Hellgate High School - Halberd Yearbook (Missoula, MT)

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“Here’s to the high school whose colors we wear”—- The others joined in, tying shoestrings and hair ribbons, and crowding in front of the mirror for a last look. The coach's whistle cut short the chorus, and out they trooped into the gymnasium. The last of the line was a chubby, red-cheeked little Junior, who had not entered until the second semester, and had come from a small high school in one of the neighboring villages. Already she was as loyal to Rockford as if she had known no other school, and her great ambition Avas to make the first team in basket-ball, and help her high school to AA’in neAV honors. So she took her place on the sec- ond team and practised faithfully, night after night. Tonight, as she took her place on the floor, AA’ith the high school song ringing in her ears, she wished, with all her heart, that she could do something for the honor of the school, “ Anyway, I’ll play the very best I can,” she said to herself, as the game began. The girls played hard and fast, as they realized how soon they would have to meet the other teams. And AA'hen the practice hour AAras over, and most of the girls had left, Matildy, Avho threAA' the free throws, stayed for a little more practice, and Ivy, the enthusiastic little Junior, stayed, too. Time after time they sent the ball into the basket, and became so absorbed that they did not notice that the coach had entered the room, until his A’oice broke the silence. “Enough for tonight, girls,” he said. “Mustn’t tire yourselves out.” Ivy was following Matilda to the dressing room, AA’hen the coach stopped her. “Good AArork. Miss Gardner,” he said. “Could you arrange to go to Peoria with us as a substitute?” And he passed quietly on. But Ivy walked out of the room. AA-ith every beat of her heart saying, “ Sub-sti-tute, sub-sti-tute. ” Then she“might be able to do something yet, for the honor of the school. sfc . It was the last game of the tournament. The gymnasium Avas filled with enthusiastic rooters, for the basket-ball championship lay betAA-een Peoria and Rockford. As Peoria’s team came on to the floor, they were greeted AA’ith shouts and the waving of banners, but there was not a single cheer AA’hen Rockford followed, a minute later. Matilda, the center, brought her lips together in a straight line, and said to the girls: “The jays! We’ll beat them yet!” The referee’s whistle sounded, and Matilda faced Peoria’s center, determined to get the ball. Up it AA'ent in the air between them, both girls hit it and knocked it to the right, and the game AA7as on. Both sides played hard and well. Mary. Rockford’s star forAA-ard. put in three straight baskets, but Peoria soon tied the score. Matilda caught the ball at the toss-up, and passed it doAA’n the field to Mary. Mary jumped, missed the ball, and fell in a little heap on the floor. The referee called “Time,” and. AA’ith despair in their hearts. Matilda and Sally helped the star forAA-ard off the field. Page 10 The Bitter Root

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Wrote ardent notes, addressed to some fair maid; The girl who, startled, turns from whispered tales, The inmost secrets of her vacant mind, Imparted to her faithful bosom friend. Farewell to thee, 0 cruel oppressor! and If Jove is sovereign still, we bep of him. To grant our longed-for, but half fearful prayer. 0, may thy tongue be clothed with blackest rust; May dank dust vather o’er thy polished side. May time soon change thy clattering dreaded tone First to a hoarse, then muffled unheard sound. Thus to our under-classmen do wTe leave Our deepest sympathy and brightest hope, And unto thee our darkest, sternest curse. M. GRAY FOR THE HONOR OF THE SCHOOL VILLA COOL, ’13 The hands of the clock in the assembly room of the Rockford High School pointed to the hour of three. The bell sounded for dis- missal, and the next instant a mass of boys and girls poured through the halls, down the stairs, and out into the bright winter sunshine. A group of chattering girls made their way to the girls’ dressing rooms, in the basement, to prepare for. their basket-ball practice. The high school meet, in which the girls were to take part, was only two days off, and the chief topic of conversation was Rockford’s chance oC winning the championship, and, incidentally, the cup. 44Those Alton girls are regular cats.” said Matilda Handel, the outspoken center, frowning into the looking glass. 44Don’t you re- member how, the last time we played them, they nearly disabled us? I came out of the game with every hairpin missing, and my glorious red hair tumbling over my shoulders.” 44If the Alton girls are cats, the quincy girls are—quinces,” spoke up Mary Freek, the star forward. 44I saw a picture of their team the other day. and thev are the sourest-looking bunch I’ve seen.” 44Here, that’s my shoe,” called a big guard, whom the girls called Sally. 44How do you reckon I’m going to smash anybody’s toes if I don’t have two shoes on?” 44Don’t get so fierce, Sally,” replied Mary, tossing over the shoe. 44Don’t waste any of your magnificent strength on us—save it for the tournament. Since the boys have actually let the girls in on this, we’ve got to show them what we can do.” 44And just think of that beautiful cup, girls,” Lois sang out, 44Think of it in a glass case in our assemblv room. Doesn’t it rouse all the school spirit in you?” And, perching herself upon a locker, she began to sing: The Bitter Root Page 9

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At a word from the coach, Ivy took the vacant place. The Peoria team sent lip cheer after cheer, for the game seemed to be in their favor. The cheering made Ivy nervous. She fumbled the ball, threw it into the hands of Peoria’s center, and Peoria had scored on Rockford when the whistle blew and the first half was over. When the second half began. Ivy was in her place, determined to bring up the score. She played as she had never played before, and the girls, catching her spirit, played harder, too, so that Peoria could not score again. When Ivy finally threw a basket and tied the score, there was only one minute left to play. The ball was in Peoria’s hands, when Lois grabbed it, and threw it to Matilda, who in turn passed it to Ivy. As she lifted the ball high above her head and tossed it towards the basket, the referee raised his whistle to his lips. The ball hung on the rim of the basket for an instant and, as it fell in, the whistle sounded. The game was over, and Ivv had won Rockford the cup. Yet, even in the midst of all the cheering that followed, never once rlid the little Junior think of her own glory. She had done it for the honor of the school. THE DETENTION HOUR ALPHA PIERSON, ’12 Between the light and the twilight. When the night is beginning to lower. Comes the happiest time of the school day, That is known as Detention Hour. I hear in the chamber above me, The shuffling of many feet. The sound of a door that is slamming, And voices far from sweet. From the basement we watch with trembling. Descending the broad hall-stair, With her pad and her busy pencil, A teacher with soft gray hair. A question and then a silence. Yet she knows by our guilty looks, We were laughing and talking together, Of things, that are not in our books. A sudden scratch of the pencil On a piece of paper white. We know it’s the word “Detention,” And that we deserve it all right. The Bitter Root Page 11