Bryn Mawr College - Bryn Mawr Yearbook (Bryn Mawr, PA)

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1918 (9 primer Utteon] 1 + 9+1 + 8 = 1918. 1918 was a Class. It was a Proud Class. We knew the Class when we were Lit-tle but we did not know the Class well. We knew Char-lotte and Les-lie and Vir-gin-i-a. We still know Les-lie but it is pro-nounced Miss Rich-ard-son. Vir-gin-i-a was a Chick-et-y Chee-Chee-Chee. Yes, Vir-gin-i-a was a Bird. Perhaps there were a whole flock of Birds in 1918. But we did not know them well e-nough (e-nuff) to find out. It is too bad, 1918. 22

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LETTER TO THE EDITOR The editors do not hold themselves re- sponsible for opinions expressed in this column. To the Editor of the College News: We will make you love us all before tlic year is done. Thus 1921 confidently sang at the beginning of the year, and we had hopes. If such was their intention, some of its members have adopted very strange methods to accomplish this end. We do not quarrel with them for being fresh , because unlike most Freshman classes, 1021 has been commendably meek. As common courtesy is to be expected from anyone, it has never been thought necessary to include it in Sophomore miles. When a whole room full of Freshmen re- mains not only glued to their seats at the entrance of upper classmen, but even fails to rise at the entrance of an elderly lady; when the sidewalks are continually blocked by sauntering Freshmen; when their whole attitude expresses with ' 21 there is nothing wrong ; it seems that if we would, we could not, love them. And yet the year is almost done. Disgusted. (In this letter the birth of Meekness, child of 1921, was announced.) To the Editors: Events of the past few days have led us to believe that the Sophomores are too much impressed with the dignity of their own position. While we have long since learned to consider our crackers and jam as community property, we should like, if possible, to keep our hats, desks, rugs, and pictures for our own use. In con- scription days, when time is no longer our own, may we not pursue our Sunday meditations free from the intrusion of rude appraisers? If this is the Sophomore idea of courtesy, who are they to vote the Fresh- men fresh? Indignant Sister-Classmen. [Seven Signatures.] (This letter, written a year later, proves that Meekness icas dead.) Here Lies Meekness 21

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Jfreafjman g f)oto IT IS hard to look hack calmly on a state of extreme emotion, and so it is that to write of Freshman Show immediately throws me into such a panic that my instinctive reaction is to snatch the blotting-paper from my desk, paint it with stripes of red ink and twist it into a costume for stick-candy in the Hoover Chorus. Confusion was the striking note of Freshman Show. Confusion for weeks before in the practice rooms of Pembroke East, where no two members could agree on the exact melody of Going Up ; confusion on the top floor of Llysyfran where Emily vainly tried to coach expression into Is it troo-hoo, is it you-hoo? and at the same time teach the entire Egyptian Chorus in Schurmie ' s room to balance on one foot while going through strenuous calisthenics with arms and head. The result was that Miss Ford thumb-tacked notices on the lavatory door, saying that the floors were old and shaky and might fall through if all the fattest members of 1921 insisted on prac- ticing to be Isadora Duncans. What that Egyptian Chorus was we failed to appreciate completely until we saw it through the eyes of the Sophomores later in the year. Emily saw herself in Mad Brown ; I saw myself in D. J. . . . Confusion ! My pleasantest memory of Freshman Show is the Last Day — the Day when the scenery had not yet been located in Rockefeller basement; the Day when nothing had yet been made in the way of costumes beside the animal costume (which, of course, had been ready for weeks) and the Roman helmets for the Flowers in Act II. Luckily, we had in our midst Dot Cams, who, besides being a criminal lawyer, had degrees in cooking and sewing. Headquarters for activities accordingly shifted to Llysyfran, where string hung in garlands from the chandelier and buttons grew on the carpet, and twelve vigorous damsels cut up my best nightgown into twelve Egyptian costumes. From then on my memory is blurred. There was the make-up ; there was Luz still rushing about; there was a lone tenor singing the curtain song . . . and then, complete oblivion. When I came to, someone was fanning me with a copy of the College News, which had something on the front page about a mute hero and a red color-scheme. Miriam Morrison. AINIWAI BfHftviOR. BEFORE FRESHmAM SUOW- 23