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IZ THE QUILL
females, and females have better table
manners than males.
-Lawrence Caney, '38
CAN YOU IMAGINE?
The dictionary says, "To imagine is to
form a mental picture of." I really hate to
think of all the time I've wasted dreaming
of that trip or of that good-looking college
boy, or of that old-fashioned house at
Christmas. So many times I've conceived
myself in that grey three-piece suit or in
that navy-blue box-shouldered cape with
that red plaid skirt. Sometimes I pinch my-
self and awake with a start to realize I'm
not that celebrated author, but only Louise
Quinn of Gardiner, Maine, supposedly
studying in a school-room.
But how I pity those who cannot imagine
themselves far away doing adventurous
things, meeting exciting people. For what
fun when I let my mind wander or become
one of those Hollywood celebrities buying
589.50 dresses, hobnobbing with stars,
chatting with Nelson Eddy and Michael
Whalen or, especially in the fall and spring,
traveling to the far corners of the earth.
Yet though I may imagine it now, it can
come true if one tries enough, for it is not
only luck that makes people what they are,
but also ambition, and I earnestly desire to
live up to my motto by Arthur Bagley, who
said in an assembly last year: "There's the
novel to be written, the song to be sung, the
picture to be painted. You'll do it!"
-Louise Quinn, '38
When I was too young to know better, I
learned to read, and sometimes I think the
whole thing was a mistake. Of course, if I
could just read something and forget it, it
probably wouldn't bother me at all, I'd
never know the difference. But I don't
seem to do that. I get to worrying.
A good book acts as a powerful drug on
some people. I read somewhere about a
man ugulping down the strong headlines
of the morning paper like so much
black coffee," and although I "gulp" and
am "drugged" for the time being, reading
seems only to stimulate worry in me.
I worry for the characters while I'm read-
ing a story. When I've finished, I worry
about what happened to them after we fthe
author and D left them. I worry about
books I have read, about books I haven't
read. I worry about the books I ought to
read and those I ought not.
Worry-I have written that word eight
times now. What is worry? Imagination
provokes a little gray, misty figure, with
bright beady eyes on the look-out for some-
thing to disturb, scuttling through the cor-
ridors of my mind, trundling around cor-
ners, bumping unexpectedly into things and
upsetting the little orderly piles of my
thoughts. Rather absurd, isn't it? But this
is only my own private worry. Perhaps
someone else's is just as silly.
But no matter what differences our indi-
vidual "worries" may possess they all have
one thing in common: they dominate us.
Try as we will to shut them up in some dark
corner, they're always popping out and
romping about, sometimes only for a short
time, sometimes for days at a stretch. And
it isn't only reading that excites them-”