Castilleja School - Indian Paintbrush Yearbook (Palo Alto, CA)

Page 31 text:

Traitorous Revelations T is a pose of all good American students to declaim loudly and monotonously that school is to them a Chamber of Horrors, a second Inquisition, a place of slow, grinding tortures. They repeat these ideas fnot, perhaps, in identical termsj, emit futile outcries, and enumerate one by one the various and sundry reasons why school is a dreadful place for them. Une becomes accustomed to these inevitable rages and takes for granted the cruel impositions and deadly boredom which, according to younger acquaintances, constitute the average school day. One says hypocritically in the fall, reveling in the self-satisfaction that comes from recognized superiority, XfVell, itis too bad, you'll be going back to school soon now. I suppose you hate to go. And vehement assurances of the truth of this statement follow. Yet-do we really hate school? Should we be happy if we nezfcr had to go back? Xve say so, yes, but, if we didn't go, how long would it be before, in a state of complete ennui brought about by nothing to do, we began to reminisce, to recall with amusement and not a little envy all the humorous things that hap- pened, all the jolly times we had- IVe did have jolly times, didn't we? Things always seem more fun after they're over. Do you remember- ? And so we talk, and before long it appears that we have never had quite so much fun since. NVe recall all the funny little characteristics of girls and teach- ers, all the amusing incidents, the sports, the dances, even the work itself which seems lively and jolly in comparison with the staid and boring sameness of our lives out of school. VVe long for the companionship of those days, for the sense of being allied against the probing questions of those who sought to prove our ignorance. And then we recall the carefree feeling we had when, after our work was done, we sauntered along the streets, going home with whichever girl prom- ised the best foodg or how on windy days we went on long walks into the hills fjust two of us-long walks are recognized as not for groupsj to sit on a log and eat sticky chocolate, or how on rainy afternoons we congregated in wet, chatter- ing, book-laden groups at the movies. You see, school days are not so hard. Our vehement protestations of un- dying hatred inay be laid to that immemorial right of Englishmen-free speech, which we in our youthful zeal desire to uphold. There may be, and there prob- ably are, some hardened characters who really do hate school, but I think that the majority of girls agree with me and realize the fun as well as the exceptional educational advantages and opportunities. MARGARET PASCOE. Twenty-nine 1

Page 30 text:

A Perfect School Day FTER the lights had been turned off and quiet once more reigned over the corridors of the residence, my roommate and I held, as usual, a long con- versation. If, in some supernatural way, you were allowed to have just one wish, for what would you wish? asked my roommate. To have the school routine go on as I pictured it when I was a youngster, I answered sleepily, turning over. VVhen I opened my eyes to find Mrs. Vaughan bending over me, I thought I had been asleep for only a few minutes. She was saying queer things. Because I was not wide-awake, the words seemed entirely devoid of sense. I was being told that I need not get up for morning drill if I preferred to sleep. At last I realized that I was now quite awake and that Mrs. Vaughan was speak- ing to me in all seriousness. It is often true that, when a person finally gets what she most desires, she no longer wants it. I immediately got up, donned my clothes, and appeared on time for morning drill, which consisted of strenuously bending each finger on both hands five times. Breakfast followed the drill, and everyone had all the coffee-cake and very strong coffee she wanted. Upon arriving at my first morning class, I found that Miss Criss and Doctor True, my teachers of the first and second periods respectively, had decided that we should go on a bicycle picnic. It was a great success. After cycling over to the Stanford campus, singing our Castilleja Song in front of the Adminis- tration Building, and accepting, with fitting blushes of modesty, the orchid bou- quets thrown at us by the many students and professors, we returned just in time for Assembly. Cn entering, we found, to our great surprise, Miss Lockey in a gorgeous red evening gown, assisted by Miss Smith, Miss Tyng, and Mrs. Stearns, giving a large tea in honor of all the resident girls. After leaving the tea, I rushed through the corridors, knocking down and trampling upon Mademoiselle Petitdidier. Not having time to stop and offer first aid to the injured, I continued on my wild scurry to arrive at Miss Sin1pson's class on time. The brutal thing I had done to Mademoiselle had been the only unpleasant happening in this so-far perfect day. Reaching my destination at last, I opened the door to Hnd Miss Simpson sitting on her desk, idly kicking the sides of it with her heels, and reading to an hilarious class selections from Life, This last was too much for ine. Everything turned black before my eyes. I stumbled and fell-out of bed. Realizing that I had only dreamed of a too per- fect day, I quickly dressed and came to the conclusion that I was glad to find my- self confronted by a school day of the regular routine, with serious business be- fore nie-better by far than my version of a perfect day which was all pleasure and no work. LILIAN MCNEVIN. Twenty-eight l 1 4.1

Page 32 text:

41' Boarding School Realism Versus Fiction VVAY back across the years I see a timid little girl, reluctant and yet eager, crossing the threshold of her first boarding school. She was homesick, just a little, but her eyes were bright, for had she not read beautiful stories of the wonderful lives the girls lived in just such a school? From my vantage point of sophistication and grown-up worldliness, with four yearsi down and just four months to go,'f I look back over my varied experiences and feel qualified to give you an insight into actual boarding school lifeajmfg up That' most tenacious fable of all-the inidnigihit feast! It is impossible to have a feast without some careful guardian walking in upon the party, and every- body always gets sleepy before eleven, anyhow. So most affairs of that kind happen early on Saturday nights under a chaperone's supervision. You can de- duce for yourselves that there are no chafing dishes. DQ11,t you. remember how, the girls always use them for clandestine fudge orgies? Well, we do not. Boxes from home! Itdoes seem pitiful to ruin this beautiful illusion. Some- how it is practically impossible to dissociate the thought of boarding-school from this idea., Une of the girls alwaiyisi jumps up from the charmed circle on the floor to get av hammer with wluch to pry open the boards. Now, that small detail in itselfishould, be enough, tokconvince the initiated that the writer of such rubbish knew nothing whatever of boarding school life. Everybody, outside of fiction, uses nail files to open anything. D 'In all my experience, no teacher, garbed in.a high-necked flannel nightgown and-wearing her .hair in curl papers, has ever walked into my- room. Somehow, even after my third year, when I should know better, I fondly cling to the idea that some dayi isgmehow, I may detect a teacher that does her hair in curl papers. Also, I have never heard of a. teacher ever having opened -a door to be suddenly doused with cold water by means of a very clever device above the door, This playful little trick has never been known to happen. N Since we, seem tohave started on the subject ofuteachers, we might as well continue to the bitter end.. They are very seldom tyrannical, unjust, and awe- inspiring. They very seldom have thin lips and black cotton stockings. Really, some of.them are very human, they eveiiilplay bridge and wear silk hosiery. VVe do not play around all day strumming ukuleles, reading novels, and eat- ing chocolates. VVe follow well-ordered schedules, and chocolates are fattening. VVe don't even spend our afternoons at bridge, after the first three weeks of our busy life, we become .so accustomed tohtearing through the days that, when the machinery suddenly stops at vacation time, all, its poor little cogs, of humanity are thrown out into the worldsof Leisure, with no preparation for the Great Strain of answering the question: l1Vhat shall I do next? School life is so or- dered that each piece in the machinery fits. Life in a boarding school is really . lg ,X U Thirty ! w l 4 1 4