Willard Middle School - Target Yearbook (Berkeley, CA)

Page 26 text:

Fortunes EE, exclaimed Matilda, do you think that the fortuneteller told us the truth? Why, asked Frances, did she tell you something awful? She said that I would be very sick, answered Matilda. Several days later their mother and father were talking together. What do you think makes Matilda look so ill? asked her mother. Don ' t worry, answered her husband, she is all right. But she wasn ' t all right as we find her in bed several days later attended by a doctor who says that the only thing that will restore her health is a trip to the mountains. As doctor ' s orders are usually obeyed, Matilda, Frances, and their mother and father were soon in a well- furnished log cabin in the Sierra Nevada Mountains. Matilda ' s health resort was a very picturesque place. It was large and stood in the middle of a small clearing surrounded by large redwoods. A porch extended across one side of the house. Over the porch grew a beautiful wistaria vine which was in full bloom. In front of the house stood two stately firs like sentinels guarding the home of this happy family. It was only a few weeks unti l Matilda was able to walk about. Now they were expecting their jolly brothers to arrive, and this made things brighter still. One evening, several days after the arrival of their brothers, Matilda found a small piece of paper pinned to her pillow. She read : Dig ' neath the tallest tree, Seven feet or more. You ' ll find in several weeks, The thing you most adore. Just then Frances entered the room and Matilda quickly slipped the paper under the pillow. She didn ' t want to show it to her because there might be just one part to the treasure and how could she share it with her? After the girls were in bed, Frances said, I wonder what is the matter with the boys, Mat? They haven ' t played one trick on us and they have been here four days. I wish they would do something for I ' m just aching for some fun. The temptation was too great for Matilda, so she drew the paper from under her pillow saying, I ' ll show you something, if you promise not to tell. Of couse not, but hurry and show me that paper and explain, urged Frances.

Page 25 text:

The Ballad of the Boy and the Bee As I walked through the meadow one summer day, I met a busy bee. Said I, Good afternoon, Sir Bee. Good afternoon, said he. May I go with you to see your queen, And see your comrades there? If you will bring some honey, You in our feast may share. Perplexed, I walked a little way, Till I met a Buttercup. Hast thou, fair lady, some honey to sell, For I with the queen must sup? The Buttercup shook its head and said, I have not a drop of honey; I have only yellow butter for sale. I can not take your money. I passed on through the meadow green, And heard the Dogwood bark; The puppy flowers made so much noise I could not hear the lark. A Honeysuckle last I met, And to her told my tale. She gave me all I wanted In a flowery pail. Then back I went to good Sir Bee, Who took me to the queen. The fun we had that summer night By mortals is not seen. — RUSKIN HOWELL.

Page 27 text:

Frances grabbed the paper and read it. Oh, how wonderful ! Do you think the boys wrote it? They can ' t write poetry. I know that, said Matilda, because I remember writing it for them when they had to write it for school. The sun next morning, as it looked over the top of the mountains, saw the girls sneak out of the house with shovels in their hands. The tree was easily found as it was conspicuously taller than the others around it. The girls started digging, seldom talking, as if the magic of the early summer morning had cast a spell over them. As Matilda was soon tired, they stopped, covered up the hole, and started back to the house. They did the same thing every morning for several weeks. Each day Matilda was able to dig longer. No one had discovered their ab- sence from home as they went early and came back before anyone was up. One day they came to a little box beautifully carved out of a solid piece of wood. In it was a piece of paper bearing these words : By digging, digging, digging, For the treasure which you sought, Not even stopping to think, ' Twas not of substance wrought; IT was your health. What poetry! sighed Frances. Yet how romantic! Those horrid boys, exclaimed Matilda. — MARJORIE DUNLAP. O To Night O Night, around the drowsing Phoebus gently draw thy sable cloak; Call upon thy whispering zephyrs all their magic to invoke; Summon forth your fairy starlets with their silver lanterns lit. Ask Diana, too, to help you; call the fireflies out to flit Round among the dark ' ning shadows that will soon loom from above; Let us show the slumb ' ring Phoebus all the tokens of our love. All this day hath Phoebus warmed us, clothed us in the sunshine bright. Now that he would sink to slumber, lull him to his rest, O Night! — NINA BANCROFT.