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Page 71 text:
The Abbot Circle 19 2 7 Boton Wfytvt tfte Wtt Jfolfe lUbe Down where the wee folk live Tis the prettiest spot in Spring Where the velvety moss grows green They mark their fairy ring. And there through the midnight hours, With laughter of silvery bells — (As they sip from their acorn cups The wine the humming-bird sells) — They scatter abroad sweet dreams On the wings of the wee fire-fly. Or sprinkle star dust around From their airship, a dragon fly. And when the dawn comes stealing, To their flow ' ry beds they creep And under a rose petal cover They pass the day in sleep. Louise Pope ' 27 £f)e H acreb Circle Do you wonder what that little old man walking down School Street and look- ing this way is thinking? Let me tell you. He is thinking what well-behaved, perfectly-trained, and considerate girls the Abbot girls are. He is watching us pour out of chapel and turn to the left, following the drive which circles around to the McKeen building. Not one girl has attempted to cut across that wide expanse of green lawn in front of chapel and yet it would be much the quicker way. just to " dive " across there to McKeen. Xot " since his day " has he seen youth so faultless. Can it be a mighty aversion to getting to classes? Some possibility in that, but little does the old man realize that that circle of grass is sacred, never so much as set foot on except on very, very gay occasions. Perhaps if he had come a little nearer he would have felt the hallowed atmosphere about it, for I think it is noticeable. Unaware, however, the old man goes on. feeling that. perhaps, after all, there is a little hope for the coming generation. Beatrice Stephens ' 27 63
Page 70 text:
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
Page 72 text:
The Abbot Circle 19 2 7 Jllarfesi Marks are perfectly awful things! Just when I think I ' ve been quite wise, In happy mood, — heart in the skies With lifted chin, and haughty eyes Then, marks are perfectly awful things! When I have worked both hard and long; With care composed a theme or song To get a C seems truly wrong. Yes, marks are perfectly awful things! Are we now working just for A? And does this kind of study pay? Let ' s work for knowledge day by day, For marks are perfectly awful things! Ellen Faust ' 27 $arabi£e 3n 2000 J3. S. Charon jingled his golden oar locks in my face. " Now, where did you come from, Mortal? " " From Abbot Academy, " I replied meekly. Airplanes having been perfected, I had a notion I should like to fly in one to visit the Elysian Fields. Charon, upon hearingthat Abbotwasmy AlmaMater, im- mediately guided me safely across the miry horrors to the gate. There, I beheld all the faculty, angels, everyone of them! But, no, Mr. Howe was denied ad- mission for he had forgotten the name of the school; therefore Charon, in a state of suspicion, sent him away. Just within the gates sat Miss Baynes going over the heavenly allowances, and Miss Hopkins correcting the gold leaf file of inmates and visitors. Upon per- ceiving me, she exclaimed, " Why, are you here? What a surprise! " " Oh, no! Just visiting, Miss Hopkins. " Then my guide led me further into the great Paradise where Miss Johnson appeared and grasped my pulse in greeting. " I must see that you are carrying no evil into our land. You seem quite all right, but I shall give you a golden pill as a safeguard. " We left her regarding my rubberless feet skeptically. My guide threw a cloak over my shoulders, thus rendering me invisible. I was then left to wander about the cloudy vault at will. Suddenly Miss Bailey floated around a golden pillar. 64
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