Willard Middle School - Target Yearbook (Berkeley, CA)

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me to her, quick. Take me to her,” he cried. “Oh, boy, do you not remember me?” When they reached a house in a quiet side street, Mr. Wellington and Allen rushed up the sairs to Mrs. Stewart. She turned very white when she first saw him. “Gordon,” she gasped and stretched out her arms. After the story had been told of his rescue from the briny deep, he told them his memory had left him, because of the strain on his mind. Then when he was speaking to Allen, it had all come back, thanks to the “Yellow Roadster.” VIRGINIA FIELD. -o- The Great Game Jfts a T WAS the day of the big game. The Arc Zoo was playing the Dover Zoo for the baseball championship of Ammaldom. For the Arcs, “Teddy” Bear was pitching, and for the Dovers, “Lion” King. The Arcs were up to bat first. The crowd in the stands was screeching, yowling, hissing, growling or making noises in any way that suited their fancy. Polly Parrot, the umpire, called out, “Play Ball!” and the game was on. The first few innings passed uneventfully, it being a pitcher’s battle. At the beginning of the fifth inning, the score was tied and the Arcs were up to bat. “Lion” King delivered one over the plate with terrific speed. “Billie” Greyhound met it with a resounding crack. It traveled over the left fielder’s head and “Billie” flashed around the bases for a home run. The crowd went wild. Then “Lion” King settled down to work and neither side scored. As the last of the ninth came, and the score was 1 to 0 against them, things looked black for the Dovers. “Daddy” Spider for the Dovers came to bat and fanned. Then “Rattler” Snake came to bat and knocked a liner to center field and wriggled to third base. Then “Bud” Kangaroo came to bat. Every eye was fastened on him and there was breathless suspense. “Teddy” Bear wound up and threw. “Bud” hit it with all his might. The ball shot over the short-stop’s head and rolled out into the field. In four mighty leaps “Bud” was home. He had done the seemingly impossible and made each base in one jump to win the game for the Dovers. ROBERT SHIREY.

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The Yellow Roadster face and firm-set mouth betrayed a strong and decisive character. He had many acquaintances, but very few intimate friends. As he stepped into his automobile, he noticed a young boy purchas- ing a little roadster. The radiant look on the boy’s face showed plainer than words the lad’s pride in the new possession. He leaned back in his car and commanded his chauffeur to start. The little scene that Mr. Wellington had watched, recalled memories of his first car and before long he was in fine spirits. All of a sudden the car stopped and the chauffeur jumped out and said, “Just an accident, sor, but I thought hit would be best to stop, sor.” “Certainly, James,” replied his master. He looked on the wreckage indifferently, but suddenly his look turned to unrest and surprise. It was the boy that had just bought the car. It was his car that was damaged. The lad was looking at it to see if it couldn’t be repaired. But alas! it was beyond any repair and he had saved for such a long time to buy it, too. Mr. Wellington walked over to the boy and asked, “How did it happen, boy?” “It was my fault, sir,” he said. “You see I just bought it for my sick mother and I did not know how to drive very well and so I crashed into this other car.” Mr. Wellington liked the boy on the instant, for he had been very truthful about it. Then he asked, “What is your name, son?” “Allen Stewart,” he answered. “Allen Stewart!” cried the old man. “What is your mother’s name?” “Prescilla Stewart.” “I am a fool,” muttered the old man. “How could it ever be?” The boy was staring at the old man in amazement. “What is it, sir? Is there anything the matter?” he asked. Mr. Wellington looked at the boy. He had regained his self- control. “No, my boy! There is nothing the matter. But stay. What is your father’s name?” “Gorden Stewart, but he is dead. He was drowned at sea a long time ago, when I was He stopped short. Mr. Wellington had him by the arm. “Take R. WELLINGTON, a prominent business man, walked out of his office with an air of weariness. He was what the majority of people classed him, a millionaire. The rugged lines of his

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The Deacon Dozes S EACON HOLTON sat in a comfortable position in an old walnut rocker with his feet propped up on the window-sill. A plate of his wife’s doughnuts was beside him, but nevertheless he looked as if he had just consumed a tablespoon of vinegar instead of a delicious doughnut. An onlooker would not have understood his disgust unless he had peered over the Deacon’s shoulder and read the column in the weekly paper that he was industriously scanning. He was uttering, I regret to say, profane remarks at intervals. The column on which his apparently frost-bitten countenance was centered was headed: “Agitation over Slave Question Increases! Slaves Helped by Many.” “Bosh! Pshaw! Why can’t they let us al one, and let our rights alone too?” growled the Deacon. “I swear by my great aunt’s Angora goat that I wish I were back in Georgia instead of in this cursed little Yankee town.” His eyes roved over the page. Suddenly he sat upright with such a sudden motion that the pot of geraniums on the sill hopped over about an inch and the doughnut dish slid along the arm of the chair until it reached a perilous proximity to the edge of it. What he had seen was this : “Twenty-five dollars reward offered for the capture and return of two slaves. One tall and thin and very dark, the other medium and quite light. When last seen, dressed in red and yellow calico dresses, re- spectively. For further information write 281 St. “Hum!” said Deacon Holton. “Hum ” The Deacon dozed. He was aroused by the steady knocking of the iron spoon, kept for such purposes on the back door. Again nearly precipitating the doughnuts to the floor, he threw open the back door, and there — . Were his senses deceiving him? His perfectly good eyes that he had always relied upon — were they deserting him? Two negroes stood cowering and trembling before him. One was of a dark chocolate complexion and wore a calico wrapper — very torn, patched, and dirty. The other was of a cafe-au-lait shade and wore a yellow wrapper in a similar condition. “Please, Massa,” begged the red-wrappered one, “please cud you- all take care o’ us’n? We was telled of you by de men over’n de nex’ town, un’ we doan’ need nuthin’ but jes’ a place ter sleep an’ victuals. We all gwine ter go ter dat place — Canady where we won’ haf ter work no mo’. Please, Massa. Hide us.”