Latin School of Chicago - Sigillum Yearbook (Chicago, IL)

Page 41 text:

SIGILLUM get their charges successfully through their college examinations. The years have brought another faculty but they couldnlt possibly have brought a better one, as there just ain't no such thing. Most of us remember the old faculty as vividly today as if we had just skipped out of class. R. P. Bates, for example, who loved to put on a roaring, raging act that would scare the wits, if any, out of the Senior Class, and whose unerring aim with a piece of chalk and his pungent wit kept him in high respect with the students. Of course, everybody knew there really wasn't a kindlier, friendlier man in the world than R. P. Bates but, now and then, discipline simply had to be maintained-and he was the lad to do it. He did it so Well, and my memory of him is so vivid, that when I met him recently at the University Club I put my burning cigarette instinctively into my pocket. If that isn't making a permanent impression, there simply is no such thing. Then, there was the kindly Mr. Bosworth, who would do anything in the world he could to help his students through. He dearly loved any pupil of his who showed even a semi intelligent interest in his subject, which was English, and succeeded, after an uphill battle against terrific odds, in making many of appreciate the beauty of a jeweled sentence. Mr. McCloed, that sterling Scotsman, whose stubborn will was harder than the granite of his native country, could and did hammer mathe- matics into the most resistent skulls, and accomplished this practic- ally impossible job with the utmost good nature. Mr. Whiting, who taught Latin and Greek, and made his charges like it, will always retain a warm niche in the hearts of the Alumni over Whom he worked so diligently. There is no school better than its faculty and that is why any Chicago Latin School boy, no matter how long after he graduates, continues a Latin School boy-for the School stamp stays with him, to his credit, until he dies.

Page 40 text:

SIGILLUM business men come up from their boiler shops and blast furnaces on LaSalle Street and stop off at I-Iousman's for a quiet snort. Anyway, old Mr. Housman was one of those sterling characters who believed that a little draught beer, now and then, was good for the growing boy and made him big and strong. I, of course, agreed with him, as I was but a spindling youth, and yearned for weight and muscle. The faculty, however, looked upon the good Mr. Housman as a low fellow at best, and put a notice up on the bulletin board advising any and all of the young health seekers, via the beer route, that they would be summarily expelled, fired, bounced and tossed out on their little pink ears if they were caught anywhere near the place. You can well imagine how discouraging all this was, but we were quite philosophical about it--expecially as we soon found a back entrance, so located that we could go in and out practically unobserved. We often wondered why we never met any of the faculty there but, being precocious lads, we soon concluded they gave their patronage to a place further up the street, and not so near the School. Everything went swimmingly until a day one, Freddie Ridgeway, came down with the most grievous toothache--so severe that anything but liquid nourish- ment made him shudder and quake, in fact, to hear him tell it, he had the grandfather of all toothaches. We knew, of course, that Mr. I-Iousman dispensed free lunch in a princely style and we remembered, with innocent pleasure, his excellent hot soup. It was suggested, therefore, and purely from a humanitarian standpoint, that Freddie be escorted to the hot soup and there be allowed to absorb as much as his delicate condition permitted. Three of us went with him, and after our errand of mercy had been concluded we left. Due to carelessness, or perhaps lulled by a feeling of false security because we had only had soup, we left the place by the front door, instead of the back entrance, and we were all caught redhanded and FIRED. You can well imagine how our manly bosoms burned with the injustice done us. Here we were, just as innocent as a nest of Easter eggs-this once anyway-and fired for going on an errand of mercy to help a stricken pal. Not only that, but before we could be re- instated in School we each had to bring a parent back with us to vouch for our future, virtuous behavior. This was indeed a delicate and painful matter, as the authorities well know, and I can only hope the others got by with it as easily as I was able to--thanks to very understanding parents. No mention can possible be made of the old School without an effectionate and respectful reference to that hearty faculty in charge of us little ruffians. How the faculty were able to stand us, I shall never know. I sometimes think if a chemist got one of our teachers and made a careful analysis he would find the makeup ran to large percentage of unflagging patience, kindness and indomitable will to

Page 42 text:

Crew And The Charles J. BELFORT KEOGH J. Belfort Keogh, 719, Harvard '23, editor of Folio while at Latin, at present in the State Department. This article is reprinted from THE HARVARD ADVOCATE with which he was associated. LLURING to the eye Crew looms up in our world of sport. And whenever oarsmen contend manfully in a race, then the spectators can find no small delight in the fine skill of parts, en- during strength, and rhythm of the whole which they display. Yet the rowing life has more stuff in't than this racing business. Here is the Charles which flows beneath the quaint or stately bridges of its course, winds down to the broad basin of a metropolis,- there to enter an arena of grand promenade, church, and high- domed structure. And when the time brings on the oarsmen, this little quarter of the world-this quarter sacred to Rowing-starts alive with youthful forms. Among the first-crew men are splendid types: most of them tall, lusty fellows with a good coxswain to guide the boat. Now whether the little steersman,s voice be low-rumbling or high-piping, they row his commands with silence and despatch. These are real oarsmen, after all, who appreciate the value of system. Their coxswain never hesitates: he orders, pilots his crew with confidence a general might acclaim. So these seem flawless oarsmen, they work as one. Oars catch in, sweep through, and finish out together. There is but one quick rounded wrist-play of them all, but one long leaning of shoulders back and forth. Like a swift muskellunge their shell moves augustly,-with lesser fry giving way. Thus row the gods of Rowing! And though coaches may find them imperfect, it is not seemly for others to do likewise. Sometimes in March a crew is out when rain, mist, and hail descend. Then objects loom up indistinct, then factory, bridge, and river-bend take on the poetry of gray. The hail comes down aslant the backs of the rowers, and beats in the coXswain's face. The fingers of the oarsrnen are benumbed, their palms alone feel contact with the oars. In one hand the steersman grips wet rudder- lines . . . what wretched things to handle when coated with ice! . . . and with the other hand shields his eyes against the cutting hail, peers forward to mark the obscure turn, and calls out common- place mistakes he never sees. The wind jerks at his rnegaphoneg the hail and rain wet his lips,-muffle his voice. Nevertheless, shouting through his teeth, he keeps the spirit of the crew vigorous. The boat moves strangely on .... And if a savage of the Amazon could have a glimpse of that long phantom as it stabs swiftly through the mist, then would his heart shudder within him because some unknown ghoul of the river had sprung up into life.