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

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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

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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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illpspfran THIS is Llysyfran ' s last appearance. We are the last of her veterans — we the last who shall sigh over her name, and tremble at Miss Ford ' s. Llysyfran was always exclusive; the first year for Freshmen only (except for the self-sacrificing Junior chaperones) ; the second — having possibly learned a lesson — for anything but Freshmen. Miss Ford preferred the first contingent. Thev didn ' t climb in windows at midnight, they didn ' t have the flu, and they did have a lot more beaux (she set great store by the latter). A memoir of Llysyfran should be a series of pictures — words fail. The first might be simply a little note flapping on a pin stuck into the great wooden ball at the foot of the stairs, of which a close-up would show: Will the young lady who stole the dish-rag from the tea pantry please stop in Miss Ford ' s room at her earliest convenience? Another picture might show the roof — figures wrapped in comforters, distributed at various angles, singing to the tree-tops and to the stars, nearly all night. Another : the front hall at 11.45 P. M. ; Towser standing under the moose-head, ringing the fire-bell like a town crier ; Lulu stumbling from squad to squad, recognizing not a soul, and finally planting herself in the middle of the hall with the announcement, Can ' t find my squad. Still again: same hall, filled with squealing excited persons; clouds of steam bursting from the tea pantry and filling the whole house with dense hot fog; Miss Ford, on the verge of tears, wringing her hands, running in circles around the hall and crying, The boiler has burst! What shall we do, what shall we do, what shall we do, etc., ad infinitum. Clouds of steam continue. Finally enter Hero from Power House, who strides in and turns off the hot water faucet which was causing the trouble. There were other times . . . But Mary Lou retired promptly at 7.30 every night and began bellowing Sh-sh-sh at that moment. The closets were all filled with Ibby ' s evening dresses, but our hearts were filled with gladness, and it was sad indeed that just as we were beginning really to know how to spell her name and pass the word on to our bewildered correspondents, we were forced to leave Llysyfran. She is now dissected into apartments with six new bath-tubs. (We saw them being carried in. ) Requiescat in pace. Katharine M. Cowen. 24