Boston University College of Practical Arts and Letters - Sivad Yearbook (Boston, MA)

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Kipp Wan Winkle and the Class of °31 Rip Van Winkle stumbled stiffly down through the cobbled streets of the town of Years. He wiped his bearded, wrinkled old face with the back of his ragged coat sleeve. How strange the buildings seemed, and not one whit familiar were they! Suddenly Rip Van Winkle jumped very percep- tibly, for there approaching down the street came one of his neighbors— but how changed! “If it ain’t Ruth Knapp,” cried Rip Van Winkle. “Ruth Knapp, who used to live next door to me, and—”’ “Hullo, Rip,” cried the buxom woman who was approaching. “Let me show you my latest book on ‘The History of the World’, and permit me to introduce to you my three very dear children, Heroditus Brutus Octavius, Sappho Beatrice Cenci Octavius, and Aristopheus Vercingetorix Ariovistus Octavius.” Poor Rip Van Winkle, overwhelmed, leaned still more heavily against his cane and went on. The next personage he recognized was none other than Laura Allen, standing in the doorway of a massive, brick building, over whose door swung a sign bearing in shining goid letters the title, “The Allen Physical Culture School’. “Rip Van Winkle,” she cried, running toward him, whilst all the time she sportively tossed two fifty-pound weights above her head. “Gosh!” ejaculated Rip Van Winkle. ‘Seems like I don’t know any- body.” Rip was growing more and more bewildered, when of a sudden a mighty crowd swept down upon him and bore him into Mechanics Hall where an athletic meet was taking place. Rip, peering over and between shoulders, saw Elizabeth De Courcy break the world’s high jump record. Drops of perspiration stood forth on Rip’s brow; he peered again, this time to see Marjorie Packard finish second in the 100-yard dash, the very same Marjorie Packard who had become famous for her book entitled, ‘“‘Roman- [ 126 ]

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Che Freshman Alphahet A is for Ability, and that’s what we’ve got, B is for Boldness, and that’s what we’re not. C is for Charming, and surely are we; While D is allowed, for it comes after C. E means Enchanting, Enlightening, and such. F stands for Fun, and we’re full of it, much. G spells out Good, though you would not believe; While H is a thing that can always deceive. I is for Intellect, Intelligence, too. J is the Joy that the Freshmen give you. K marks a word we can spell into Kind, A word that for us is quite easy to find. L is for Love and for Loyalty strong, M is for Mounting the roads that are long. N stands for Newness that makes us so green, And O for Oppressions we bear with unseen. P ’s for Politeness—Oh, yes, we are that! Q is to show that we’re Quick as a cat. R is for Ready to do what we may, With S for the Smiles that we give you each day. T is for Tardy—we’re always on time, U is quite Useless because it won’t rhyme. V is for Virtue and Valor as one, And W stands for the Work we have done. X, Y, and Z have their place if you’ll look, But you won’t find them here on the page of this book. You’ll have to look further until you have seen A poor, little Freshman all trembling and green, A-learning the alphabet such as it is, And then, I will wager, she’ll get A in this quiz.

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tic Stories of Days Gone By’. The crowd roared its approval and turned its attention to one corner of the hall where Minnie Bauer was handing out free tickets to the Follies which were to take place in another building. Rip was inclined to be skeptical of the Follies, but the crowd as before swept him along out into the street and into a dimly lighted hall. Rip looked be- fore him; a stage was there and on the stage was a troupe of Hula-Hula girls, and Rip, who had no eye for beauty, was amazed that the crowd should so cheer them. “There’s Ellen Cox leading them,” said a woman next to Rip. “ ’S’Fact, I used to go to school with several of those dancers. See that one on the left with the brown hair, that’s Elsa White; the one with the red hair is Norina Malatesta’. Rip turned about and found himself peering into the face of Shirley Morrill. She waved her fan languidly, gazed at Rip through her gold-edged lorgnette and did not reply, for she could hardly be expected to recognize such an inferior creature as Rip Van Winkle, when she herself was a second Sarah Bernhardt, idolized by the theatre-going public. Rip, abashed, staggered from the theatre into the quietness of the night beyond. He walked along the street; he felt extremely dizzy; he knew not where he was. He was lost—poor Rip was lost in the very city that had once been his home. He stood hesitatingly on the corner of a street; a traf- fic cop beckoned with white gloved hands for Rip to come across. Rip went, but before the traffic cop he paused, opened his mouth and stared. “Clara Roper,” he gasped. “Same,” she replied. ‘“‘Glad to see you, Rip. Id like to talk over old times. I’m off duty now, so wouldn’t you like to come down to the jail with me until I see how Doris Lunday is? She murdered her husband in cold blood. He weighed 300 pounds and she overfed him. He died three weeks ago. Guilty of premeditated homicide was the verdict. Say, bet you don’t know who’s cook at the jail. Imogene Clark, and she sure makes the ‘swell- est’ French pastry—she’s going to be married in June to the French am- bassador to this country. There goes Beatrice Palmer. She comes down every day or so to read poetry to the prisoners—writes it herself, too. Every man in that jail has his mother’s picture or somebody else’s over his cot, but she’s a regular old maid, horrible; you wouldn’t know her. You knew Eleanor Plumstead, didn’t you—she sings sometimes, and gets the prisoners weeping.” Rip Van Winkle drew his ragged old coat more closely about his body [127]