Hellgate High School - Halberd Yearbook (Missoula, MT)

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irzmnx W QUAIL CREEK CAMP BY MOONLIGHT, A LA IRVING WALLACE- SMITH, '13 I have given a picture of our camp on our first taking possession. A few evenings have produced a thorough change in the scene and in my feelings. The moon, which then was invisible, has gradually gained upon the nights and now rolls in full splendor above Bear Tooth Cliff, pouring a flood of tempered light into every forest aisle and clearing. The slope in front of the tent is gently lightened up; the fir and pine trees are tipped with silver, the creek sparkles in the moonbeams and even the blush of the wild rose is faintly visible. I have sat for hours in our tent door inhaling the fragrance of the pines, and musing on the jagged outline of the tree-tops, whose towering trunks are dimly shadowed out against a background of for- est-covered mountains. Sometimes I have issued forth at midnight when .everything was quiet and have wandered around the camp. Who can do justice to a moonlight night in such a climate and in such a place ? The temperature of a Montana midnight in summer is perfectly ethereal. We seem lifted up into a purer atmosphere; there is a serenity of soul, buoyancy of spirits, elasticity of frame that renders mere existence enjoyment. The effect of the moonlight, too, on the campsite has something like enchantment. Every rent and chasm of time, every mouldering tint and weather stain disappears; the cliffs take on the whiteness of marble; the little creek flows gently along its base; two trees stand as sentinals so that the “Tooth” reminds one of a moated fastness of mediaeval times. At such times I have ascended by the narrow path to the top of Bear-Tooth hill to enjoy its varied and extensive prospect. To the right the snowy summits of Mission Range gleam like silver clouds against the darker firmament and all the outlines of the mountains would be softened, yet delicately defined. My delight, however, would be to lean over where the crag drops sheer for hundreds of feet, and gaze down upon the Swan River, winding like a great silver snake, The Bitter Root Page 7

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MISSOULA COUNTY HIGH SCHOOL

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below me, softly lapping against the boulders along its edge, and its dark evergreen bank sleeping, as it were, in the moonshine. Sometimes I would hear the lonely cry of a solitary water-bird in some dark inlet of the stream; at other times I have heard the dis- mal hoot of an owl, and always the faint gurgling and lashing rises from the sparkling river and I have pictured to myself canoes of sin- ewy redskins dipping their paddles to a weird chant as they breast the current, a picturesque scene of former days, but now seldom oc- curring except in remote parts of Canada. Such are the scenes that have detained me for many an hour, loitering about the glades and ridges of our camping place, enjoying that mixture of reverie and sensation which steal away existence in such a climate—and it has been almost morning before I have retired to my bed and been lulled to sleep by the murjnuring waters of Quail Creek. ODE TO THE CLASS BELL Hail! to thee, clamoring, endless jangling bell! Hail! to thy ring of merry, spiteful glee! Oft, where the air of spring is balmy, still. When heads bend low o’er desks in calm repose. Thy rude voice oft has roused me from a doze, A gentle slumber filled with sweetest dreams, And wTith a startled jerk hast called me back To stern reality, this weary world. To themes unwritten and detention pads. Or if not dreams, from fond remembered talks, Or tender tete-a-tetes with dear close friends. ’Tis thee that summons me. Thy dull jarring note Sends direst chills thru every student’s spine. Thou art a tyrant, thee we must revere, At thy command spring up and haste away, To torture, and to boredom, close behind Thy wicked rule, among our hated list Of cruel trials. Yet a few weeks and we, a favored band. Will break the chains that bind us firm and strong, And once again be free to flirt and dream. No more shaft thou, frail gong of polished steel, Break in upon our private dialogues. Nor order, with pale lip and quaking knees. And flushing cheeks and shifting guilty glance. The boy, who all the period, should have conned His Latin, but instead with love-lorn mein Page 8 The Bitter Root