Hellgate High School - Halberd Yearbook (Missoula, MT)

Page 32 text:

filled bleachers. I managed to squeeze in between a pair of very inoffensive looking youths bearing banners and colors. When I felt that I was securely seated, I looked the crowd over with more attention to details. The occupants of the grandstand were mostly boys, but not the kind that I had grown up with. Each was decked with pennants and ribbons, which was perfectly legitimate. But the clothes! Here I rubbed my spectacles vig- orously. No, I was not mistaken. They wore high lace collars, supported by celluloid stays, the exposed edges of white vests were embroidered with silk, and the bottoms of the shapeless trousers were fringed with golden rope-lace. I leaned back, closed my eyes and snorted in disgust. Hooking around again, thoroughly calloused as to what would meet my eyes next, I saw my two girlish looking companions cringing away from me as if I were a green-eyed monster, their soft faces shining disapproval thru their artificial complexions. I straightened up; I didn’t care what happened next, I was disgusted. I could not help feeling a surge of thankfulness that my school days had come at a period before the decline of American manhood. I was aroused by shrieks and ’rahs from my refined com- panions, anouncing the appearance of the teams. I thought that I was shock-proof until my eyes fell upon those football teams. A score and a half of husky looking, well disciplined girls loped proudly and pretentiously out on the gridiron. My credulity suffered a relapse. T viciously shoved my spectacles into my pocket and rested my throbbing head upon my hands, thinking that the illusion would soon pass. But it was of no use; when I looked up they were still there. As my composure slowly returned, I took in the costume of the contestants with no little interest. All wore burnt leather headguards, large enough to cover immense masses of neatly dressed hair; lightly padded gymnasium suits with tennis shoes completed the uniforms. There were two bulging pockets in each blouse, which I guessed contained cosmetics, as the partici- pants had lost nothing in color. A shrill whistle announced the beginning of the game. A chamois skin football was gingerly placed on an immaculate silk handkerchief in the center of the field. At the signal, it received a tender and maidenly kick, rose gracefully for the space of a second or two, and fell with brutal precision into the arms of the enemy’s most vicious looking blond. With savage threats and extended arms the locals were upon her, and she was borne mercilessly to the ground before she had gained a yard. A dis- cordant concert of owlish screeches rose from the bleachers about me. I was seized by a mad desire to clap my hand over one of those puny, ornamental faces, but my self respect came to their rescue. When the harmony ceased, I heard the admirable blond cry out: Oh dear! Mr. Referee, do stop the game, my coiffure is dreadfully disarranged.” After this was remedied by the aid of a small pocket mirror, and something invisible to those in the grandstand had been applied to her abused cheeks by means of a dainty piece of chamois skin, the game was resumed. Both sides lined up with stern determination, and all grimly —32—

Page 31 text:

—THE WOMEN OF 1923— To a man who has spent ten years of his life in the wilds of Alaska and northern Canada, civilization affords a great many pleasures. This was my thought as I took the train at Bing, enroute for my old school town, the scene of my early education. When 1 was comfortably seated in the smoker, I let my mind wander in a retrospection of past joys and catastrophies, and naturally old high school experiences predominated. Reminis- cences of all the balls and parties, the halls gaily decorated with purple and gold, or with class colors suspended from beam to beam of the ceiling, presented themselves vividly in the smoke of my cigar. In this scene appeared the faces of the different girls. On these I reflected long, calling to memory the delicate little gestures, the dainty lady-like mannerisms, and the charming ab- horrence of anything rude or boisterous. Those were the sweet- est of memories. Then came the pictures of the gridiron, where I had heard the approving shriek of many a timid maiden when- ever I had made a rib-cracking smash into the solid ranks of the enemy. Had it not been for that anxious feminine face in the bleachers I would have allowed myself to be borne off the field long before my last ounce of brute strength had expired. What were cracked ribs and black eyes with that face mutely appeal- ing to me from between the goal posts? Now I was going back to see another such game, the Thanks- giving championship game of 1923. In the midst of my deep revery I descended from the train at my destination. As it was rather late, I had no chance to visit old landmarks, so I hunted a hotel. I was out early the next morning taking in the points of interest. There were a great number of new improvements, but I was constantly reminded, by some spot or out-of-date building, of the pleasure-laden days of my youth. After dinner I wandered out to the high school, which now held its sessions in the old University building, since the consolidation of all the higher in- stitutions of the State at Bozeman. After all, things didn’t look as natural as I had expected. Following the crowd that seemed to spring up suddenly, 1 soon found myself at the gymnasium seeking a seat in the well —31—

Page 33 text:

placed their knuckles upon the damp, repulsive earth. At the end of a long and unintelligible series of Greek signals, greatly resembling a Chinese funeral sermon, the ball was dexterously passed toward the little quarter-back. It missed her entirely, but the valiant huskies in .the lineup skilfully avoided any form of collision. The enemy’s full-back, a little brunette, made a furious dash after the ball, and, absolutely ignoring her stainless blouse, cast herself heroically upon the chamois skin. This highly commendable deed called forth viper-like hisses from the effeminate sidelines. However, the enthusiasm of the enemy was greatly increased by this self-sacrificing action, and, with one exception, they eyed the little full-back in open admiration. That exception, the haughty blond, was standing motionless, gazing serenely at the distant landscape. In the soul of this arrogant creature, she had aroused a spark of jealousy. Another graceful lineup, another precisely accurate pass, and the game was resumed in all it’s thrilling excitement. This time the doughty little brunette received the ball squarely against her headguard, caught it at the summit of it’s first bound, and began a praiseworthy marathon for the distant goal posts, while the terrible blond formed an exceedingly successful interference for nearly a yard. At the end of this decisive gain, the two phe- nomenal stars unavoidably collided, and the dilated chamois skin rolled to earth. In the melee that necessarily followed, the blond murderously pinched the little brunette in a very underhanded manner. Every heart in the grandstand sympathetically fell down and rolled over as the victim of this barbarous atrocity slipped to the ground in a semi-conscious condition. At this dramatic point a tail, tremulous, white-faced youth arose from the bleachers and hurried to the scene, bearing a cut glass pitcher of distilled spring water. Recklessly tearing the lace from his cuffs, he sponged the young lady’s face very tenderly with the liquid and fanned her back to life with his own em- broidered handkerchief, finishing with a very skillful application of Colgate’s “Eternal Beauty.” Meanwhile the repulsive deed had been traced to its source. All the participants were shocked and all drew away from the blond traitor in awestricken silence. The culprit drew herself up to her full six feet in sullen defiance, and began: “I don’t care one bit. She’s not in my sorority, and I’d do it again, so there!” Then, being fully aware that the sport could not be con- tinued without her, she deliberately put an end to the season’s championship game by stalking majestically from the field. And they called this Woman’s Rights! And this was the outcome of that movement I had so enthusiastically supported in my unthinking youth. This emancipation of woman was far too miraculous for my rusty intellect to comprehend. Alaska was the only place for me. I placed my spectacles upon the bleachers, got upon them with both feet, and hysterically held aloft my round-trip ticket. PAUL R. SIMPSON, ’14. —33—