Hannah More School - Within the Lych Gate Yearbook (Reisterstown, MD)

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SENIOR SONG To thee, Hannah More, '39 pledges honor, devotion, and true loyalty And prays that thy daughters eternally striving May ever be worthy of thee. In conscience, in spirit, in Hrm resolution, In ideals and the fruits that they bring, May we go on believing in all Lve're receiving Of thee, Hannah More, as we sing: O Alma Mater, dear, Hark to thy praises clear, And bless and guide thy children Who hail thee far and near With black bold and bright gold hold the chords fast forever, That bind us in comradeship free, And grant that those bonds through the years may not sever, Our class, '39 holds with thee. We thank thee for wisdom, true sportsmanship, pleasures, For friends, and the joys that they bring. May we go on believing in this love uJe're receiving Of thee, Hannah More, as we sing: O Alma Mater, dear Hark to they praises clear, And bless and guide thy children Who hail thee far and near. BETSY PROSSER, '39 U41

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Article Article Article Article Article Article Article Article Article Article Article Article Article Article Article Article Article Articles Article Article Article THE LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT OF THE 1. I, 2. I, 3. I, 4. I, 5. I, 6. I, 7. I, 8. I, 9. I, 10. I, 11. I, 12. I, 13. I, 14. I, 15. I, 16. I, 17. I, 18 26' 19. 20. I, 21. I, 22. I, SENIOR CLASS OF I939 Virginia Martin, leave my taciturn nature to Suzy Townsend. Laura Whitworth, leave my progressive rotundity to Jane Eastwold. Gordon Stirling, leave my low voice and self control to Loulie Murchison. Nancy Ensor, leave my feminine grace and wiles to Chesca Birckhead. Lois Anne Cheetham, leave my quiet nature to be divided be- tween Betty Jones and Betty Varn. Henrietta Carter, leave my ability to keep well and healthy to Annamarie Menz. Virginia Ray, leave my nose to Frances Pugh. Eleanor Waller, leave my laugh and rollicking nature to Emily Justis. Shirley Wilson, leave my sylph-like figure to Mickey McDaniel. Connie Quillin, leave my prospects of a happy home life to Betty Jones. Ruthellen Goodman, leave my rogue's gallery to Elsa Funaro. Peggy White, leave my complete knowledge of V.M.I. to Betty Blunt, Bonnie Jean Cadwalader, leave Miss Harvey and Diana to Chesca Birckhead. Margaret Houck,. leave my size to Maryo Dameron. Betty Stephenson leave my rosy cheeks to Ruth Gregg. Connie Peterkin, leave my voice to Connie Chenoweth. Cornelia Harrison, leave my handwriting to Miss Jervis. We, Sally Burwell and Betsy Prosser, leave our monopoly C U on Miss McGuire's affections to June Andrews. Mary Cooke, leave my height to Janet Reese. Marie Steele, leave my red mane to Alice Bartlett. Sally Bradford, leave West Point and Annapolis to Brooks Lewis who takes almost as much interest in them as I do. 1231

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CLASS PROPHESY It was Alumnae Day, December 1949, and One Who Shall Be Nameless quietly sneaked into the drawing room, cautiously peered about its shadowy interior, and then apparently satisfied, silently closed the doors after putting large Do Not Disturb-Tutoring signs on each. With a weary sigh she sank into a comfortable chair before the flickering fire. CYes, my little Sherlocks, the draw- ing room of 1949 had a fireplacej The pale freckles of One Who Shall Be Nameless all but jumped with delight, as she realized how successful was her retreat. That horde of exuberant Alumnae could never find her here. She patted her Algebra book in satisfaction. Now for some good hard work. She chuckled in soft delight. To her amazement answering chuckles echoed from the shadowy corners. That's funny, she said. I never knew this room had echoes. To her amazement more chuckles gurgled from the flickering shadows. One Who Shall Be Nameless shook herself sleepily. How silly she was to imagine things like that! She must be doing too many rate-distance problems .... She yawned drowsily .... Let's see about Virginia Martin, said the Spirit. All right, said One Who Shall Be Nameless, but what do you know about Virginia Martin? The Spirit looked at her. I know everything, it said. I always have. Don't you remember? An old memory stirred in O.W.S.B.N.'s brain. A little, she confessed, but it's still a bit hazy. It shouldn't be, chided the Spirit reprovingly, Well, come along. . . . Standing at the head of a staircase receiving ermined Duchesses and gartered Dukes were Martin and a figure resplendent in gold braid and decorations, Why, that's-, gasped O.W.S.B.N. The very same, nodded the Spirit, The Ambassador to the Court of St. James. They say Martin's a great help to him, She zips thing up as it were. You ought to hear her broad NA , too. Even the English can't beat it. Looks very lovely, doesn't she? But he received no answer. O.W.S.B.N. was speechless. That's Shirley Wilson over there, continued the Spirit, and Connie Peterkin. Shirley's playing for royalty now, and Connie is in Covent Garden this season. She has devoted her life to her career, but Shirley hasn'tt been so faithful. I don't know Whether that's a clergyman or organist with her. My eyes must be going bad. I guess so, agreed O.W.S.B.N. Look, she cried excitedly, There are Sally Burwell and Betsy Prosser and Corny Harrison. She turned to the Spirit in helpless wonder. What are these people doing here? The Spirit looked at her sympathetically. It is awful, isn't it? After ten years . . . Well, she was brisk again. BurWell's living here in London. She's married to a chap named Christopher Robbin. You probably remember her speaking about him. They met each other at Wimbledon. W-W-hat about Prosser, quavered O.W,S.B.N. It isn't true that she's doing something in the gym line, is it? She brightened a little, She still has that Superior Look, though. That's because she's Editor of the Atlantic Monthly, said the Spirit. I25l