Big Sandy High School - Pioneer Yearbook (Big Sandy, MT)

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THE CENTENNIAL We, Nettie Siebrasse and Lela Robertson, do leave to Selma Simonson and lone Kimbal, our graceful figures and dainty ways because we want them to grow as stylish as we are. We, Mary Linn and Blanche Marty leave to any one, with enough nerve to take them, our future buggy rides with Tom Keller, hoping he will treat them better than he did us. . I, Homer Campbell, leave to Alton Hansen, Harold Snow and Ben Wedeking, my interest in the senior class, hoping that iz does not take them as long to get there as it did me. Signed, sealed and executed this fourteenth day of March, in the year of our Lord, 1924. Class of ’24. —HOMER CAMPBELL. ------o-o------ CLASS PROPHECY As I sat before the fire I reviewed my day’s work in the slums, for I was now a Settlement worker—my desire had been fulfilled. I began to think of old Sandy High, my last year there, my class mates, I wondered- Click! Click! Click!—what was that noise? “Bessie, you tend to that,” a masculine voice commanded. I found myself in the living rooms above a small depot and I looked about me. Sure enough, there was Bessie McClellan. She and her husband were in charge of the depot at Box Elder, Montana, the two of them hand- ling all shifts. I was just going to ask her about others of the class when the scene shifted. It was a wonderful' studio in Paris. Standing before a picture that had just been sold for $100,000 was my classmate, Christine Jensen. The picture was her masterpiece. Chatting with her was a woman well known to the music lovers, namely, Mme. Siebrasse, the world-renowned violinist, then living in Paris. “Stand back! Register emotion! Sling that Pie! Close-up please.” It sounded like a movie director—it was! I looked at the comedienne holding the custard pie. It was Russell Hurd—a slapstick comedienne riv- alling Lloyd, Chaplin and Semon in popularity. I talked with Russell later. He asked me if I had seen Clarissa Carnahan, the suffragette. I said no, but that I wasn’t at all surprised at her being a suffragette. Just then a procession came up the streets of Hollywood. Leading it was Clarissa. She stopped at the corner and mounted a soap-box; she proceeded to give us some oratory equal to that of Patrick Henry. Listening in surprise to her speech was Earl Schilling, then Champion prize fighter, having received Dempsey’s title two years previously. Evi- dently he was much astonished to see his classmate thus adorning a soap box. “Come here Johnnie, Mable, Jim, Bill, Rosie and Pete and get your faces washed,” cried .someone in tones that were vaguely familiar to me; of course, it should be familiar. It was Cora Simonsen, matron of the Orphans’ Home at Twin Bridges, Montana. She was, as far as I could see, leading a hectic life but she seemed to be enjoying herself tremendously. I was in a box at the opera. A wonderful voice far away was singing the prelude to the opera, “Carmen.” It was Florence Everson’s voice. I became so excited when she came on that I was about to disgrace myself and would surely have jumped for the stage if someone hadn’t pulled me back. “Well, Anna Anderson, how goes life with you?” I exclaimed.

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THE CENTENNIAL trials and tribulations in higher mathematics, hoping that these will cool them down so that they will be a credit to the memory of our Class of ’24. Besides the articles mentioned above, a few of the individual mem- bers of the class wish to will and bequeath to certain needy members of the high school and faculty, a number of things which they do not wish to take with them into the other life, to-wit: I, Lottie Heise, finding that I will not need my excessive height a my struggle for existence, do will and bequeath one third of it to lelen Murray to increase her stature to normal. I, Hershell Hurd, do will and bequeath my large grin and my basket- ball ability to John Jenkins with the request that he give them both a fair trial. I, Lloyd Callison, bequeath my industrious turn of mind to Happy Snow and Ralph McMillan, as they both need lots of inspiration for studying. I, Russell Hurd, do will my impish grin and my ability to get out of classes, to any one who can step fast enough to take them away from me. I, Clarissa Carnahan, do will my red head and my quickness of temper, to the first new teacher who enters high school, so that she may be pre- pared to handle the students in an efficient manner. I, Jack Schilling, do will my cute little mustache to Don Grubbs. It cannot disfigure him any more than it does me. I, Sig Moe, do will my interest in basketball, football, physics, and Managing and Marketing, to Marion Heise as she will need them in her senior year. I, Selmer Sivertson, do will and bequeath my curly hair and easy man- ner of falling for every new girl, to Nat Gaines, Walter Godfrey, and Joseph Walters, hoping that the best one will win the prize pumpkin. I, Hershell Smith, will my little mustache, and my success with the women to John Hemingway, with the restriction that he must not abuse either of them. I, Agnes Anderson, do hereby wili and bequeath my interest in Wilfred Ashton to any one who can catch him. I, Florence Everson, do hereby will my quiet and sedate ways to Bella Corrigan, hoping that she will profit by the same. I, John Bartlett, do hereby will my skill at kicking a football to Happy Snow, hoping that he will use it to the best of his ability. I, Anna Anderson, do will my efficiency as a cheer leader to Sam Simonson with the request that she treat it gently. We, Christine Jensen and Margaret Ness, do jointly and as one, unite in willing our respective seats to Bob Sprague and Lillian McClellan in order that they will have no need of straining the muscles in their arms in throwing notes to each other. I, Waine Hofsommer, leave to any one, speedy and small enough to acquire them, the titles of “Tiny the Terrible” and “Stub”. I, Cora Simonsen, leave to Marie Black, my sunny disposition and my scholastic aptitude. I, Irma Arnold, leave to James Mason and Reynold Larsen, my inge- nuity at ruling the assembly, and my knack at making hair fly in a basket- ball game. I, Bertha Carnahan, do will my pug nose and my ability to be every where at once to John Keller. I, Bessie McClellan, leave my interest in the shorthand class to any one who is industrious enough to study the subject.

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THE CENTENNIAL “Pretty good, but my calling card says ‘Mrs now”, she said, flashing a hand covered with diamonds in front of my eyes. You see, George still worked in a jewelry store, thus getting all her jewels at cost. “Where is your sister, Agnes?” I asked her. “Oh, Agnes is a business woman now. She's working for the govern- ment. At present she is doing all she can to push the irrigation project out on Lonesome Prairie. I surely hope it goes through as it will mean sb much to Mary and Lela.” “You don’t mean Mary Linn and Lela Robertson, do you?” “Certainly, didn't you know they both married Dry-Landers? Agnes says they have ‘awfully’ cute homes and are both the same kids they used to be, but it will surely mean money to them, this irrigation thing.” For a while aill I could smell was ether and medicine; then: “All right, nurse, step around here now. A wonderful operation, a wonderful one!” The white-uniformed nurse turned and lloked me squarely in the eye. It was Lottie Heise and we had a good long talk together. She told me she had killed only three patients but that she was living in hopes. She had been out the night before to hear Hershell Hurd, the second Billy Sunday. “Well, well! I never thought Hershell would be a preacher.” “It was most certainly the surprise of my young life too! By the way, did you know that Waine Hofsommer and Lloyd Callison are both doctors in this hospital? When I first saw them, I became so excited that I fed the patient some ether; he pulled through though. They are as famous as the Mayo Brothers now.” Just as I was leaving she gave me another piece of news, this time about Sig Moe and Blanche Marty. Sig has the most wonderful suite of offices up town and just loads of Stenogs. Blanche is his private secretary: she likes it. “But what is he?” I inquired. “Why, he is the richest man, barring bootleggers and oil men, that this country has known. He is a broker.” The next moment I seemed to be traveling with a stock company. One of their big acts was a riding contest, featuring John Bartlett. John can stick to anything now. He does not let himself be piled into the creek as he once did, but that w'as when he was only an amateur. Selmer Sivertson was also traveling with them. He is a fancy dancer and has Bertha Car- nahan as his partner. I found out from John that Selmer and Bertha were soon to form their own company and travel as their predecessors, the Valentines had done. I suddenly grew very tired but no wonder for I had covered most of the United States in my travels. I would settle down now and see what Hershell Smith, society reporter for the New York Times had to say. I turned to the society news, and there was a full-page picture of Irma Arnold, New Aork’s society leader, announcing her engagement to Homer Campbell, the poet, who, on the side was also editing “Whiz Bang” that popular, uplifting publication everyone reads. I had heard rumors of their engagement before so it did not surprise me. I suddenly shivered, yawned and opened my eyes; I was in my own room; the fire had gone out. Had I been dreaming?—anything but! —MARGARET NESS, ’24.