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Page 51 text:
The Abbot Circle 1926 abbot Vignettes — abbot Jfflatl JloxeS Characters Mail box — No. 13 Mail box — No. 14 Scene Abbot Academy Time March 25th, 1926 No. 13: The black looks I get these days are simply unbearable. Why any little school girl should glance at me so distastefully when I haven ' t a letter for her, I don ' t understand. You might think I could make him write to her. No. 14: Well, I ' m sick of having my door slammed in my face. Even if I have a letter for her she bangs it. Ungrateful wretch ! No. 13: You know, my owner persists in not only opening, but in poking her hand in me, everytime she passes. Queer! No. 14: Why don ' t you ask her doctor to prescribe spectacles for her? She must be near-sighted. No. 13 : I wonder why they ever brought us here. I fully expect to have my glass front shattered very soon. The old mail rack (I ' ve heard rumors of it) must have been much nicer and quieter. No. 14: Well, I heard that we would lessen the confusion in the office at mail time. There certainly is a tumult now, though. (The bell rings; then a mad rush and scramble; long arms wave wildly above the heads of the eager mob; doors are opened, and slammed — slam goes one of the doors.) No. 13: Oh! — that sends the shivers up and down my back. I suppose I should be glad to give the poor dears something to do. It must have been very dull, only to look at the mail rack and not have a private box to open and shut. No. 14: There ' s always something to be thankful for. It ' s great to feel important. Anyways I ' m happy that I get such scrutinizing glances many times a day. No. 13 : Oh ! yes, yes — . Say, do you ever please her? No. 14: Most certainly I do. The first of February I had packs of postcards for her ' — pictures of snow and mountains. Guess my owner ' s rather popular. On the fourteenth all I heard were squeals of joy, and I can ' t imagine why I was so laden down then. She ' s really spoiled. She — (A different voice is heard.) 43
Page 52 text:
The Abbot Circle 19 2 6 Voice: Goodbye, old mailbox. Won ' t see you again until April seventh. No. 14: Old mail box! Did you hear that? Oh, well, thank goodness, she ' s going away. Now we can have some peace. Goodbye. No. 13: Goodbye. Hope you enjoy your rest. Adelaide Black HmttcaSesi, ftere anb W$txt As I sat in the station, waiting for a train, I observed suitcases — big ones, little ones, shiny black ones, and old straw ones. And how characteristic they all were of their owners! An Italian immigrant went by, tugging a dilapidated straw suitcase which bulged at the corners. It probably contained all the poor woman ' s wordly possessions, and, like her, needed repair. Next came Mr. NouveaU Riche with his suitcases plastered with foreign labels which he had bought at home. I glanced up. What prima donna could this be? There was a porter, struggling under the burden of hatboxes, suitcases, band-boxes and a tennis racquet! Fol- lowing, was a young lady clasping an exotic little Parisienne doll in one hand, and a bunch of roses in the other. Her fame was all to make, however! it was just an Abbot girl back from a long recess. Ruth C. Deadman ftatrptnsi There was a time when the hairpin played an important part in keeping milady ' s hair handsomely in place. It is untrue to say that it doesn ' t do so now, but certainly its use has decreased, even in the last ten years. I wonder what the hair- pin thinks about it. It must be quite distracting to lose one ' s place in society. Of cou rse it can be put to other uses besides holding up milady ' s hair. Indeed, the hairpin makes a fine buttonhook, when such is missing. But alas, that usage is dying out, because we haven ' t the button shoe as of old. Here at Abbot, we have a tree within the famous circle, which is called " The Hairpin Tree. " Off and on we have individual contests to see who can find the most hairpins to hang upon the tree. Today the tree is quite a curiosity. It contains hairpins of many varieties of size, shape and color. As long as our famous " Hairpin Tree " lasts, no young lady at Abbot will ever fail to know what a hairpin looked like. Helen Larson a W$ty $a£tf ut A grave procession of heads . . . some with long-drawn funereal expres- sions preceding others with saccharine curves of smiles. Some walk serenely and sedately; others hurry with short, quick steps, or some jauntily, yet with deliber- ation. Some have a wilful tossing of the head ; some barely turn a serious, pensive 44
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