Hobart Senior High School - Memories Yearbook (Hobart, IN)

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CLASS REVIEW. i d o Q N( ' L upon a time, many, many years ago— four, I believe,— the class of nineteen twelve entered Hobart High School. Since then we have become famous. We have won applause in dramatic stunts, renown in our social functions, prizes in oratory, banners in athletics, championships in basket ball, and — I pause for breath. We have among us Edith Chase, A V ill Fleck, Leon Killigrew, Doris White four who have come straight up through the Hobart schools from the first grade on to Seniorship. W 7 e have one, Harold Tabbert, who has done the same, with the exception of one year spent in Ham- mond. A e have fifteen who started with us as Freshmen, and now we have twenty-one in our Senior class, the greatest number that ever climbed so high in Hobart High. Subtracting the former from the lat- ter, you will find six who joined us on the road, whom we are as proud to own as they are to own us. We know that we have “made history,” but that history is so extensive that it cannot be published in a volume of this size. Besides the Seniors whose names and faces appear in t he first part of this “Aurora,” these other have been identified with us in our high school career. ]) yy p2 Edward Able Clara Carlson Minnie Carlson •Clarence Carpenter Eva Hanna Elmer Hideen Mable Johnson Clarence Kostbade Edwin Larson Emil Pearson Lenore Scholler Henry Sholl Lola Schuelke ♦Deceased. 0 Q p

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AURORA ’12 27 TWICE TREASURE TROVE. Q P P T HE sun had already begun to pour its western rays upon the town of Hobart in northern Indiana. Distant woods were surrounded by the mysterious haze of Indian summer. Webs, floating low, attached themselves to a new motor car slowly making its way down the principal street of the town. The only occupant of the machine paid no heed to the silken, clinging, filmy filaments, for his thoughts were ever wandering to a picture — a mental picture of the delicate tracery of the face of a beautiful girl. A native of the village, he spoke to all he met, but his thoughts were always abstracted in that same vague dream-object. The lingering dreaminess in his eyes grows to an eagerness that knows no bounds. He sends the car spinning toward the fashionable suburb. He stops on the boulevard and enters a house, soon to return to the machine, accompanied by the girl of his dreams. For a long time neither spoke, each watching the changing scenes, yet subtly con- scious of each other. It was he that broke the silence. “Now I can answer your question. The car is mine. You should feel greatly honored for you are having the initial as well as the farewell ride.” “The farewell ride?” “Yes, for I’ve come to say good-bye, if — ” “Why, where are you going?” she interrupted. “I am going to Europe — ” “Oh, I thought you wouldn’t take up your studies over there for at least two years.” “Different arrangements have been made, and — well, since we’re near the old spring let’s go down there and I’ll tell you all about it.” After a short walk they arrived at the old spring. It has been a landmark since the earliest settler can remember; a landmark to the Indians for countless decades before. The water, in years gone by, had flowed between the roots of a gigantic wild cherry tree, arching the shore, yes, the very waters of Duck Creek. Civilization has dwindled Duck Creek to a mere brook, to be spanned in summer by a step, but in the early spring, as in days of yore, it speeds along, a swollen Missouri, rushing its waters to Deep River, thence to the Calumet and Lake Michigan. The water now flows from the roots of a wild cherry tree, an outgrowth of the old tree, which bends across the spring and over the bank above. A root, washed clear or earth, runs into the bank, forming a natural seat. As they seated themselves on this he began the following story: “In the early 20 ' s the southern shore of Lake Michigan was uninviting, indeed, with its long stretch of sandy beach, behind which rose the lofty sand dunes, with here and there a scraggly sand cherry tree, and this infrequent growth covered with wild grape vines. Except for a few gulls that were ever hovering near the edge of the lake and skimming over the water, all was desolation. “Along the shore walked a lone man with a shaggy, unkempt beard and a hunted, half-frightened expression on his face. With his trousers rolled above his knees he waded through the water, towing a dugout behind him. In the canoe was a chest, but it was so carefully covered that its true form could not easily be distinguished, though if could be seen that it was heavy, because of the depth at which the canoe rode. “A cool northern wind was blowing with some little force and dashed the water upon the beach in a dangerous fashion. The man on shore labored hard to keep the canoe from running aground at one moment and from being towed out into the lake by the undercurrent at the next, while another onrushing wave might almost capsize it. He longed to ride, for a month of hiding and confinement had left him weak after work, but the waves would not permit that luxury. a Q b IP P Q =0 Cr