West Side High School - Legenda Yearbook (Saginaw, MI)

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came an official-looking person to inquire. I fervently denied having seen anyone, and the stranger galloped off. My anxiety grew great, however, when the guests grew boisterous and I fervently waited for Balemore. Then the leader of the two, who was far beyond soberness, decided to leave in the darkness. They departed, but before they did, the smallest of the two asked me in a whisper, Lad, as a favor to me, will you, as the clock strikes one, swing a lantern at the end of point, yonder, so that it can be seen on the east shore? Lad, it means the salvation of England. Promise me, lad. I did not have the heart to refuse this appeal and so I gave the old man my hand. Both men de- parted and again I heard the hoof-beats. Not long afterwards Master John returned home and after hear- ing my story, he decided with me that the signal should be given. We both went to the point with a lighted lantern. When the hour had come, I climbed a rock and swung the light. A few minutes later a rocket soared into the air. It seemed to come from the harbor down river. Several more rockets soared. Within a quarter of an hour guns were booming all over the harbor and coast. The Spanish Armada had come. As for the two strangers, I found that the smallest was the real monk, while the larger was his captor, a spy. A FAREWELL The dear old school, dear Arthur Hill, A tribute deep but sad we bring; Though we now leave thy hallowed walls. To you our thoughts will ever cling. We ' ll test what we have learned from thee In book of life ' s unerring page. If thou hast taught us false or true, The wondrous problems of the age. We ' . ' l prove and you will stand the test Of all stern critics have to say. You ' ve led us in the path of right, We followed where you blazed the way. So farewell old school, ' tis a sad goodbye. Your faithful task at last is through ; And softly, swiftly we ' ll depart. The dear old class of 22. Sara Pritchard

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A Tale of an Early Ale-House Charles Fredericks Having left my good home in Warwickshire at an early age. I, David Henderson, now found myself working as servant boy in the first public alehouse in Liverpool. This gathering place was in the posses- sion of one, John Balemore, who had come into the ownership through the death of his father, a money lender. The house in question was situated rather far back from residences and nearer to the river front. It had before it, as a sign, a crouching lion, which had been carved by a sailor who was also a patron. John Balemore was an unmarried man and one whose first glance seemed to be melancholy. During the serving of my apprenticeship we slept together in a room in the rear. Soon after the beginning of my work in this alehouse I came to know that my employer ' s melan- cholia was only assumed in the presence of strangers in the gather- ings. I soon deemed it a clever method of procuring important news of the times, but, as for myself, I was never enough of an actor to make the ruse work. In these times, persons who attended the Church were deemed sinners if they drank their ale in a public place. This was the reason for Balemore ' s house not always being crowded. Our trusty patrons numbered two sailors, three retired fishermen, a decrepit old gentle- man, who professed to have been a surgeon of skill, and a farmer, who came but rarely, and then he usually stayed to pass the night. Besides these there came travelers who were passing by way of Liverpool. I shall also mention that there was, at this time, a rumor of a quarrel with Spain. Spain, one should know, at this time had the strongest navy afloat, and one which numbered the most men. The feats of Drake and others had also made the Spaniards long for revenge. One evening, when all the old cronies had departed to their lodg- ings, I heard the tattoo of hoof-beats on the cobbles by the side of the shop and then an oldish man, in the garb of a monk, burst into the shop through the side door. He asked me the direction to G , all the while leaning against the open door in a listening attitude. Master John had been invited over Vernon way to sit in a game of the ever- popular whist, and had not yet returned. I was unable myself, because of my meager knowledge of the countrj-, to give the information. He then asked me if he could bide the night with us, and as I was alone, I could hardly refuse. To my surprise, he beckoned to someone outside the door, who presently joined us. The latter, unlike the huge person- age of the monk, was a thin, worn-to-the-bone person, who seemed to be under the hand of the monk. They forthwith adjourned to another room to sip a pot of ale. After I had served their order I was imparted the knowledge, by the monk, that if any strangers asked me of the whereabouts of two riders, I was to deny any knowledge of them. This was to be can ' ied out at the risk of my life. Surely enough, within the quarter of an hour, there

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.x ' ' W CLASS HISTDeV There are many kinds of history-, and you have probably had a taste of at least three kinds, perhaps four; but we are not going to bore you with anything as dry as The Conquest of Persia, nor yet the Landing of the Pilgrims. Before you, we are placing the history of the class of ' 22, beginning with the proverbial green freshman, and ending with the dignified senior of the maroon and white. On Sept. 7, 1918, there came timidly to the door of Arthur Hill, what was destined to become the peppiest, most alive group of gradu- ates, whose departure from Arthur Hill has ever been mourned. But to look at us, you never could have guessed all this, for despite our large number, we were not a very imposing looking group. When we look back to 1918, it seems but a few months since we were a group of irresponsible children. A quotation from the class secretary just about sums us up: Our Class Motto — Study if Necessary. Our Class Song — There ' ll be no Party There. Our Class Hope — That we Would Not Entirely Disappoint Our Teachers. For our officers we chose : President Charles Grube Vice - President George Ames Secretary -- Helen Southgate Treasurer Henry Snyder As freshmen we didn ' t do much unless it was to cut up, and we proved to be the bane of Miss Davis ' life. We gave one party at Social Hall, an all-freshman affair, which was — well its social success was questionable. We didn ' t give a big party because we weren ' t supposed to know enough to, and because the principal didn ' t think we studied enough to deserve one.