm and bushy. “Sweetie,” hobbed Marie, “I is so glad you come.” After the rain Marie started home with Sweetie leading. It was quarter of seven and Mrs. Manning was frantic. She was fixing the dinner. She stepped out on the porch. Her eyes were red with weep- ing. As she looked up what should she see but Marie on Sweetie’s back and water dripping from her dress. “My child, my child. I thought you were lost.” “I was but Sweetheart come and bringed me home.” Mrs. Manning stooped, took the dog’s head in her hands and said, “You’re the best Sweetheart I ever had.” ELIZABETH WALTERS. BOBBY IN EGYPT. It was in the corner of the sum- mer house just where the large pink- rose seemed to be making a shelter for the bluejay’s nest that Bobby sat. He felt homesick and wished that he had never left England. The hot Egyptian sun was trying hard to find a way into the cool shadow of the summer house and just touched the tips of Bobby’s toes. A scorching wind blew from the desert, and Bobby saw a large bird, born on the wings of the wind, drop in the grass outside his hedge. Bobby crept up to it and put out his han d to catch it when, plop, his foot had touched a rock that rolled down the hill, frightening the bird away. Bobby saw a light in the crevice where the rock had been, and he crawled through. Inside was a long flight of stairs, and on the walls, which were of stone, were many carved figures. He walked down a narrow corridor. Suddenly turning a corner, he came into a beautiful room. On the walls shone glittering emeralds, and the ceiling was made of gold. All about stood the mum- mies of Egyptians clad in armor. But the most wonderful of all was a stone chest that looked like a coffin. It stood on legs with wings. Bobby walked nearer to it, but the mummies rushed toward him, scream- ing. Even as he gazed, the coffin flew out of the window. Bobby opened his eyes to find that he was still in the summer house with the blue jay cawing above him. VALENTINE McGILLYCUDDY. Margaret Rcsing: “I don’t think he’s lying but I don’t think he’s tell- ing the truth.”
Page 11 text:
THE TARGET 9 The Wreckers A country wagon traveled slowly up a strictly rural road. It was filled with grain, and was bound for a flour mill. Tired by the irksome journey, two boys about ten years of age, jumped from the ragon, and taking a large and bounteous lunch with them set off at a brisk pace up the rocky roadway. Knowing that their father, driver of the wagon, would soon stop to rest and feed the horses, they planned to travel ahead and have a lunch in the woods. They ate their plentiful lunch in a shady forest nook. Only two hard- boiled guinea eggs were left. These they stowed away in their pockets until their appetites should return. After a short rest they walked on until the railroad crossing was reached. Here was a place to stop. The railroad always enthused the country boy, especially after riding in a slow jolting wagon. Playing about the tracks, something which would have brought punishment upon their head s or other parts of the body, were it known to the parents, filled the lads with joy and occupied much time. The younger boy suggested that they place stones and things on the rails; and on their way back they could see the damage the train would do the objects. Having placed very pleasing articles on the tracks, they caught up to their father, who had passed them long ago, when they hid in the willows along the roadbed. Conscience worked in the mind of the older boy, until it forced him to exclaim. “Say, John, what if the things we put on the tracks back there should wreck a train?” “I was just thinking that myself,” answered the young lad. They were not allowed to converse further, for a hail came from a neighbor driving along the road. “Have you heard of the train wreck?” he asked. “It’s over Spring- field way.” He talked with the father and neither of them saw the lads run- ning up the road. The tracks were easily a mile dis- tant, but the boys soon reached them. Panting for breath they approached the spot and there lay two guinea eggs, one on each rail, each care- fully propped up with earth. They knocked them from the rails, smash- ing them completely. The appetites were not appeased, but consciences were light. NORMAN TAGGARD. MARIE’S SWEETHEART. One day Marie awoke very early. The ' birds were singing and the sun was starting his daily course. Marie lived in California in the Coast Range Mountains. Her father owned a large tract of land consisting mainly of pine trees. The land was fenced and perfectly safe. Marie had a large collie. She loved him so well that she called him her Sweetheart (and Sweetie for short). One morning Marie decided to go for a picnic all by herself and not “wif Sweetie.” After breakfast Marie gave her mother a kiss, took a cookie and a banana and started for the woods. “Don’t go far and be back by noon,” called Mrs. Manning. “Better take Sweetie.” “I is goin’ all by mysclvcs,” said three-year-old Marie.
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THE TARGET 1 1 All For Gratitude The hot intense heat of the noon- day sun had crushed everything; trees drooped, leaves withered, and the dry grass rustled and tossed in the hot currents of wind rising from the baked earth. An Indian boy, half hidden in the tall grass, watched fur- tively the far distant camp. There seemed to be no sign of unrest in it, which assured him that his people had not discovered his ab- sence. He crept on through the dead grass swiftly, but without a sound. At a distance, when his camp seemed only a speck, he rose and walked rapidly. Leaving the woodland and climbing a hill, he came in sight of a border settlement of a few log houses. There he stopped and looked back over the country he had just trav- eled. He left behind him his race, friends anl home; before him — what? He was an Indian, cruel, and al- ways would be. Yet under all this was the gratitude which never failed to repay a kindness. Had not the white man helped him in his trouble? Why should he not help the white man now? His presence in the sleepy hamlet was unnoticed and disregarded by everyone. Straight through the village he went, to a larger, more liveable cabin than the rest. He stopped before the open door and looked in. A kind-faced, white-haired priest sat writing, but as the Indian’s shadow fell across the doorway he looked up. He greeted him with some surprise yet kindly. The Indian spoke in his native language, “The Indians attack you to- night.” The priest started and turned pale. He asked the Indian for details, but all he could get from him was the repeated sentence, “The Indians attack you tonight.” The priest rose, placed water and food on the table, and departed to arouse the town. All was soon in a bustle. The set- ting sun found the houses vacant, and everyone safe in the block- house of the town. X- -X- -X- -X- •X The priest returned to his cabin. Across the doorway lay the Indian boy, one arm thrown above his head. The long gashes in the boy’s sides and legs told the story. As the priest lifted the lifeless body, he muttered, “He was followed.” FRANCES SCHLAMAN. THE WELCOME PUNISHMENT. “The Zapatistas, Senor, the Zapa- tistas,” excitedly called Manuel, “they are storming the hill of San Juan and it is thought that they will come down any minute.” “Go barricade the doors, and above all tell the factory men to keep off the roof,” ordered Mr. Wilson. As prophesied by the servant the bandits swept down from the hill, being brave only in the fact that they knew the city was unprotected, except for the handful of men they had met on the hill. For the cowardice of a Mexican cannot be overcome and the city had been abandoned, by the Carranzistas when rumors of the coming attack were heard. Mr. Wilson and his family were sit- ting in a back room when a loud knocking was heard at the door. As her husband moved towards it Mrs. Wilson tried to detain him but lie
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