Abbot Academy - Circle Yearbook (Andover, MA)

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The Abbot Circle 19 2 7 Great drifts of soft blue rain Young lovers, arms entwined, Beating ' gainst the gray stone Whispering in the shadowed depths Of age-old churches. Of dim, leafy parks. Uneven roofs of broken slate Calm river flowing slowly Dripping down upon the din Watching ever o ' er the city And hurry of the City. Settled in sleep. Gertrude Drummond ' 27 an " » " Jfor abbot trte {With thanks to the inspiration of Kipling s " If " ) If while you are at School, you always proffer Your friendly, helpful spirit at its best, Not only to your roommate, also offer The same to all your teachers and the rest; If you can take a pleasure in successes Cf all your fellow classmates, without guile, Then you ' ll be better able, when woe presses, To take your bumps and bruises with a smile. If for the love of sport you play with spirit To get the thrill of team work with your chums; Yet, if you are not chosen, do not rue it, But try again, and hard when next year comes; If you discover friends in just a few, Forget not to rub shoulders with the rest, Just strive a bit to know these others too, And add a friendly note in work or jest. If you consider Abbot ' s ever-burning Increasing store of knowledge at your call, If you but seize the gage of quiet learning, There is a chance to profit by it all. Though seasons end, and school-days soon are o ' er, You will have gained from Abbot, by your power, The things to make you better evermore — You will have truth and honor for your dower. Lois Kimball ' 27 61

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The Abbot Circle 19 2 7 Refugee $arabe A gong sounds and crowds of people pour forth from the big brick building. They shove and jostle each other in a useless attempt to hasten the leaders. A fitful murmur of conversation arises. One hears various languages: French, German, Spanish, and even English. The bent figures with heavily laden arms toil painfully over the icy pavement. Progress is slow. The wintry blast chills them; they shiver and gather their shawls more closely about their heads. One wonders how many nationalities are represented — in Abbot ' s daily refugee parade. Miriam Houdlette ' 27 Btet anb ftealtf) It seems, as I look about school, that the girls are a particularly nice type. On the whole, they are a good-looking group, well dressed and of about the same conventional personality. I personally think, however, that dieting both of food and of people, when not required, is rather obnoxious. Cocoa, toast, soft boiled eggs, half an orange for breakfast ; creamed chicken on toast without mushrooms and peppers, custard pie and lettuce for lunch; tomato bisque, mashed potatoes and veal, creamed canned peas, and Washington pie for dinner, do not impress me as particularly enjoyable. I am in favor of a few green peppers and caraway seeds. When letters are given at the end of the athletic season, the speech, for which we clap until our hands are raw, is " I ' m glad to have played for Abbot " . All very true, and nice — but rather a tame speech to hand out to such enthusiastic rooters. Why not be generous to these poor unfortunates who beg for cake? " Oh, I ' m afraid of making a fool of myself! " Why not play the fool occasion- ally if it means a sign of self-development. Everyone, who is interesting, makes mistakes — if only to prove he is not a machine. After all, if we never put on the new shoes until we ' ve walked in them, are we ever going to put them on, let alone walk in them? Sydna White ' 27 jfflardb WinH March winds blew me into the world — perhaps that ' s why I love them so. When I am feeling blue and useless, a mere, unnecessary bit of dust, a cold, vigor- ous blast of wind lifts up my spirits as surely as it lifts my skirts. I sit on the hot, familiar radiator thinking, wondering, puzzling — I step out the door and a sudden gust releases a hidden spring within me so that, jack-in-the-box-like, some- thing breaks loose. Ella Stonebraker ' 27 60

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The Abbot Circle 19 2 7 Hfymtibap, December txteentl) Clang, clang, clang. The rising bell starts on its daily 6.50 time. It doesn ' t ring once, nor twice, but three times, for that is its special privilege. As I rub sleepy eyes I wonder why it seems less mournful than usual — it is on the verge of being merry. Surely it can ' t be the weather for, unless my eyes deceive me, it is black and dreary, exceptionally cold, and rather hazy. What can be the occa- sion for all this mirth? Then suddenly I recall a few incidents of the previous evening ' s occupations. " Taking down all banners and leaving nothing but framed pictures on the wall " , wildly cramming the bureau drawers into the closet, and finding " just one more thing " that must go into the trunk, finally closing the trunk only to think of numerous articles that were forgotten. Why, of course! How could I forget? This is the day we have all looked forward to for so long. We are going home for Christmas vacation! Before Jack Robinson himself could have uttered his name, I am out of bed. None of the usual excuses are offered for remaining in that warm spot. Down goes the window and on go the lights (if we are fortunate enough to have them). Dressing hastily, I put the last things into my suitcase and call someone in to sit on the top while I endeavor to close it. Then the breakfast bell and one hundred and fifty girls, all dressed in their very best, flock to the dining room where there ensues a hectic twenty min- utes. I try to eat but find most of my time occupied in watching the hands of the clock " jump " . At last it is ten of, and there is much pushing back of chairs; the " good morning line " forms and in two shakes the dining room is empty. Next comes chapel; twenty minute classes (which seem like twenty hours); and finally at ten-thirty we hear the last bell we are to endure for three weeks! There is a rush to rooms for suitcases, hats, gloves, and pocketbooks. At the radiator stands Miss Bailey — shaking hands with all the young ladies as they troop past her to the waiting Morrissey busses which are to convey them to the 10:52 train. It would be hard to find a happier group than these homeward-bound Abbot girls. Sylvia Miller ' 27 Wo 9 os;e The petals curl The color deepens, How she droops Her pretty head ; The fragrant perfume Lasting, lasting — Even tho ' the rose is dead. Ruth L. Harvey ' 27 62