Barnard College - Mortarboard Yearbook (New York, NY)

Page 23 text:

Life is bound by rules and books Bui boundaries are ever shifting. The cocky Sophomore overlooks Such things — and thus begins her drifting. Her brow is bent on sly deception; Outside intrusion — she expects it. Outwitting profs is her perfection, And three times has she flunked the exit. College is one big vacation — Witness Sophomore dissipation! What ' s it like to be a Sophomore at wartime Barnard? The class of 1946 knows. Happily, wartime has not meant war torn, and things- in-Barnard-for-the-Sophs are still among those present. Epidemics of exit-fever and major- picking are as prevalent as they were in a more peaceful world. The Sophs continue to be called the Forgotten Class , while the rest of the college shakes its collective head in sympathy at their proverbial decline into oblivion. No wide-eyed innocence, no Prom, no caps and gowns! A mere vacuum, thinks the misguided three-fourths of the student body who are out- side the inner circle. But the Sophs, not even bothering to put their laughter discreetly up their sleeves, go blithely on their way, wearing the jauntiest grins in Barnard. Let no one deny that they have made sacri- fices — brave and unflinching in the best Sohpo- moric tradition — this historic year. The Soph- omores were the first class since the invention of the zipper to button themselves into their light blue gym suits. But this is war, and they ' ve taken it with stiff upper lips. Exclusive- ness was their next sacrifice, but that turned out to be fun. Chairmanned by Kathy Keith, ' 46, Frosh-Soph hop grew up, changed its name to Winter Ball and posted cordial College In- vited signs. In a gym magically enchanted into a shimmering snowy cavern, dance-rationed Barnard had a lovely time, thank you. When it came to costumes for Greek Games, the Sophs refused to let their wings be clipped by rationing orders which had them using last year ' s clothes. Ingenuity soared, scissors went into action, and 1946 emerged proudly with their games as colorful and inspired as any. The record shows they ' ve been right there shouldering their full share of physics labs, first-aid courses and fingerprinting. The Sopho- mores — They ' re all right. Wet Frosh and Sophs scavenger hunting.

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There ' s no step quite so long as the one that changes a girl from a Freshman to a Sopho- more. It involves more than merely groaning at notices of Sophomore in- stead of Freshman meetings. Consider the enormously improved position of the Sopho- more coming back to college in September. She discovers how it feels to be expected to win Greek Games, not just to provide a couple of cheers and some minor opposition. She can look about her with educated eyes and say Doesn ' t the new crop of Freshmen look young! She can take a long smoke in the Jungle as though she owned it. She knows how to circumnavigate the line in the cafeteria, how many cuts are safe, what courses are snaps, and where South Hall is. Tilsons, Brooks Hall and the smoking room are synonyms for home. Bridge — the exclusive property of upperclass- men — has become another course in her curric- ulum. The curtain of awe and confusion has been lifted. She starts the college year with the assurance that comes from knowing the rules and the ups and downs that are Barnard. If wise little smiles and swaggering walks have become Sophomore tags, the rest of the school knows there ' s a good reason for it. The matter of completing group require- ments via long labs, obscure poets and listen- Sop ;. Officers: Peggy Cummiskey, Iris Davis, Marjorie Welter, Mary Louise Stewart. ing assignments in Music 1 is no mean feat, with exit-exams to contend with too. When Spring comes, it ' s major-choosing time. Clear-eyed or cautious, each Soph crosses her fingers, takes the plunge, and — in between major ' s meetings — wonders where her decision will carry her in the future. 18

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Junior Officers: Mary Wilby, Jane Brunstetter, Anne Ross, Sabra Follett. We are the Junior Class. We had hardly drawn our first breath as Barnardites, when we were sub-titled the V- 11 because of a guy named Schickel- Ours were the first Frosh brains to expose themselves to the process of being trained for Uncle Sam. Liberal arts took on the aura of a precious heritage for us to protect. Class grube We polished our armor and read our Chaucer with a new zest. This year, with Molly Wilby as class presi- dent, 1945 settled down to the business of be- ing Juniors. While we waited at twelve on Jake for our Freshman sisters, we realized that we had finally arrived — WE were offering sage ad- vice on the subject of College. And we won- dered what to tell them. Following a year-old precedent, we changed Hewitt to heaven for another Junior Prom on Campus. We shed tears over the wartime sacri- fice of our Junior Show. But with our trained brains in their proper places, we suggest you cross the page and meet us face to face.