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

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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 ]

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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 19 2 3 “Day by day, in every way, the smell gets worse and worse,” whispered Judith, hardly realizing that she spoke below her breath. “Wait !” replied Betty. About forty or fifty feet from where they stood, the house was plainly visible. The outside was clearly used as a store house. At the left of the one high step, stood a huge barrel filled with chestnuts from which a cheeky little chipmunk scampered as the girls drew near. Pails of sour milk and garbage stood nearby. At the right of the house, a fuzzy old hen was clucking to her wayward brood, entreating them to use caution and to return to the coop — such as it was. The unevenly hung door was fastened on the outside with a piece of frayed rope and a rusty nail. Three grimy windows with an occasional rotten screen, gave an impression of age which rivalled that of the hoary trees surrounding. Betty boldly stepped up to the door, knocked, and called: “Mrs. Mathews !” Only the impervious silence answered. Dauntlessly, Betty tried again but with similar success. The stillness imitated that of the two girls. Clearing her throat, Betty remarked, “Well, I guess Mrs. Matthews isn’t home, but we can look around anyway.” Judith, nothing loath, placed her cupped hands at the front window and peered within. For a second or two all was black but then, the faint outlines of a small stove were visible. A pan of decidedly ancient biscuits reigned in state on top of the stove. With the head toward the stove, a poorly constructed bed could be seen and as Juddy gave a second glance, she gasped, and shrank from the window. “Betty ! that woman’s in bed in there ! She looks awful ! Oh, look quick !” With little urging, Betty took her stand at the opening, but being more familiar with the shack, she found the bed with greater haste. Yes, Juddy was right. An emaciated hand and arm laid above the plaided quilt and the wasted form could be traced among the bunched blankets. “Do you suppose she can be dead?” gasped Juddy, as Betty turned towards her. “She’s either dead or very ill. I’ve always thought she would probably die off here by herself and no one would know it. Her hand looks as though she had been dead for some time.” “If she w ere sick, she would have answered us when we called,” added Juddv, instinctively drawing nearer Betty. “I ought to go in,” meditated Betty. “No, it’s awful in there. We had better go home and get someone.” exclaimed Juddy, thinking only of herself. “Yes, but she might be sick and die while w r e w r ere gone. I’m going to open the door, at least, and then I can see better.” “Don’t go in, Betty. Just look and then we will go and get somebody from camp.” With a deaf ear, Betty unfastened the door and pushing it slowly open, [ 30 ]