Willard Middle School - Target Yearbook (Berkeley, CA)

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The Uninteresting Age thirteen. You know AMES is at such an uninteresting age they’re men. It’s too bad, isn’t it?” ‘‘My brother is just the same age as James. He’s uninteresting and always in the way,” his sister’s companion answered. James sat on the back step and a deep red flush tinted his face. The answer of his sister’s companion had killed a budding romance that had lately entered his heart. He rose and walked down the path to the street. The words of his sister’s companion came as a climax to an already unhappy week, and mother, his real friend, was sick. He kicked a pebble viciously. Today was Saturday, play day and cake day, when mother was well. That morning he had entered the kitchen and asked Mary when the cake would be done. She had mut- tered something about kids always being ready to eat. Then he had met brother Fred for whom he had a great feeling of admiration. “Hello, sonny,” Fred’s greeting had been. He tried to laugh it off but a small lump in his throat stopped him. Next, he met his father and asked for his weekly wage. His father gave him the money and then said, “Hurry and grow up so you can earn your own money.” He had gone out on the back step when the utterance of his hister’s companion had reached his ear. “Uninteresting.” “I wonder when a fellow becomes uninteresting?” he mused. He started to walk down the street. His allowance jingled in his pocket and with the jingle came a thought. He wouldn’t touch a penny of it. He would earn his own money and buy his mother some roses. Per- haps his uninteresting age wouldn’t affect the grocer when he saw such big hands and willing feet. James reached the grocery store, and went to the proprietor, who knew him. “Do you want a boy to deliver goods?” he asked. “You’re just in time, James. We are short of help. Get on that wagon going out. I’ll pay you 50 cents a day.” James got on and the wagon started out at a terrible pace. After hours of climbing stairs, the day ended, leaving him with tired feet, skinned knuckles, and every bone in his body aching. He stopped

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me put out the fire? Here is a bucket.” But one of the Indians grabbed her, and raising his tomahawk high over her head, was about to kill her when his chief interfered. “Let her alone. I will take her to my wigwam. She is very brave. Don’t kill when they are brave, but kill when they are afraid.” A smoldering mass of ruins greeted the family when they returned six hours later. Little Billy was standing with his thumb in his mouth, and tears rolling down his cheeks. “Mama, I want Beth. She said it was a new kind of game and she didn’t come back.” His mother and father knew only too well what had happened. Their Beth had either been killed or carried off by the Indians. Beth was treated very respectfully, and they gave her whatever she wished, because the chief had taken a fancy to her. She thought only of her parents and the home that was burned. Two moons had passed, as the Indians say, when one morning Beth could stand it no longer, She must end this uncertainty and try to get- home, no matter what the consequences. As she went out of the tepee she came face to face with an old Eng- lishman whose face looked familiar. She forgot about running away; forgot about everything but the old man. He was very ill. She took him into the warm wigwam, and for weeks he lay there, Beth and her Indi an friends watching over him. Finally he opened his eyes. He looked at her a long time, and then : “Are you Beth Wellington? Yes, I thought so. When I go, read the paper in my coat. Your grandfather found out the truth — your father is not a coward, but a hero. He tried to find his son. Before he died he commissioned me to find him. I tried, but Indians separated me from the soldiers. I escaped. But I was so sick. If I could only give him the paper I could die in peace.” He closed his eyes. There were tears in Beth’s eyes. She gently took her arm from under his head, and with slow footsteps and bowed head, she went for comfort to her favorite place among the trees. She did not see anyone approach until she heard a voice cry, “Beth!” She jumped to her feet and saw — her father. “Father,” she sobbed, and was in his arms. Then she remembered the old man. “Father, he is dying and he wants to see you.” It was after they had wrapped him in a bural blanket and had laid him beneath the sighing pines that her father took out the letter. After reading it to himself, with a far-away look in his eyes, he said, “It’s just like my father, always square and brave and ready to do the right thing.” MARGARET RADER.

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at the florist’s on his way home and bought some red roses for his mother. It was late but he knew they wouldn’t miss him. They would be relieved because he wasn’t there. At last he reached home and walked in. One of his long legs came in contact with the leg of a chair. He recovered himself quickly, and, stepping over to his father’s place, gave him the money he had received from him that morning. He said in a low voice, “I worked today, father, and I am able to return my allowance to you. It is all right, isn’t it?” James turned and ran upstairs. Arriving at his mother’s room he pushed the door open. She started at the forlorn figure standing there holding an armful of roses. She held out her arms. In a minute he was in them sobbing and kissing her, forgetting his dirty hands and uninteresting age. After a long si lence he looked up and said, “It doesn’t matter what people say as long as I have you, mother.” PIERCE HUSSEY. SPRING’S ADVENT The fruit trees all in blossom. The flowers in their bloom. Both say that spring is coming Though without blast or boom. Yet what a change already! The young leaves now appear, And green grass crowns the hilltops — Tis a beautiful time of year. In the blue sky there’s sunshine, Where rain clouds used to be. Even dull, dreary winter thoughts Are changed by spring, you see. “And now,” chirp all the little birds. Who have just come up our way, “We all will be very busy Building our nests each day.” ANONA PICKARD.