Hellgate High School - Halberd Yearbook (Missoula, MT)

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—

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 34 text:

—PIONEER LUCK— “Pete, please hurry up the horses. We'll soon get so far behind we can’t reach the other wagons,” said Mrs. Thomas, peering anxiously out of the prairie schooner. “It’s hard luck, but we’ll have to make the best of a bad thing now. Were already too far back to catch up,” Pete an- swered, nevertheless urging the horses on. Mr. Thomas had gone to Montana in 1868, leaving his wife and children in Wisconsin until he should have a home prepared for them. Hearing of the emigrant train which was to set out for the West the following spring, he had sent word to his family to join it. ❖ The band of travelers had at last started forth, fifty wagons strong, Mrs. Thomas and her two children being under the im- mediate protection of Pete Hanson, a former neighbor. Because of the Indians, it was neecssary that there should be a large train and that they keep together. Unfortunately, however, when they had been on the road about eight weeks, one of Pete’s horses had stumbled, and, in the sudden forward lurch had broken his harness. While Pete was repairing the damage, the other wagons went on, leaving his far behind. Mrs. Thomas, fearing for her children, had been urging Pete continu- ally to hurry. Now, at his statement, she resigned herself to fate, hoping almost against hope that the Indians, the dread of every emigrant, would not attack them. She had stationed her- self in front of the wagon in order to watch ceaselessly for some sign of attack as they went over plains and hills, forests and canyons. Early in the evening, her far-seeing eyes perceived an ever- growing speck in the distance. It resolved itself at last, into a horseman—a half-breed, who rode up to them just as they had reached a cross-road and were wondering which one to take. “Don't take the right hand road,” he said, “a brother of the chief has been killed, and the Indians, blaming the white man, have sworn vengeance. They are on the war path to kill all white men. It will not set you back to take this other way, for the roads are but a short distance apart, and come together again after a few miles. Take the left road; the Indians are coming on the right.” Fearing treachery Pete answered that he would take the right hand road anyway. “Sorry, then ; but if you are going to do that, at least build no fire during the night,” the man answered and rode on. Pete thought the matter over, decided that the man must have had friendly intentions, else he would not have warned them about the fire, and took the left hand road. When dark- ness came on, they drew the wagon up among the trees and pre- pared for the night. They were aroused about midnight by wild whoops and the noise of tramping feet, about a quarter of a mile away. The Indians indeed going by on the right hand road, but, thanks to the warning, the little party, though very much frightened, was safe. -34—