Willard Middle School - Target Yearbook (Berkeley, CA)

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Nearly Going Up — or Down H, PLEASE, please tell me a story,” begged Barbara, ‘‘a nice long one, about when you were a little girl.” Barbara and Miss Marjorie were seated under a drooping willow near a chuckling ittle stream, and with a plate of Belinda’s best cookies, they were whiling away a pleasant afternoon. “Well, let me think; what shall I tell you?” Miss Marjorie asked thoughtfully. “Anything, just anything, only make it nice and long,” Barbara answered. “All right.” So w ith a final cookie Miss Marjorie began: “A long, long time ago when I was a little girl, about four years old, my father, because of poor health, left Boston and moved to Texas. There, in order to make a living for his family, he kept a ‘general store’. About ten miles from us was a large Indian reservation. From there the Indians came to our store frequently for supplies. Tobacco and fire- water were greatly in demand; but my father knew better than to keep liquor, for if an Indian drank only a little, it always excited and crazed him until he was ready for the war path. Then, of course, he would destroy anything and everything without mercy. “One morning, my father having seated me upon the counter, I took great delight in watching my two little red shoes, which, only the day before had come from the East. Then suddenly, loud wa r whoops were heard. My father, standing behind the counter, saw through the win- dow a band of Indians in their war paint galloping toward the store. Louder and louder beat their horses’ hoofs. Nearer and nearer they drew. Jumping from their mounts they rushed into the store. Paint — feathers — Indians — confusion was everywhere. “Tobaccy, tobaccy, fire-water, fire-water,” they yelled. My father realized that any false move would be fatal, and scalping would be our fate. Two little red shoes tapping on wood reminded him of an open barrel of gunpowder which stood before the counter. A sud- den thought struck him. Being blown up would be kinder than death with slow torture. Desperately he hunted in his pockets for a match — first in his vest-pocket, then in his hip-pocket — but both were empty. Louder and louder clamored the excited, drunken Indians. Then father remembered he had left his matchbox on a shelf in another corner.

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The boys were educated at home as there were no schools. Mr, Sutter began prospecting for gold and he struck a rich vein. This devel- oped into the Sutter mine, the richest mine ever found in those days. Quite a large village grew up around the mine. After a few years Ralph and John married two of the prettiest girls in the village. They made their homes in the little valley where their father and mother had first settled in the wonderful West. NETTIE LAWSON. A Pony Express Rider T WAS my great-grandfather that had this thrilling experience in the ’60’s while riding in what is now Nevada but what was then a bare waste of desert land. The wind was beating against Jack Hart’s face and his legs were aching from holding them around the pony’s thin flanks. But this was not all that was troubling him. He was being chased by Indians, who were slowly but surely gaining on him. What if they caught him? He dared not think about that. Jack was a pony express rider and he was riding twice his distance that day, as the man at the end of his route had been killed by Indians. And now Jack was being chased by these same merciless warriors. As Jack made a turn he was confronted by a wide river with all of the bridge gone except a little piece at this end. There was only one thing to do and that was to hide. To turn back would mean to be captured and to try to swim the river meant certain death. So he looked around for a hiding place. Suddenly he had an idea. He went out into the water, pulling his horse after him. He then tied his horse’s mouth with a piece of deer skin so he would not make any noise. This being done, he went under the piece of bridge and lay down on the wet sand. Soon he heard the hoofbeats of the Indian ponies coming nearer and nearer, and finally the Indians talking right above him. They could not understand what had become of Jack. There were no footprints on the other side, so they concluded that he was drowned and turned back to face the anger of their chief. Jack lay still until the Indians were out of hearing. Then he got up, stretched his cramped legs, and started on again with his message. MARGARET MOLONEY.

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‘Wait,’ he said to the circle of painted wild men, ‘I go get them.’ And making his way through the shouting crowd, he soon found his matches. Striking one and holding it over the barrel of gunpowder, he said: ‘Umph, umph, look, look — drop match — all go up!’ A single spark would have sent us up — or maybe down,” laughed Miss Marjorie, “who knows?” “The excited Indians realized the danger and hurried pell-mell from the store. Once outside they leaped on their horses and were gone. My father felt his scalp and breathed a sigh of relief. “After that we were never again troubled with Indians.” RUTH LYSER. My Favorite Hiding Place der. But look, do you see that branch that brushes against the telephone post? That is the secret. After climbing the post, which is as easy as walking up some stairs, it is a simple thing to grasp a branch and step lightly over on a strong bough. To one unaccustomed to the tree, it would seem a regular network of branches and so high as to make one dizzy. But it is like my own backyard to me. After running along a branch a few yards and climbing up a few feet more, I arrange myself comfortably and draw the branches snugly around me. When I hear the “Ella-ella-ellson-free”, I quickly drop from branch to branch, slide down the mam trunk, jump a few feet and land in the soft earth on all fours. It is a little easier than to go around by the post. After I run into the base, free, everyone wonders where my hiding place is. You see they don’t even suspect “my tree” at all. My tree is on the top of a slight hill and I can get a wonderful view from my little perch. Shrubbery grows all over the ground and I can pass in and out freely by hiding m the underbrush as I run along. At the bottom of the hill is a little brook that ends in a large pond. I can just see the glint of the sun shining on it away in the distance, from my look- out. Opposite the pond is an abandoned schoolhouse with a sagging roof, and an old, moss-covered well. Some windy night this old building is going to blow over and be just a pile of brushwood. OU should see my favorite hiding place. It is a snug little branch away up in a tall tree. No one ever suspects this could be so used because it seems impossible to climb the tree without a lad- ENID KEYES.