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

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Tarsitp dramatics, 1918 VARSITY Dramatics called for vigor and decision from the first. It called in vain. My earliest vivid memory is of a committee meeting consisting of Miss Hodges, Miss Martin, and me, — Lorna had wisely held aloof, — called at 1.30 one Tuesday afternoon to vote upon whether the chairman of the committee and the stage-manager should he one or two individuals. Miss Martin was of the opinion that the two offices should be combined due to stress of time; Miss Hodges felt that the work would be too heavy for a single pair of already stooped shoulders, and thought that possibly some one longer in college The intervening months between that meeting and the final performance may have been a period of pursuing an artistic ideal for those lofty others, — for me they were one of pursuing Mrs. Patch ' s beads. Nightly as she sank into the waiting chair in the center of the gym. floor she crossed her legs at the expense of the string of heavy wooden beads which dangled to her hem. For the rest of the evening I slid about on splintered knees. The night of the final performance has left only a few vague memories. I remem- ber finding Marjorie (by that time she had said, As long as we are going to see a good deal of each other I suppose you might as well stop calling me Miss Martin ) wandering back and forth over the stage at about half-past five vainly pursued by Cornie who was trying to forcibly feed her a crisply dry chicken sandwich ; I remem- ber the entire servants ' hall, assembled, ready to go on the stage, striking because no one would give them spirits of ammonia to drink ; I remember Nan Thorndike landing on my head as she slid down the pole from the running track ; and I remember the gratifying glory of P. T. ' s smile (as observed through a small hole in the curtain) when Virginia naively announced that she was a chickety chee, a chickety chickety chee. Helen D. Hill. 25

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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

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atmor Dear Miss : I am pleased to inform you that you have been assigned to room , Radnor, for the ensuing year 1917-18. Yours very sincerely, Edith T. Orlady. Thus was the dreary fate of twenty-eight Freshmen sealed, twenty-eight joyous young things still eagerly clinging to a hope of Pembroke doomed to this far reputed hole of grinds. But they had been there only two months when they were heard modestly singing: Radnor has come up a step Ha, ha, ha! Those Freshman gave that hall a rep Ha, ha, ha! We were in those days unduly large — some of us sat at every table in the di ning-room — we conversed freely, we sang well, we must have been odious. After Freshman year our ranks were much depleted, the lure of Llysyfran and the insidious work of mysterious summer forces having cut us down to the scant number of sixteen. (We secretly resented the disloyalty of those who had deserted us for other halls, but we invited them back for Sunday night supper. ) Early in Sophomore year the survivors swore eternal fidelity to Radnor, banded together in an organization to meet nightly on the common ground of muggle, invented a graceful sign of greeting and a whistle to call members. At dinner one evening, just after all of the above had been decided, a newly shorn member (alas, we have had several shearings in our flock) arose and announced amid the shrieks of her confederates (we always enjoy our little jokes), The Sons of Guz will Guzzle in the Guzzleum tonight at 9.15. Sons we called ourselves, but we always addressed fellow sons as Sistern . The somewhat perverted language of our chief merry jester infected us all, and such words and phrases as twirdy , cherry tree , and seven times cursed became part of our common parlance. While partaking of the evening collation, jokes are encouraged by the mild, gentle giggle of Flub-Jub and Ben Jamin ' s more than adequate imitation; our wits are sharpened by the subtleties of Hellenish humor; and our longing for romance finds some outlet in quizzing our blushing Mary. Some- times, of course, we feel subdued and things are dreary, but no matter what may happen we always have with us the incessant, clever, openly cryptic repartee of Naughts to Kash — and then, too, Copey will always spill her milk. Mary Simpson Goggin. 26