Willard Middle School - Target Yearbook (Berkeley, CA)

Page 26 text:

The Path of War HE day was unbearably hot. The vast plains of Texas seemed to fairly glow with the heat, and for that reason I was glad to help the women with the wash at the spring. It was so delight- fully cool there. Because of poor health, my uncle had come to Texas on a camping trip. Many people joined him, my father, my brother and I included. It was in the days when Indians often left their reservations to go on the war-path or other happy jaunts. I was only four then, and so I cannot remember every particular of the trip, but this incident I can never forget. Being small, I was not as much of a help as I thought I was, but I pattered around, wringing out the small things and doing other sundry jobs — besides getting in the way. I was especially fond of Indians, for those that I had seen had always given me gay trinkets, and so I was delighted to see eighteen or twenty braves come riding over the plains. “See! See !“ I cried. “Injuns come! Injuns! Injuns.” To my surprise, the women gathered up their washing and hastily retreated into the tall grass, pulling me along with them. Disappointed and angry, I commenced weeping. “See! See!” I cried. “Injuns come! Injuns! Injuns!” “Hush!” commanded one o f the women. “Don’t you see their war paint?” At the words “war paint”, my very heart stood still. Obediently I became very quiet. To our horror, the Indians rode up to the spring and dismounted. H ow we hoped they would not see us. They seemed to fear that some- one was following, for while some drank, the others kept watch. The Indians’ bodies were a brilliant red, and fantastically figured in green and blue. Their brightly colored faces were lined grotesquely in black, and their very tufts of hair seemed to bristle with hatred. Toma- hawks, none too bright, and bloody scalping knives hung at their sides. Two or three had pistols and guns, while the rest carried bows and arrows. Had the chief moved but a few feet he would have seen a fright- ened little drab bundle lying in the grass. I watched his hideously painted face anxiously. If he saw me, would he try to carry me away like an- other Indian had? No father would be near to see my kicking red shoes now. This Indian, however, had no blanket under which to hide me, as the others had, so he would not do that. He would kill me!

Page 25 text:

“What yo’ all gwine ter do wit dat er cat?” demanded Abe, stop- ping short. “Roast her,” replied a boy amid a shout of dense laughter from the others. “Give ’er to me,” said Abe sternly, advancing toward the boy. “Well, I guess not. Snowball,” retorted one of the boys. “Yos certainly not gwine to burn er, is ya?” insisted Abe anxiously. “Yes we are,” spoke up another boy, “and you’d better beat it out of here.” “I‘ll give yo dis for ’er,” said Abe, handing over his precious ticket. The boys consulted. Only one ticket could not take them all to the circus, but they could sell it and buy a lot of things to eat with the money. “Aw, take her,” said one of the boys finally, snatching the ticket and throwing the kitten at Abe’s feet. He picked her up gently and walked away. Two great tears fell on kitty’s soft dirty fur. “Dat war gwine ter be a first-class circus,” he said, “but I’s mighty glad I happened ’long in time to save dis poo’ t’ing.” MARGUERITA KARSTEN. THE CLOCK Get up ! Get up ! Look at the clock ! Get up! Get up! No time to talk! The sun is up! ’Tis time to go! You will be late to school, I know! Oh clock, you go so very fast! But, here I am at school at last! Yet, what could I do. If it weren’t for you? The clocks at school are very slow; They seem to take an age to go. A second’s an hour, an hour’s a day. While I sit at my desk and say, “Oh clock, you go so very slow I really don’t believe you go!” Yet, what could I do. If it weren’t for you? CHIYO THOMAS.

Page 27 text:

Our horses were tethered nearby, but the tall grass hid them. Mrs. Thornton put a wet towel over the nose of her horse, and Mrs. Jacobs held her pony. The other women crouched in the grass hoping against hope that their steeds would not whinny, for they dared not move. I lay nearest the Indians. Quivering with terror, I squatted there, watching every move they made, and wishing that I could move farther away. Around a clump of bushes the water was ditsurbed, there were prints of our footsteps in the mud, and every sign of people being near. Should the Indians move around those reeds such plain evidence would give our hiding place away. Then, without doubt, after finishing with us, they would go to the settlement and continue their bloody work. We could easily tell by their bloody tools and watchfulness that they already had done some pillaging. Time seemed to stand still. Would they never go on? Why did it take them so long to drink? Now that they had finished drinking, why did not they go on? One of the braves was moving toward the reeds! I must do something to stop him! I was about to pop up and say, “Don’t go there! You may see us”, when one warrior whispered to the chief. He whirled around and gazed intently over the plain. A guttural com- mand was given — they were on their horses and away ! I wailed and wept, now, with fright and relief. As soon as the danger was passed we mounted our steeds and rode to camp. That night soldiers arrived from Ft. Worth, telling of the hor- rible massacres committed by these same Indians. The next morning our baggage was being piled into the covered wagons and soon we were roll- ing over the plains to Ft. Worth ADELE MONGES. MY GRANDMOTHERS GARDEN In my grandmother’s old-fashioned garden. There are old fashioned flowers rare. There are pansies, and tulips, and mignonette. And towering lilies there. There are pink little baby roses. And tiny forget-me-nots, too. That are blue as grandmother’s eyes are. As blue as the sky is blue. ROBERT LADDISH.