Port Huron High School - Student Yearbook (Port Huron, MI)

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19 2 3 S T U I) E N T 1923 ♦ The Swamp Angel «T 1 HERE!” sighed Betty Sherman, as she bound off the last stitch on the blue and orange sweater that lay in her lap. “I could yell for joy. Come on Juddy, let’s celebrate!” Her companion’s yawn was abruptly interrupted when Betty leaped from the porch swing spilling pillows and knitting needles in all directions. “Well,” she said lazily, “What’s the celebration to be? As a guest, 1 am curious what these wilds of Michigan will reveal in order to merit the name of ‘celebration’.” Betty sat down upon the nearest chair and looked for a long minute at her friend. J udith Morrison’s ignorance of what she called “the wilds of Michigan puzzled Betty but, finally, with a nod of her sunny head she started to pick up the cluttered porch swing. “For an educated young miss from Boston, you are giving me a very poor impression and if you wish to redeem yourself in my eyes, be sport enough to do this wild (?) stunt. I suppose it does seem like a queer existence to you — this vacation in Northern Michigan — but I really love it so that I thought you would, too.” At the disappointed look in Betty’s eves, Juddy reached over and hugged her friend. “You know well enough, Betty kins, that I am having the time of my life and that I just hate the thought of going back to Boston next week. What are we going to do as a novel way of celebrating your completed sweater?” With a chuckle, Betty rose to her feet, dragging Judith after her. “Come on, we must tell Mumsy that we are going to the Swamp Angel’s house.” Without more ado, the two girls left the Sherman cottage for the walk through the Sapphire Lake Camp which had been formed years before by a group of friends who appreciated the exceptional beauty of Sapphire Lake. The twenty-one cottages were set among the ancient white pines and Norways that had been preserved by tiie original founders and constituted what might be called “an ideal summer resort.” The Association conducted a common dining-hall in which every family had its own table but which gave a complete rest to the women folk of the Camp. Betty and Judith soon traversed the winding path down through the camp to the western end of the Association property and came out upon an obscure patii leading into the lower and more densely wooded country. “Who in the world is the ‘Swamp Angel?’ ” asked Judith, as she scrambled over a rotted log in the path. “She’s our own special mystery, straight from mystery land,” exclaimed Betty, sliding the last few feet of the downward trail covered with slippery pine needles, but when she had gained her feet again, she went on to say. “The Swamp Angel’s real name is Mrs. Matthews. Years ago when all this country was covered with logging camps, Mr. and Mrs. Matthews bought some land from a speculator — a crook — for the purpose of starting a chicken-ranch. I i ’ [28]

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1 9 2 3 S T U I) E N T 1 9 2 3 until December 7, 1922. Ibis Charter has been suitably framed and hangs in the office of the Principal. The charter members of the local chapter were: Eunice Eichhorn Phyllis Turnbull Irma Burns Esther Duffin Elizabeth Thomas John Congo Natalie Moore Emily Stewart Edward Stephens Louis Weil, Jr. Katherine Philbrick Fred Sturm er Esther Pace Marguerite Boar dm an The members elected from the class of 1923 are as follows: Grace Jones Charlene Shiland Ruth Steele Lyal Howison Gertrude Sinclair Russell Wonder lic Andrew Robertson WlLLIi Isabel Cowan Fletcher Meade Ruth Norton Paul Soini Marguerite Crawford Malcolm Charlton Phyllis Eichhorn Hutchinson [ 27 ]

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1 9 2 3 S T U I) E N T 1 9 2 3 ¥ suppose to those folks in crowded Chicago — that’s where they came from — the highly pictured life in Northern Michigan, together with the fine maps which this fraud probably showed them, was enough to induce them to invest their last few hundred dollars in a chicken-ranch. Dad says there have been stacks of folks fooled on this chicken-ranch idea. And I guess it’s so, too, ’cause most any place you want to drive around this country you can find deserted chicken ranches with their long, unused chicken houses. “Well, anyway, this Mr. and Mrs. Matthews got up here and found that their future chicken ranch was in the middle of Sapphire Lake! Of course, there wasn’t a thing for them to do hut settle down at one of the lumber camps where Mr. Matthews could fell logs rather than raise chickens. Everything went along pretty smoothly for several years except for a few family scraps once in a while. Folks say that this Mrs. Matthews used to be an awfully dirty woman even in those days — you can judge for yourself when you see her — and that her husband used to take her down to the shore when she got too bad, and souse her around in the lake. “But one winter Mr. Matthews must have begun to long for the bright lights of the city so he made the most of his opportunity when it came along. The cam]) boss sent Mr. Matthews out to the nearest town for supplies giving fiim quite a sum of money. That was the last of Mr. Matthews.” “What happened to her?” queried Juddy. “Well, you see, nobody gave her any money so she is still here. We are not far from her shack now. No one knows her age exactly but she must be pretty old. She still does washings for some of the women at the camps. Usually she goes through camp several times during a summer but no one has seen her this year. She dresses in black, goes bare-footed, and trundles a one-handed wheel-barrow that has a little squeak all its own. Mrs. Matthews is quite up-to-date, having bobbed her hair, but a few of the modern ideas of sanitation would help her mansion in the woods. Just for an example of what you’re going to see, I will warn you that she lives with her pigs and chickens during tiie winter.’ Betty turned in order to enjoy the look of horror that appeared on her Bostonian friend’s face, but a few yanks of her Huffy hair caused by a thorny bush turned her straight around again. The path gradually ran down into a low, piney woods, where the sob of the wind in the pines made a fitting accompaniment for the shifting shadows and the almost death-like silence. Soon the weather-beaten little one-room shack came into view, situated somewhat lower down than the path. As they neared a shelter constructed of rotten boards which extended forward from the hollowed-out bank side, Betty led Judith down past the shed whose odor reminded one of some past experience with the pig family. [ 29 ]