Hellgate High School - Halberd Yearbook (Missoula, MT)

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CLASS HISTORY. Truth, crushed to earth, even though it has been held there for almost four years by the combined weight of thirty-six dig- nified SENIORS, has risen again; and now, in spite of all our trouble, it confronts us in more hideous proportions than ever. For proud and arrogant as we may be; however self-satisfied and self-important we appear, the unavoidable fact remains that once, not very long ago, we were a motley, awkward and shuffling herd of fearful, apologetic sheep, exemplified only in our loved ones of the present, the FRESHMEN. Yes— FRESHMEN we were, once; we were not always SENIORS, dear undergraduates, but we have passed through all the stages of evolutional develop- ment in which you now find yourselves; we, too, have been FRESHMEN, SOPHOMORES and JUNIORS. We are now almost at the close of four happy, profitable years in high school. There is very little here that remains before us; it is now for us to turn our eyes momentarily backwards; to bring up once again the scenes through which we have passed; the troubles and pleasures which have comforted us in the short four years that we have spent here. Although several of our members have been willed to us by classes who entered previously, the loss, for the most part, made its apologetic entry in the fall of the year 1909. Our feelings, when we first became connected with the school, can best be described by the words of Addison: “Speechless with wonder, and half dead with fearU—a mix- ture of curiosity, wonder and terror for the much-famed tortures which awaited us. The entrance, however, was not so fearful ae we had imagined it would be; we all escaped alive and unhurt, though perhaps a trifle humiliated. And once safely within the gates, you may rest assured, our first two years were exceedingly quie.t ones. So long as we were unmolested by others, we would have been the last ones to stir up trouble of our own accord. Perfectly willing, we were, to allow others to manage school activities, although several of our classmates distinguished them- selves in athletics and in other ways greatly to our credit. Dur- ing our FRESHMAN year, our president was Marie Gibson, who has since been obliged to leave us. During our second year Ernest Prescott, who has since so distinguished himself in ath- letics, had the helm. It was in this year, with no discredit to us, that the thrilling croton oil escapade was “pulled off.” Perhaps the less said about the affair, the better; we merely mention it. The showing we made at a “circus”, given by the school in that year, and especially the vim with which we entered the FRESH- MEN initiation, inflicted upon the present JUNIORS, adds very much to our fame and honor. IN our JUNIOR year, we began to assume some importance in school acairs. We felt keenly the responsibility resting upon us and realized to the full extent the fact that without us the whole school system would inevitably be a failure. We realized also that it was our solemn duty to give the then SENIORS a “Prom” which had never before been equalled. And to accom- plish this, we realized that we must have the “wherewithall” to —20—

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least a few to choose a profession as instructors—and so it is. Georgia Knott and Cecil Carrol are in South America, near the Amazon, teaching the natives in their vicinity the rudiments of civilization. Let us hope they are enjoying themselves. It is a noble work. In Mexico is a colony of members of a new sect—a new faith founded upon the teachings and inspirations of Angie Andrews. Angie is the champion of the cause and numbers among her converts a few of her former classmates. Della Hamilton and Audrey Crabtree fell for the new and attractive doctrine like ducks for water. (Pipe that simile). Willard Jones has followed a somewhat different career from any of the rest. After his brilliant record as an athlete in high school he added still more laurels to his name at Yale and later at the Olympic games in France, where he established a record for the quarter that has never since been approached. He has been, for the past few years, coach of the Riverside High School. Of all those thirty-six members of the class, only three are yet in Missoula. Sadie Shaffer is one, and she has become the society leader of the city, with teas and balls in the “game of precedence with her neighbors.” Ruth Woodford (small, but O my!) is serving at the old Minute Lunch, of which all the boys have fond memories. The Minute is still noted for its hamburgers—and waitresses. Ruth has upheld its reputation for the last ten years, but it is rumored that she has other plans for the rest of her life, for she intends to quit soon. We can draw but one conclusion—someone has fallen for that smile. The third one who remained in the old town is Leroy Lebkicher. His life has been a sad one. From the first he has lived in wastefulness of his intellectual abilities and in the full indulgence of his “spontaneity.’’ Alberta Stone lived in Missoula until about five years ago, when she journeyed to De Smet to join her other half. Her name now is Mrs. Pucunini—something—or—other. Mrs. P. wields a pick and cuts the grass on section No. Nine of the N. P. R. R. Of the rest of the class I know less. Elva McDaniel is, at present, private secretary to the president of the Women’s National League. Hazel Swearingen is living a quiet life in Woonsocket, Texas,—that is, figuratively quiet, for she has a host of youngsters continually at her feet. I have not heard of Laura Taylor for two or three years, but at that time she was editing a “Heart to Heart” column in the Missoula Sentinel. There is only one member of whom I have not spoken,— Harold Jones—chiefly known as being related to his brother. After a period of unsuccessful rivalry with Stuart McHaffie, he worked his way abroad in the vain endeavor to forget his troubles. In turn he tried various occupations, and eventually landed at the Iowa State Penitentiary—as gate keeper of that efficient establishment. Well may the world rejoice that it can boast such an insti- tution as the Missoula High School, with its annual output, as it were, of those as well fitted to wage the battle of life and pro- mote the well-being of society as were the several members of the class of nineteen-thirteen. -19-

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finance such a tremendous undertaking-. After several plans had been considered, only to be thrown aside, and after several efforts had been made fruitlessly, our remarkable talent and ability for hard work finally resulted in “THE GOLDEN PRINCESS’5, which was a great success. The “Prom” which we gave that year was in every way a success; and when our third year was completed, we felt satisfied that we had done all that could be required of us. This brings us down to the last year “sojourn”, as it were, in school affairs. We felt keenly the responsibility resting upon and now we stand almost ready to graduate. Yet, during the four years that we have spent here, what great good we have derived, not only from our books, but from our associations with each other and with our teachers! There is surely no one among us who can say he has spent his time here unprofitably! And we have not been here without leaving our stamp upon the school. Among our number may be found those who have dis- tinguished themselves admirably in athletics—captains and man- agers of teams that have brought everlasting fame and glory to the Missoula High School—men who are heroes in the athletic world! Among our number may be found silver-tongued ora- tors—debaters, who will some day be statesmen, congressmen and governors of states! The records made by some of us will never be surpassed. With our high school career, we may be well satisfied, for we have done well—VERY WELL! CLASS POEM. A poem is a wondrous thing, Beloved by all, I wot! It need not history’s facts recall, It need not tell the truth at all. Nor must it have a plot. Since ’tis not mine to prophesy, I will a medley write, Of what we have in High School learned. And whether it has been well-earned. These things I will recite. So very wise I have become, In order to arrange The many thots I would express, And give to each its proper stress, The meter I must change. Tell me not, that hateful Numbers, In the grades were left behind! For in High School, too, they greet us, Tho in different forms, we find. —21—