Willard Middle School - Target Yearbook (Berkeley, CA)

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Punishment HE eerie silence of the night was unbroken save for an occasional thud of snow from the overladen branches of some tree. Pierre Vairson, a French-Canadian trapper, was deep in meditation. Te mechanically caressed the head flung across his knees as he absently watched the flickerings of his small camp fire. Soon the huge animal, the sole friend of Pierre ' s solitude, rose and silently moved to the edge of the glade, where he stood listening. Pierre abstractedly contemplated the beautiful picture the big brute made as he stood alertly poised, silhouetted against the snow. Savage, called a wolf, but really only half wolf, had been the only cub of his mother, a timber wolf. She had been driven, starving into the vicinity of Fort Sin- clair, and had died. The trapper had found and adopted Savage. Pierre mused. The slyness and treachery of the wolf did not show itself in Savage, only the fidelity and intelligence of the dog. Savage had disappeared into the trees. Pierre was gravely weighing his thoughts. His provisions were low and the trading post was many days ' journey south. With his dog, Pierre ' s provisions would just last, but a delay of any kind would be fatal. A blizzard, lost track, snow blindness — a thousand fears tor- mented his troubled mind. If he took Savage, it might mean his death, but without the dog he would not have any fear. A soft snow had begun to fall. Pierre rose, indecision written in every line on his face. Soon, however, he became resolute, and, after packing up his scant equipment, he slunk away, knowing the snow would kill his scent. Two years passed. Then one night a solitary trapper struggled through the snow towards Fort St. Louis. Suddenly the stillness was broken by a long, mournful wail, in the distance. Answers rose from all sides and soon the forest was ringing with the hunting cry of the wolf. Instinctively Pierre quickened his pace. He broke into a run. In the distance he could dimly see the lights of the Fort. He knew that help would never reach him. Gradually the distance between the wolves and the trapper was lessened. Pierre could see the wild eyes which betrayed their fiendish purpose, and the cruel fangs gleamed in the moonlight. There was one wolf, far larger than the rest, who led them by two or three lengths. Hunger-maddened though the wolves were, they could not outstrip him. Then as the trapper ran, he tripped and fell full length on the snow. Like a flash, the pack rushed on him. There was one ghastly shriek,

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The sound of a horse ' s hoofs could be heard as Mr. F hur- ried toward the north trail. At the entrance to the cave he took a candle and a ball of twine from the saddle bag. From the formation of the rocks in ceiling and walls, he believed the cave once to have been the bed of a river. He tied the string to a projecting stone and followed it seventy-five feet or more with the lighted candle in hand. Mr. F found the pool as Quio had described. A few feet beyond this his candle light fell upon a dark cavern which proved to be a large and dangerous shaft, fully fifte en feet deep. He tied the string to the candle which he lowered slowly into the empty hole. Bending over the sloping edge of the shaft, he saw on a small rocky ledge, six feet below him, an object. It was the torch. At the bottom of the hole he saw bones and decayed garments of the old Indian ' s aunt. Mr. F took the bones back to Quio — all except the skull which he kept to present to the University of California. He left Quio and his relatives soon after they had performed the sad duty of burying the bones of their loved one, whom they thought the devil had devoured. With the bones also was buried the superstition that the devil reigned in Mystery Mountain. Mr. F continued his journey alone to the fossil beds. — HERBERT LYSER. O To Satyrs Drink, ye Satyrs, and sing with glee, Songs of merry minstrelsy. Roll and tumble on the earth In your ecstasy of mirth. Pan his pipes is now a-sounding, Haste and be around him bounding. Fill your cups and while you ' re drinking On the grass with joy be sinking. Fill the air with song and jest And let it be your very best For in yon streamlet that is ghst ' ning, A naiad dwells whose ear is list ' mng. FLORENCE STAPLES.

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a convulsive shudder, which intermingled horribly with the snarls of the wolves, then all was silent save for the crunching. The leader took no part in the killing. Man was not his prey. Thus did Pierre meet his death the object of revenge of the animal that he had once left to such a precarious fate. — MARY HARDIE. o Feeding the Cows HE cows were standing in a little group in the pasture thoughtfully chewing their cuds. 1 3§jj II My good sister cows, said Jersey who always took the lead in matters of cow life, are we to stand for this outrage? Jersey was very angry and she continued in an indignant voice. It ' s all very well to have the Master ' s little lad, Henry, come tripping across the pasture to give us bites of clover, but the clover is full of thorns! It tickles my throat and makes me cough. Here every cow remembered that her throat tickled and began to cough vigorously. And that is not all, went on Jersey. I received a savage prick on my tongue this morning from one of the thorns. Here again all the cows wagged their tongues to be sure that they were not pricked entirely off. I have a plan to punish this wicked Henry. If I start anything, be sure to follow. Here is John coming to take us in for the night. The cows were walking peacefully down the lane which led past the house to the stable when Henry stepped from behind the hedge with a bunch of clover which he held out to Jersey. Jersey glared at him as only an exasperated cow can glare. Then with a deep bellow she dashed at Henry. Straight to the house ran Henry yelling at the top of a power- ful pair of lungs. Down the stairs came his father in time to see Henry hurry up to his room and lock the door. At the front steps Jersey stood lowing and shaking her head. It was some time before her master, with many gentle pats and much kind language, induced her to return to the stable, but it was with altogether different pats and language that he in- duced his son to stop feeding the cows clover with thorns in it. — ELIZABETH LOUNIBOS.