Annie Wright School - Shield Yearbook (Tacoma, WA)

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read L itin labels in order to mix prescriptions. No one, but a lad of eighteen who knew a little Latin. And so he took the doaor ' s place, becoming physician, pharmacist, and distributor of medicine, on duty day and night. Time dragged along. The boy worked on, uncomplaining, tireless. Finally the crisis passed, and all was well again. The boy resumed his daily tasks unrewarded — expeaing no reward. And as it was with the boy so was it with all men, and ever shall be with the few who yet remain. In them the valiant, dauntless, open- hearted spirit of all Montana will never die. I know for the boy is my father. TISHELLE HIRSHBERG, 1936. THE CASTLE TREE Once upon a time there stood a tree Poised upon a slope of green, Braced against the winter ' s wind, I do not know what kind of tree it was — Perhaps it was a maple or an oak — To me it wa5 the Castle Tree, A tree that held all the joy That can enchant a child ' s soul. Inside its round, encircling dome There was a great, magnificenr p;i!are Filled with spacious rooms, And stairways made from branches bending low This tree was far from home; At every chance I ran To clamber to its leafy towers And slide down its entwining vines. Distant horizons and far away lands Have ever called man ' s soul. It was the Castle Tree that stirred That first great longing in my heart. ELIZABETH GOODE, 1937. OBIIT For many dark hours the commander lay on his cot, breathing in the long, gasping breaths of approaching death. Nothing could ease him; noth- ing could sweeten the dreadful hours before sleep came; only dreams could carry his mind to lands beyond the field of battle where rifles cracked, airplanes disturbed heaven ' s peace, and bombs shattered earth and air. Could nothing soothe him? Could nothing relieve him. Shyly a boy who had been standing near by stepped up to the general. Could he not go in search of a dream to bring to the commander? The wise old general smiled. Yes, he might try. Out into the wonderland of night the small boy went. As he trod his exhausting way his heart became leadened with despair and his body heavy with weariness. Finally before him loomed the workshop of dreams, veiled but not hidden. An aged man came toward him from out of shadowy darkness to guide and help him in seleaing a dream. Heroism, gallantry, pomp and grandeur, honors given and taken were all dreams shown to him. But had not his commander known all these and wearied of them? The large shadowy mass of the dream of power was shown him. Slow- ly he shook his head. No, the general longed to be free from the power that was his. To be a line soldier, striving once again had formed into a wish on his lips. Dreams of glittering wealth, of travel, even of friends were a reality to him. Far over in a comer the boy saw a cloudy mass of blue slowly being wrought into a dream. When he saw it he knew that it was the dream he wanted for his commander. It was the dream of a mother ' s love and understanding, her guiding care and dauntless encouragement. As the little boy brought the dream back and laid it at the side of the great warrior ' s bed, a word passed his lips that he had not Uttered for many years — Mother. As he smiled, eternal sleep rested with him. JANE THOMAS, 1937. THE BEAUTIFUL LITTLE RUG There was a very poor family that lived in Taliful, China. There were two children and a father in the family. It was Chang Po ' s birthday. Chang Po for about a year wanted some wool to make into a little rug, but her father said they were too poor. But her father and brother had saved up money for her to give to her for her bitthday to make the rug. She was so happy she never forgot that day. She worked on her rug for about six months. It was the most beauriful rug ever made by a little girl. She sold it and received some more money to make more rugs, and finally they were poor no more. DONNA ROGERS, Fourth Grade.

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LITERARY EFFORTS AT THE ZOO At the 200 In Honolulu The monkeys Boo to you. The lions roar And tricks the Bears do. Elephants eat Peanuts. Birds sing their Song near the huts At the 200 In Honolulu. BARBARA OHNICK, Fifth Grade. THE RIVER He loved the river. Its dignity — its silence — was all a part of him. He had been bom and reared beside it, and he knew that something in the massive way in which it flowed would refuse him the freedom that other men knew. He was drawn by it and must stay there as long as his soul was in this land. Whenever his mind was troubled he would stand on the shore and ga2e into its currents until the burning torture in his brain was cooled by its frowning depths. In the autumn, before the snow fell, and when the river was very low, he could gather enough drifrvs ood from the sands to last him throughout the long cold season. In the winter he would stand beneath a tree on the water ' s edge with the snow drifting softly around him, and except for the faint roar of the falls in the distance and the low gurgle of water in a whiripool, the earth was deathly still and white. At last when the spring came and the snow melted in the mountains, the river would be a rushing, swollen flood. And at night he would lie on his couch and listen to it roar and echo as it went over the falls a mile to the southward. The very source of his life was a river that is praised by other men only for its commercial values; yet he was content, for the river was his ' very soul, flowing on and on, and stopping for nothing until it reached its goal, the sea. PATRICIA CRANE, 1939. THE PORCUPINE The porcupine is the pincushion of the animal world. He cannot shoot his quills from his tail as some people claim. You can only get them in you if you are hit with his tail or if you should bump into him. He has no quills on his stomach. The young are in an advanced stage at birth. They have their eyes open and a full set of quills. Hemlock is the favorite food of the porcupine. He climbs a tree and stays there for days, strip- ping the branches of their bark and every green twig. He craves axe handles for the salt they con- tain. Th ' s bis r ade him unpopular in northern camps The law protects the clumsy pordcy. He can- not be shot, but a man lost in the woods with, out a gun can catch him for food. PHYLLIS LEA ZOPY, Eighth Grade. LAND OF THE SHINING MOUNTAINS Long ago when the lands of the prairie West were srill untitled, when buffalo roamed the open range, and Indians and white men lived peacefully as brothers, a small settlement sprang up in a fer- rile valley of the Rockies, The settlers were immi- grants from many far-off countries, come to Mon- tana for freedom and happiness— the realization of all their dreams. Toil and struggle against frigid avalanches of winter snow, scorching heat of summer sun, and every other rigor of wind and weather were but a small price to pay for a land where the brotherhood of nun reigned supreme. Some of the pioneers were learned men, most were not. Yet all had absorbed the wisdom and philos- ophy of the plains, taught by awe-inspiring, ever whispering silence. Perhaps the majestic moun- tains showed them the virtue of steadfastness, and the friendly, laughing brooks made them reali2e a value of a handclasp or a cheery word. For these men, old and young alike, lived life bravely and faced death gallantly, never acknowledging fear or defeat. What happened when the little colony was attacked by influenza? The doaor, an old and well-loved member of the band, went his rounds as long as he was able, administering a kind word with every spoonful of bitter medicine. Then he, too, was stricken, and there was no one who could

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THE ORGAN When God gave music to the world. He had a special plan; For first He gave the murmur of A thousand rustling leaves, The pompous boom of thunder, and The splash of ocean waves; And then He gave the songs of birds To the hungry heart of man. And when men learned to imitate The music God had given. And He felt their hearts were full enough For grander thoughts of love, He sent the mighty, stirring tones Of an organ from above, Whose holy, radiant voice had sung To AngeUchoirs in Heaven. BETTY GARRETT, 1936. ON ABSENT-MINDEDNESS They tell me I am absent-minded when I park the car and then forget where I have parked it, but I feel that I have found my equal. The two characters in this story are Mr. X and Mr. Y. Mr. X is a man who has been mar. tied a few years. Having a moderate income, he can afford only one car which, unfortunately, he seldom uses. His wife is usually jaunting about in the car to bridge luncheons, teas, and fashion shows. On this particular occasion Mr. X ' s wife was visiting her mother for a few weeks, and Mr. X had full use of the family limousine. Mr. X drove to the bank to make a deposit, and by the time he emerged from the bank, he had com- pletely forgotten his recent means of transporta- tion. He hurried three blocks to a bus line, and then had to wait sixteen and a half minutes for a bus. (He timed it) . After a shon ride, Mr. X walked six blocks to his oflSce. Arriving at the office, he chanced to thrust his hand into his pocket. The keys to his car! Annoyed, he punctu- ated his irritation by tossing the offending keys on his desk with a few relief-bringing epithets. After his annoyance cooled, however, he determined not to let anyone know about his absent-minded aa, being somewhat ashamed of himself. So Mr. X again walked six blocks to the bus. Another ride; another three blocks on foot. There was his car in front of the bank. But where were the keys? He could not find them. Thinking back, Mr. X remembered his loss of temper— and the keys still lying on his desk. What to do now was Mr. X ' s big problem. Make the journey on that bus again, he would not. What could he do? Finally Mr. X telephoned to Mr. Y at his office and asked him to bring him the key case that was on his desk. Mr. Y did what he was asked to do, but until this day Mr. Y cannot figure out how Mr. X ' s keys were at his office when his car was over three miles away. SHIRLEY ROBBINS, 1938. TO THE DEEP SKY A REVERIE OF THE BLUE As I he here in the grass. Watching cloud, bird, and plane, I think of all the glory up there. I wish often that I could go Away up, soaring and gliding. On and on through the open; Then to my nest at eve, To sing my even-song; Then to rise with the sun To welcome the day with a song; Then to soar and fly away. To sights and things beyond. MARGARET DOLGE. THE SEASONS Winter is the rime that we See the bareness of the tree, See the black clouds in the sky, And hear the northwind howling by. Spring, gay Spring, is the rime that we See the blossoms on the tree See the white clouds bating by, And twittering birds up in the sky. Summer is the rime that we See the fruit hang on the tree. See the beauty of the flowers. And play for many happy hours. Autumn is the time that we See the red leaves on the tree, The strong west wind we then can hear. And we feel that winter ' s near. LOUISE WILBUR, Seventh Grade.