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

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back. “In ball costume.” Suddenly, he jumped as if from an electric thrill. ‘In ball costume! Boy, I got it!’ He dashed upstairs to his room. Light—where? He fumbled impatiently . . . ah! The next minute he had dived into his closet and begun a feverish examination of the heap of miscellaneous boy’s treasures in the corner: a ukulele with two strings broken; an old sweater with a big blue D on its front; a dilapidated slicker ; and—hurray !—a catcher’s mitt, a baseball cap, and the suit itself. He examined the last carefully, and was a bit disappointed to find a muddy streak all up and down the trouser leg—a reminder of his last run. But he concluded that it would wash out, and sank into a chair, infinitely relieved. He could now face the coming crisis with the proper equipment, at least. The next day was strangely quiet and uneventful. After supper, Dick went to his room and spent half an hour getting into his “costume” and experimenting with different tilts of the cap, different gaits, and—hush !— different dance steps. “You’re not so bad, kid,’ he said finally, surveying himself in the mirror. “Really, considering the originality of your appearance, I should recommend that you go and introduce yourself as Babe Ruth. Sock!” And he brandished an imaginary club. Dick decided to be fashionably late, and he started out bravely enough, jauntily swinging his baseball mitt. But when he arrived in front of the house and heard the shouts of laughter and jazzy strains issuing there- from, he hesitated, then stopped still. If only it hadn’t been that Betty Douglas. Yet, go in he must—he couldn’t turn back now. ‘Thus debating, he stood, digging his toe in the gravel of the walk, so absorbed that he did not hear light footsteps behind him. Not until a “Good evening, Mr. Mer- rill!’ assailed his unsuspecting ear did he turn around to face a little Dutch girl: golden unbobbed hair in two braids over her shoulders; merry blue eyes peering from under a starched white cap. Surprised, he muffled an exclamation. ‘Charlotte Allen! Gee, it is, isn’t it? Why—you look—great.” She curtsied. “Thanks, Dick. And say, what a clever costume you have. Is that your idea of originality?” He didn’t know whether she was serious or playing with him, but he said, “Originality never bothers me, and neither does a costume party. This is the only ball costume I happened to own.” Charlotte laughed. ‘It’s perfect. No one else would have ever thought of it, Dick. Come on in and show the crowd.” Somehow it never occurred to him to refuse, and the next minute he found himself fox-trotting Charlotte around the room, minus his bashful- ness and plus the surprised stares of his friends, but feeling quite natur- ally happy. “Why, Dick, you dance beautifully!’ exclaimed Charlotte. ‘Where have you been all these years?” “ “After the Ball’ I guess. Let’s ask the orchestra to play it.’”’ Then Dick was still boy enough to blush. But, across the room, Katherine Merrill, watching her brother, smiled a slow, triumphant smile. She knew that she had won. hacth E. Nap hens { 225 ]

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Dick was prompted to say, “No!” and hang up, but he desisted. Instead, he managed a feeble, “I guess so.” “T knew you would. Well, Dick, I’m going to have a costume party next week Saturday, and I want you to come—oh, awfully!” “Uh—thanks. Uh—waita minute...” (“Kitty—promise—darn!”’ he thought, inwardly raging.) Then: “Guess I'll be able to make it all! right. Be delighted. What kind of a party d’you say it is?” “A costume party. Everyone is to come in ball costume.”’ “Oh.” Mechanically Dick hung up the receiver. He thought more thoughts about Kitty and that promise. A costume party of all things! What should he wear? Dick glared at the innocent telephone, shuffled back to his room, squinted at the alarm clock, and subsided under the bed clothes again with a grunt. But sleep was fugitive; in vain did he pursue it. He even attempted a mild snore, but the clock mocked him with a steady “tick-tock- tick-tock” that beat upon his already troubled mind like a tattoo. Dick gave up. “Keep still, can’t you—for one minute? No, you can’t. Never knew one like you that would at the right time. If I wanted you to go, you’d stop dead. You make me tired!’ And he affirmed this statement by yawning prodigiously. “Richard! Rich-ard! Do you know what time it is?’ mother’s voice. nYCaee eOn “Are you going to get up?” “Yes, lam!” Exasperated, he jumped out of bed and began a hunt for his various articles of clothing which were scattered in as many various directions. “Now where the heck are my socks? I left them right here.’ He stubbed his toe on a chair leg. “Oh-h. . . .” He groped for a word as well as the socks. At lunch time Katherine Merrill, reading on the porch, saw her brother come striding up the walk with a stern and forbidding expression on his face. He flung himself down in the hammock. “TI tell you, Kitty, I’m not going to be roped into any more of your schemes. First it’s that awful party, and next it’s playing tennis with that kiddish Betty Douglas. No, you needn’t deny it. You sent me over there this morning for one reason and one only—” “Don’t you like her, Dick?” “Like her? Huh!” He paused, inadequate of expression. “Huh!” “Come on, old boy, what’s wrong? You’ve had a grouch on all day.” “Well, what are you going to wear to that party?” “Clothes, my dear boy, clothes.” “You don’t say?” sarcastically. “Do you know, I’m thinking seriously of wearing them myself.” “T would, if I were you.” Richard went into the house in search of refreshment, the problem of a costume still on his mind. It remained there all the next week. Inspira- tions were scarce. Friday evening, twenty-four hours from the time when he must appear at Miss Douglas’s in some sort of a rig, Dick sat alone on the front porch gazing tragically at the moon. It was big and round and white like a ball—a baseball. The man in the moon winked at him, and he winked ’ It was his [ 224 ]

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A Psalm in Accounting MITH is my teacher. I shall not pass. He maketh me to explain | debit and credit, and exposeth my ignorance to the class. He restoreth my sorrow. He causeth me to take bank reconcilia- tions for his check-book’s sake. Yea, though I study till mid- night, I shall gain no knowledge, for discounts do sorely bother me. He prepareth a test before me, in the presence of mine class- mates. Surely distress and sadness shall follow me all the days of this course, and I shall remain in my Accounting class forever. AMEN! J Klok fe énitor’s Note The foregoing articles are the winners of the literary contest carried on last fall. The material was judged by Dr. Coffman, Dr. Warren, and the literary editors of SIVAD. We wish to take this opportunity to thank the members of the student body for their splendid codperation in helping to make this contest successful. We regret that we have not the space to print the other articles which were judged very highly. The winners of the second and third places in the contest are as follows: POEMS. “Steel Girders That Rise’’, Pearl Nanscawen, ’31 “The Road to Yesterday”, Esther Sutton, ’30 STORIES. “On With the Dance’, Julia Downing, ’29 “The Pot of Gold’’, Pearl Nanscawen, ’31 ESSAYS. “An Hour With the Maddening Crowd’, Dorothy Blevins, ’30 “To Tell or Not to Tell’, Irene Skeist, ’30 HUMOR “Among the Things a Student Never Forgets’’, Emily Parizek, ’29 “That Extra Five Dollars’, Ruth Brunell, 731 [ 226 ]