Willard Middle School - Target Yearbook (Berkeley, CA)

 - Class of 1933

Page 18 of 68

 

Willard Middle School - Target Yearbook (Berkeley, CA) online yearbook collection, 1933 Edition, Page 18 of 68
Page 18 of 68



Willard Middle School - Target Yearbook (Berkeley, CA) online yearbook collection, 1933 Edition, Page 17
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Willard Middle School - Target Yearbook (Berkeley, CA) online yearbook collection, 1933 Edition, Page 19
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Page 18 text:

Tuffy " Jt ' s a dime anyway, isn ' t it, old pal? It won ' t be long before I have the rest and can take you home with me. " Dickie spoke through the win- dow to the little pup with whom he had made friends. After school each evening Dickie rushed to the store window to make sure Turfy hadn ' t been sold. Dickie sold papers to help his father, who was not strong, secure food for them. This evening as he was on his way to get his bundle of papers, he stopped to talk to Tuffy and encourage him by showing him the dime he was going to put away to buy him. Conversation drifted out from the store as a very well-dressed man came toward the entrance to leave. " I ' ll come for him in about an hour. I ' m sure my little girl will like him, " said the man. As the large car rolled away, the storekeeper placed a card in the win- dow. Dickie saw the terrible word " Sold " in large, black letters. He was so grieved that he forgot his papers and stood with his nose pressed to the glass. Tuffy jumped up against the window and licked it as though he could read the look on Dickie ' s face. Dickie tried to speak to his friend, but his voice was choked. At last the fatal hour was up, and Dickie saw the tall man get out of his automobile. In the car sat a little girl about four years old playing with a red ball. Back in the store Dickie saw a lovely collar being fitted around Tuffy ' s neck. Blinded with tears, he started once more on his way when his foot struck a red ball which rolled out into the street. Quick as a flash the little girl was out of the car and after the ball. Dickie dashed after her. With all his strength he pushed her to safety, unable to avoid the approaching car himself. As he came out of the store, Tuffy saw his friend lying in the street. Breaking away from his new master, he darted to Dickie ' s side and refused to be separated when the man lifted him into The hospital room was very quiet when Dickie opened his eyes. He felt a pain in his head and he turned to see where he was. He felt a warm, furry body against his hand, and looking down he saw his dear Tuffy. " He ' s going to be yours, " said the nurse bending over the white bed to pat the little dog, " a father ' s reward for saving his little daughter. " " Good old boy, " Dickie murmured, as he fell into a quiet sleep. his car. Nancy Ann Smith. Mother ' s Cookies Mother ' s baking cookies, And, oh, they do smell good! Noiv they ' re in the oven. I would take one if I could! Mother says they ' re almost done. I can hardly wait, And, when at last they ' re finished, I always eat ' most eight. Some time you come to our house On mother ' s baking day, And you can have some cookies Made the good, old-fashioned way. Georgeanna Hays.

Page 17 text:

" I am sorry, son, but it is not ours. It belongs to the United States ' Government, " replied Mr. Robinson. With that remark, he blew the whistle several times, and a crew of men appeared. " What ' s going on here? " asked the man in the best looking uniform. " We found, and we return the submarine No. S 43. Will you come aboard and inspect it so as to see that we have not harmed it in any man- ner? " said Mr. Robinson. " My goodness, " said the officer, " that submarine sank a year ago. It was supposed to have crashed. " " We had surmised so, sir, " said Mr. Robinson. As they climbed down the conning tower, the story was briefly told. When they reached the bottom of the ladder, the officer said, " My, what a maze of ropes. Where is your crew? " " Right here, " said Mr. Robinson. " It consists of John Smith, my son Bob Robinson, and myself. " " Well, Mr. Robinson, " said the officer, " we shall report this to Wash- ington, and you will shortly hear from us. " A week later, word came that they would receive the submarine as a reward because it was old- fashioned and could no longer be used in active service. Carleton Cross. The zAir Mail Oh! the roar of the motor, the whir of the plane, Going onward and onward through sunshine or rain, Going onward and onward through hail or through sleet, Speeds steadily forward this swift ship and fleet. Its pilot is daring; its pilot is bold. Its pilot has faced many danges untold. Yet daytime or nighttime he ' s true to his trust For the service ' s law is, " To do this he must! " O ' er hill and o ' er valley, o ' er vale and o ' er stream; Then far in the distance he sees a small gleam. ' Tis the gleam of the light on a small monoplane. Then slowly this pinpoint of light ' gins to wane. Then nearer and nearer there looms a tall spire, Which faster and faster grows higher and higher. Of the whole air -way system this spire is the core. Oh, the air-mail pilot is back home once more. Morton Sivarth.



Page 19 text:

White Kiiffnlo I Jncle promised to tell us the story of White Buffalo, an Indian who was his guide while he was exploring the Great Lake Territory. Everybody gathered around the fireplace and he began: " It was midspring and everything was going fine until I woke up one morning to find myself securely tied. I looked to see if Chita, my partner, was tied. He was, but still asleep. I woke him up. He let out an oath that shook the mountains in protest, but, on finding himself tied, he turned and looked at me in astonishment and said, ' Whose joke is this? " " Til be blamed if I know, ' I said. We got untied and looked around the camp. Our guide, White Buffalo, was gone. Chita called my attention to the trail of the intruders. We packed what food we had left. Luckily for us the Indians, we had found out they were Indians by the type of footprints because there is no arch print, had overlooked our guns, powder, and ball. " We didn ' t intend to attack. We wanted to find out who the Indians were that had captured White Buffalo. About noon we came to a cliff overlooking a small lake. Chita, who had gone a little to the left, mo- tioned for me to come. He pointed down to the base of the cliff and ut- tered the single word, ' Hurons. ' I grew cold. A clammy feeling crept over me. That word was terror on the frontier. We concealed ourselves in some bushes. We had a good view of the village. We were to be the unseen spectators of the torture of White Buffalo. There was a stake at the edge of the village with a circle of bushes around it. At the side was a fire by which were seated two warriors. One was turning a bar of metal in the fire. The rest of the people were at the other end of the village except a couple of playful boys who were dancing around the torture stake. " Presently the noisy crowd began to move toward the stake. Two warriors were leading a young but perfectly built Blackfoot warrior. It was White Buffalo. The children were spitting and throwing sticks at the tall, muscular warrior, who paid no heed to them. He didn ' t seem to be moved by the fact that he would soon die, but instead he looked straight ahead and walked with his same, easy stride. The Hurons are known to eat the hearts of brave warriors whom they capture. White Buffalo was bound by the feet securely, but his hands were tied by some warrior who was too excited to tie carefully. " The chief came up and asked White Buffalo some questions. He then drew the bar of hot metal out of the fire with a piece of buckskin and proceeded to roll it down White Buffalo ' s legs. This did not change the expression of his face, which was as calm as yours or mine right now. " Just then there was a sharp crack of a gun. Chita had fired. The chief staggered and fell face down at the feet of White Buffalo. The warriors by force of habit ran for their weapons, momentarily forgetting their captive. The hot, metal bar fell on the buckskin bonds which held him, burning clear through them. White Buffalo picked up the hot,

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