Shields High School - Patriot Yearbook (Seymour, IN)

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‘“ The French hunter, who lives across the lake, was the first white man to invade this ter- ritory. He encountered many hardships before he settled down to hunt and trap, and once he was lost in a storm. It was early spring and the whole country was very wet. There was no place for him to sleep and, as it was night he could not find his camp. Suddenly, there sounded above the noise of the storm a long, loud, wierd cry. Following this, the Frenchman reached his camp. Soon after, he captured this creature that had cried with so wierd a voice, and be- cause it once saved his life, he spared it and kept it in his camp. He called it by the most beau- tiful name he could think of. Now, when he is away, it cries loudly, and by the noise he knows where his camp is to be found..’ “Thus the Indian guide ended his story, and when I protested that he had not yet told me just what Hortenza was, he said that we should visit the Frenchman and find out for ourselves. That afternoon, w e both paddled over to his camp and there I learned that Hortenza was a large, awkward, black and white loon.”’ On Che South Land RAY EF. HIMEBAUGH f HEN the birds begin to go, W Fn the land of ice and snow; When they leave their empty nests For the Southland and the West,— Then I feel devoid of cheer, For my thoughts are then not here, But rather in the Southland bright, Where ‘tis warm both day and night.

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“This is the first time I was ever so far south. Hitherto the southernmost boundary of my field of observation has been Lake Michigan. I don’t know why or how I ever came here, but that’s generally the way with me. Att least, so it was when I visited Spirit Lake, up in the Hud- son Bay territory. That was a beautiful place — yet, strangely wierd. The surroundings were very impressive and I felt, when the Indian guide told me its name was ‘Spirit Lake,’ that it had been well named. There was always an agreeable chill and freshness in the air; and a mist that hung over the place in the morning and evening seemed to exert a spell of magic over me. I loved the lake and yet was afraid to trust myself on it. But it seemed such a tantalizing delight to get out early and paddle around in my canoe that I formed the habit. Every morning I would rise early, take my field glass, rod and gun, step into the canoe and paddle away into the mist. “One morning, I was paddling around with my usual equipment, when, suddenly the mist disappeared and the sun shone brightly on a long, low, sandy bar. I naturally turned my head and glanced in the direction of the sunlight. I was about twenty yards from the shore, and the same space lay between the water and a thick growth of bushes and tall grass. As I looked, I thought that I saw a slight figure moving swiftly toward the undergrowth. I quickly raised my glass, but caught only a fleeting glimpse. I paddled back to camp as fast as I could and told the guide what I had seen. ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘you have seen the beautiful Hortenza. She lives over there by the French hunter.’ “ That was all he would tell me, but you may believe that I was anxious to know more about the beautiful Hortenza. I returned to the spot where I had seen the figure disappear in the bushes and fished there the rest of the day, hoping to catch a glimpse of it again. But as even- ing came, and still nothing was to be seen or heard, I grew less watchful and more thoughtful. Who could the beautiful Hortenza be? Hortenza was a French name, and the Indian had said she lived with a French hunter. Might not she be the daughter of the Frenchman? The In- dian had said that she was beautiful. I trailed my line listlessly, and in my reverie the mists of evening descended upon Spirit Lake and hid me in its enshrouding folds. Still I sat with low- ered head, thinking of what my guide had said and what I had seen. Suddenly, there sounded through the darkening mist, from the direction of the shore, a cry so wierd and loud that, in my fright, I almost fell out of the canoe. Trembling with fear, I wound in my lines, took up the paddle, and headed for the camp as fast as I could go. “Now, you must understand that this was quite a while ago, and that then I did not know all I know now. The sound puzzled me, and yet, I would not ask the guide to explain it, for I desired to find out m ore about Hortenza and did not care to have an Indian mixed up in any of my affairs. ““Early next morning, I was again on the lake, watching from the same place. As before, { managed to catch just a fleeting glimpse of the figure as it disappeared into the thicket. As far as I could see, there was no movement of bushes as it silently vanished into the depths before my eyes, but this only added to the mystery. I determined to find out more about Hortenza at whatever cost, and turned about to question my guide further. “T found him sitting idly on a log outside the tent, and told him to relate to me all he knew concerning Hortenza. He began, and in his Indian manner, told me the following story:

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The Time That I Like Best a6 HE. time of all, that I like best, Is when I sit by the fire to rest; BOBBY ‘!4 When fierce the winds in the chimney blow, As they make the sparkling embers glow. The relic clock sends forth a chime, The pendulum is beating time, The big hand joining in the sound Drives the little one around. In the open doorway of the hall, The playful kitten rolls the ball. The old cat bows with utmost grace, While washing off his dirty face. Above the moaning of the sea Hooting are the owlets three, As they flutter to and fro Seeking shelter from sleet and snow. Far away, o’er hill and dells Is heard the jingling of sleigh bells Joined with voices of gay laughter, Shouting, ‘‘Faster, faster, faster.”’