Willard Middle School - Target Yearbook (Berkeley, CA)

Page 10 text:

8 THE TARGET Suddenly he turned to his companions; they were gone, Where? But Craw- ford knew that they were battling with Merrill men, so on he sped. Suddenly the stands bellowed louder than ever for it was over. Yes, Crawford had crossed the line. Some thought Crawford the hero of the game because he placed the “pigskin” for the winning tally. Others say Billy Bobcraft because he used “common sense” and gave it to Crawford because he knew he would be unable to keep up with the rest. What is your opinion, sir reader? CHESTER POST. o THE MEANING OF ART. It has been one object in the Elementary High School drawing course to bring to the understanding of the pupils that there is a broad meaning in Art. Brief talks, the relating of in- cidents of every-day life, and short reports of the relation of art to industry have been given to stimulate thought along broader lines. A written test was recently given, divided into three parts: — (1) defi- nitions or statements relating to principles underlying representative drawing; (2) drawings showing the application of these principles; (3) questions relating to Art ip its broader sense. Questions in the third part were as follows; — State relationship between (1) Art and the position of street- car conductor. (2) Art and a street-car passenger. (3) Art and a spelling contest. (4) Art and a game of hand-ball, basketball, or tennis. The following is quoted from the paper of Henry R. Haines, a member of the drawing class. “Uncertain as the relation between Art and the position of street-car conductor may seem at first sight, there is nevertheless a very close relationship. ‘Art,’ as a word is too often used in a narrow sense to mean drawing or anything thai may be derived from drawing. In a broader sense the Avord may be taken to mean a fine fitness for any occupation, a clear perception, and a sense of the fitness of things. A good street-car conductor must have politeness, diplomacy, great re- liability and self-respect, and a strong knowledge of human nature, each of which is in itself an art. I have met at least one conductor who is an artist. I have met him several times and on each occasion he has shown his art, in little things, such as letting small boys with heavy loads ride on the rear platform (against the letter of the rules), and holding the car, which was behind time, in order to let one old woman make connections. “Art in a street-car passenger may show itself in any of several ways. A ride in the cars may be made more pleasant by a knowledge of art. Things that at first seem poor and ugly may be found to be beautiful. A more pleasant relationship beUveen fellow-passengers may be established by the use of a little of the art of consideration of other people. “Art, in its narrower sense, means drawing, or anything derived from drawing. In a broader sense it means expertness, clarity of sight, training of hand, and above all, love of the work. That must exist in the man and Avithout it there can be no Art.” M. C. K. o THE PARTY LINE. The ’phone rang in a little board office near the great concrete irriga- tion dam which the Atlas Contract- ing Company Avas building in South- ern California. A hot and Avorried foreman rnsAvered it. “Hello,” he said, “this is the Atlas Contracting Co.” “This is the First National Bank. We just received your check on us for tAventy thousand cash, which we are sending at once by Wells Fargo.” “All right, hurry up and shoAv signs of life, because the men Avill strike if they don’t get paid in hard coin this evening.” The Atlas Contracting Company had temporarily been connected on a party line and Avhen “Foxy Freck- les” a professional safe cracker in hiding near by heard the contractor’s ring, he had listened, and heard the conA ' ersation. Forgetting that others eavesdropped, he decided to call up his gang in the nearby city, and “let them in on” a scheme for robbing

Page 9 text:

THE TARGET 7 VESPERS. Softly and gently the vesper hymn rose and fell, gradually fading into a sweet, tender tone of prayer and pity, bringing forth a note of earnest appeal which inspired the impetuous spirit of youth and stimulated the tired heart of age. Casually thinking, you would pre- sume that the evening anthem was the work of the choir, but, feeling deeper into the undercurrent of har- mony, you would find that its beauty, its tenderness, the very soul, lay in the organ alone. The symphony grew stronger and surged into richness and power. Its tone rang out clear and strong, find- ing an answering chord among the chimes of the belfry. The pillars of the nave trembled, the rood screen vibrated, the music filled every nook and cranny of the old cathedral, then ceased — a tense moment. A low minor note came, — a chord, a note — and the congregation breathed again. As the old organist allowed his fingers to improvise, he mused and nodded over his keys. “What a task it had been! Was he weakening? Why did the pedals seem so far and impossible to reach? Had the organ bench been raised? Surely not. Why had the chords seemed so difficult to hold? Could he not remember when a boy had nearly burst a blood- vessel pumping for him? Why had the young minor canon insisted up- on his being helped up to the or- gan? Had he seemed pale or feeble to-night? Of course not!” And a chord flung out defiance, but quickly weakened. “Anyhow, had he not a cottage for Beth and a comfortable little income waiting for her each month? Had he not just received a message from London, saying that his last oration had achieved a triumph before the critics and clergy, and were not the arias of “Judas Maccabeus” down in black and white, and the great chorus even being sung by the ca- thedral choir? Perhaps it would be better that he lie by the side of Martha in the quiet, peaceful church- yard. Perhaps she would have it so.” The fingers relaxed, the head drooped forward and he slipped quietly into a deep vale of darkness. The choir had passed out and was hastily disrobing. The curate, step- ping from the sacristy, accosted the minor canon. “Where is he?” he asked. In answer, the minor canon turned and darted up to the organ loft. With his snowy head’ resting on hands that still spanned the loved keys, the old musician’s face shone like marble. “My God!” breathed the young man, and then he answered tlie an- xious questioning of the curate at the foot of the staircase — “A celestial vesper is now in har- mony with the old man’s notes and peace reigns.” HENRY C. THOMAS. o THE WINNING TALLY The football game between Merrill and Newport had just started. Both teams were well prepared for the battle and fought hard but neither side scored the first half The second half opened with a few changes on both sides. Jack Ridley, Captain of the Merrill eleven, sig ' nailed for a forward pass but New- port took the ball away and started to run down the field but a Merrill man kicked it back. So it went, back and forth, neither side gaining or losing until at last there re- mained but five minutes to play. Suddenly from out of a scrim- mage emerged a figure wearing the colors of Merrill College. Plainly in his arm could be seen the football. He started towards Newport’s goal. Somq one of the Newport team nush- ed liim out of the way. On he sped ; the stands were jumping, cheering — some one tackled him— he fell heav- ily on the turf and the ball flew from his hold. “Billy Bobscraft, Rah-Rah-Rah-Billy Bobscraft,” shouted the Newport root- ers. For Billy Bobscraft had secured the ball and started down ,the field. His fellows, soon rallied, . kept all men of the Merrill team away. On he sped gaining every step; yard lines passed like streaks. Billy began to weaken. . He shouted the signal for a pass; he threw the bail to Crawford, the big quarter- back, who, being sturdy,,, started on.

Page 11 text:

THE TARGET 9 the wagon that carried the specie from the railroad to the irrigation project ten miles away. But Anitha Simpkins, village gossip, listened to the conversation of her neighbors while she peeled potatoes, and for the first time since her telephone had been installed she heard something of real importance. She lost no time in telephoning the county sheriff the facts. So, when the Wells Fargo team left the depot that afternoon a posse of armed men rode about one hundred yards behind it. As the treasure- laden vehicle entered a small canyon it was accosted by “Foxy” and his friends, who had just arrived from the city in a swift automobile. The driver could offer no resistance but while the highwayman were loading the money into their auto the sher- iff’s band swept down upon them. Escapes were prevented by puncturing the front tires of the automobile with revolver shots, and the ruffians were all captured, tried, and convicted to a term in the state’s prison. PHILIP CALKINS. AN INCIDENT ON THE BAY. Some three years ago I was cross- ing the San Francisco Bay on the ferry boat “Claremont.” It was about five o’clock on a foggy after- noon. We had just passed Goat Island, when a lumber steamer was seen about three-hundred yards offi, seemingly headed right for us, or rather our path. The two boats were, it seemed to the passengers, rapidly coining at right angles to- gether. We could almost locate the point where the two would clash. Close’’ and closer it came. Our ma- chinery had stopped now and we were drifting. Now they were one hundred feet apart and still making for that point. The machinery start- ed up again, the lumber steamer only fifty feet away and headed to- ward our bow. Everyone on the “Claremont” held his breath. On went the lumber boat and passed by the stern of the “Claremont” not fifteen feet away! The passengers looked as pale as death, but the ferry boat passed safely into the slip. PHYLLIS GRAHAM. A CHRISTMAS EVE PICTURE The snowflakes were falling on the earth. The air was filled with holiday mirth. The Christmas tree w’as all arrayed From floor to top with presents laid. And two wee stockings side by side. Bulging with toys to the mantel were tied. The fire on the hearth was flickering; low. Filling the room with a rosy glow. But fast asleep in the room over- head Lay two little babes tucked snug in bed. Dreaming of wondrous things they’d see On Christmas morn on the Christmas tree. RUTH GOMPERTZ o A WEST POINT STORY “Might I be informed, my dear sir, what course you would adopt if, at dead of night, you were attacked by a band of Sioux squaws?” It was Mr. Woods, an old cadet, speaking. Graham gulped down his anger and went on eating. Tonight the plebe was to stand his first sentry duty at West Point, and the old cadets were having a good time over it. “And, sir, have you your tree picked, if the Colonel’s cat charges you from Clinton Ditch?” said another voice. Then Mr. Jennings spoke, across the table,” “Now, sir, suppose I was to come to your sentry post, at dead of night, and as a superior officer, demand your gun, what would you do?” Graham’s eyes blazed. “You mean without the countersign? Without being an officer of the guard?” “Exactly, sir,” — simply as an old cadet to a plebe.” The answer came in a low tone but everyone heard it. “I’d let you have it, sir, butt foremost, between, the eyes.” ARTHUR PARSONS