Sapulpa High School - Sapulphan Yearbook (Sapulpa, OK)

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The next day I departed for California, wondering if I would see the remaining six graduates while on my journey. I arrived at Ixjs Angeles the latter part of the week and after dinner strolled down to the beach to watch the wild sea waves waive and the incoming steamships steam. One large steamer was plowing her way toward the shore; a black flag was fluttering at her bow. A thought flashed like a meteorite through my brain that it was a pirate ship. Horror of Horrors! How could I escape the bloody cut-throats and plunderers. I began looking for a way to escape and discovered a sheltered place beneath a projecting rock on the cliff behind me. I climbed up to this place and watched the inmates of the ship come ashore. The captain, a medium sized fellow, with bristling whiskers and a lowering brow, came down the gang-plank first, then a tow-headed boy with rosy cheeks came next; he looked as if he had missed his calling, he should have been an aesthetic dancer. Then a head appeared from one of the port-holes and shouted, “You can’t shoot me, old Katzy, I’m a gosh-darned oil man.” The captain shouted to the tow-headed boy to pound the human peg back into his cell. With a shuddering shudder he started to obey when I uttered a shrill shriek of laughter, causing him to look around and lose his balance, falling head first into the water. I made my appearance then, knowing I would have nothing to fear when I gave them my name. That fierce looking, be-whiskered captain was just old Katzy, the tow-headed boy was Cowman, and their prisoner was little Reedy. They were a great deal surprised to see me there, and when I asked them why they were in such bloody business, they replied that they were merely staging a play for the movies. The play being over, the small band of players came over to me, and, oh joy! the leading lady was Marie Vaughn and another lady was Mary Muchmore. We proceeded to the dining room and had a very happy time until the waiter appeared with a huge tray of dishes filled with soup. Catching his toe in the hem of his apron he fell his full length, spilling all the soup right in my lap. This caused quite a commotion; the poor thing tried to apologize, but stopped in the middle of a sentence and gazed from one to the other of us, then began to cry. Upon asking the cause of his grief, he replied that we looked so much like some of his old school mates that he could not help it. Upon inquiring his name we discovered that he was Lester Mallory, another of the Seniors. After I had left the players I strolled down to the depot and while there a train came crawling noiselessly along and stopped in front of me. It astonished and startled me with its absence of noise. The train crew acted as though they were deaf and dumb; the whole affair seemed to be composed of incandescent lights. A ghostlike porter came down from the train and placed his step so the passengers could get off. I say he was phantom-like because I could see right through him and detect the seam down the back of his coat. Then without a word came phantom-like forms from the coach, all composed of the same air-like substance. I gazed in astonishment, for there before my very eyes, descended methodically and silently the class of T6, the president, Dave Hilles, leading them. They paid no attention to me, even w'hen I spoke to them. I could not move; some supernatural power seemed to be holding me; I stood as though rooted to the ground. When my chum, Peggy Boyd, went past me I struggled mightily to reach her. She gave me a vacant stare and the whole phenomenon vanished as it had come, noiselessly, except for a loud booming in my ears which grew louder and louder, shouting that the whole thing was a dream; the Spectral Train was but the train of my thoughts laden with the Seniors of ’16. I opened my eyes to find that the booming was the voice of the ocean, and that I had fallen asleep by the beautiful sea. F. P. T6.

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and carried off his best set of nickle-plated spoons. He was on his way to see a great detective, who lived as a hermit among the hills. As I had never seen a hermit I begged him to take me along. He finally consented, and we were soon on the road. We had not gone far when we met a tramp, his clothes in tatters and his shoes run down at the heels; he wore a most dejected air, which turned to one of supreme happiness when we asked him to ride. He proved to be a great conversationalist and imagine our surprise when he began talking of a play he had been in while attending the Sapulpa High School. I asked what his name was and he informed me that he had forgotten what his real one was, but his pards all called him Foxy. Of course we knew then that he was Howard Fox, another link in the broken chain. I asked him if he knew anything of the other carefree Seniors of 1916. and he replied that Lucille Johannes was a biscuit-shooter in Beggs, Elizabeth Conley had become famous as a cabaret dancer in Ardmore, and Margaret McFann had gone to China to teach the little Chinks that bologna was better than rats or mice, and that they must learn to eat rice with a spoon instead of a stick. Thelma Carleton was a Red Cross nurse and had gone to the war to watch over her soldier lover. Those were the only ones he had heard of while off on his rambles. We were now at the great detective’s house, which was nothing but a large cave, a huge rock served for a door, which, when swung open, disclosed a subterranean passage, lighted up with ghostly candles. A sepulchral voice bade us enter and come straight ahead, which we did. We came to another door and could hear someone talking on the other side of it. The rock swung back and we perceived a dimly lighted room on the other side with one lone figure standing in the middle of it. The hermit advanced to meet us, wringing our hands as if heart-broken about something. “My friends, you cannot imagine the joy it gives me to see someone from the outside world again.” A sudden revelation came over me. That theatrical voice gave him away. The great detective, the second Hawkshaw, was John Cantrell. I asked him who he had been talking to as I could see no one there, and he answered in heart-rending tones, “Who was I talking to? Ah, it was but the ghosts of the teachers who taught, or tried to teach, us in the days of ’16. I tired of living in the world where everybody contradicted me, so I built this place where 1 know I can say what I please.” Messrs. Tankersley and Fox expressed a desire to stay there, so I drove back to Beggs by myself, stopping at the cafe to talk to Lucille. She was just the same merry-hearted girl she had always been. She informed me that Marjorie Miller had grown terribly fat and was the feminine gender for Paderewski. Stanley Cohagan had risen to the position of janitor at the Pumpkin Center School, which did not greatly surprise me. I knew he would do something famous some day; he was always so industrious. Faye Reece and Blanche Carey had joined the Salvation Army and were out collecting lost souls from the by-ways and hedges. Minnie Gheraghty had become head waitress at the Ritz. Edward Mars was an itenerent preacher, converting everything in his pathway by simply playing on his coronet the touching ballad, “River Shannon.” The next morning I was awakened by a loud noise. Running to the window I beheld a huge parade, the participants of which carried “Votes For Women” banners. I recognized Marion Murphy in its ranks, and, yes, right at the head of the parade marched Frances White, holding a brilliant banner in one hand and the ear of a meek little man in the other; he was marching also, in fact he couldn’t help it. 1 dressed quickly and hurried down the stairs, to be met at the door by a tall, lank fellow, who held out his hand and begged for “just one little nickel to git a strawberry sody with.” I knew at a glance that the poor fellow was Bob Holzemer. Sad, indeed, was the fact that this graduate of 1916 had worked in the drug store so long that he had become a fiend to the deadliest of all drinks, the “Sody.”

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LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT E, the Senior Class of 1916, do hereby bequeath, as we are of sound mind and otherwise able to take care of our own affairs, to the next Senior Class, all our dignity, honor and sense of humor. To the beginning Fresh-ies, our Iodine Bottle and instructions for use thereof. To the Sophs, our power to bluff the Faculty and get exempt in those E-X-A-M-S (?). To the Juniors of next year, our most exquisitely pleasant manner and bearing. To. Mr. Erdman, our sunshiny nature and freedom of speech. We leave one-half of our essays behind to be read by future generations that they may know how exceedingly brilliant we were. The other one-half we will, willingly, allow to be used as fire kindlers (trusting that they are not too rank for that). We most joyfully leave to the next Physics Class our note books, as we have no further use for them. Thus, we, the aforesaid Class of said school, do hereby leave the above-mentioned articles. This, the 13th day of school year, in the presence of competent witnesses, we sign this legal compact. THE SENIOR CLASS. Witnesses: MUTT. JEFF. PERSONAL WILLS I, Beatrice Boyd, leave to Hazel Stallard my honored place as representative of the Delphian Society, in the vocal contest. I, Marie Cobb, leave to May Scott, my Deutsch books. I, Elizabeth Conley, leave to the entire Junior Class my many seats in the assembly. I, Blanche Carey, leave to Merle Harrison my calmness, as she is much in need thereof. I, Stanley Cohagan, leave to Walter Burgess my honored position as President of the Athletic Association. I, John Cantrell, leave to Daniel Brown my debating capacity. I, Raymond Cowman, leave my poetic (?) ability to Joe Bruner that he may get on better with the Faculty. I, Howard Fox, leave to William Irwin my, or part of, tenor voice, that it may amuse the study hall next year. I, Minnie Geraghty, leave to the next Senior Class my English books, for they will do me no good. I, David Hilles, leave to Watson Wise my foolishness and my dainty laugh. I, Robert Holzemer, leave my love for English to Walter Wilson. I, Burnett Jones, leave my superfluous flesh to Bob Marion. He needs it. I, Lucile Johannes, leave my position as Glee Club pianist, to Ruth Moulder. I, Sigmund Katz, leave my grin to Leslie Rawden, that he may escape my fate at the hands of the girls. I, Margaret McFann, leave my nack at whispering to Elizabeth Gillett, that she may join the “Balled Out” Club. I, Marjorie Miller, leave my fiery nature to some bashful Freshie. I. Mary Muchmore, leave my pleasant disposition to the Freshies to relieve their embarrasment.