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

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1919 How can you decide whether the Senior Class with which you entered college was the best? You have no standards of comparison. The practical Freshman determines the real work of a Senior Class by asking these simple questions: i. How do they compare with the Freshmen? 2. Have they a Tip? 3. Has their banner a permanent wave? Your answers to these questions will show whether or not you knew 1919. All of the fundamental qualities that Seniors should have were developed in so high a degree in this class that its superiorities were an open book. We did not know the class of 1919 very well, so we took the liberty of borrowing an Ivory Soap advertisement to check them up. 20

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Milly said that we h;i l i ust as good .1 team as they, or ' Milly said thai we must never once stop fighting. When Milly s;n l , 1922 did, so although our fighting was perhaps a little primitive , we managed to beat [921 in our Freshman year, a feat never thereafter repeated in any held of sport. Sophomore year we were still reliant on .Vlillv ' s pre-contest harangues and ir was always with her words burning in our ears i hat we staggered forth to do battle. 1922 if you don ' t win to-day every one oi you has a yellow streak down the middle ol vour back. If it had not been for these exhortations from I he Om- niscient, we might never have had tin- experience ol winning our way into every finals, only to find when we got there that our Red Complex was too Strong for even Millv ' s indomitable motive power. 1 1 was Milly w ho told us that we must sing better than any 01 her class, and who smiled at us when we continued to sing worse. We went to meetings even unto the third degree because Milly always went, and inspired by her example we formed the major part of every assembly — literal) ' , political, or academic. With no disrespect, but merely to indicate the intensity of the passion with which we so inadequately repaid our tutelary divinity, we recall a night of Cherry Blossom era when ' 22 has been singing under ' 20 ' s windows. ' 20 ' s answering song becomes faint — almost inaudible; Reenie: What ' s the matter? Liz: Shut up, you fool, can ' t you hear? Milly ' s voice is breaking with sobs. Grace Rhoads. Emily Anderson. I wish 1 had a little team — A lower one, of course — ' Cause it would look so strange on bars, So funny on a horse. I wouldn ' t ever let it sleep. I wouldn ' t let it eat. I ' d work that team for a little class point And make it win the meet. J. R. B. 19

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3Jn fWemoriam IN our painful progress through this vale ol tears, only gradually have we learned the supreme value of peace and a restful atmosphere. Before the Odds and Evens smoked (entirely metaphorically, be ir understood) the pipe of peace, and buried (without undue disturbance of the precious sod) their hatchets, side by side, time was, when, after a due season of chastening, calculated to arouse in them some partial sense of their own unworthiness, the Freshmen avenged the aforesaid chastening in one fell swoop. This organized revenge was Freshman Night. The hitter March wind, the gusts of freezing sleet, in no way dampened our ardor; we lusted for just revenge. On ' Twenty-two had descended the dire com- mand to wear academic gowns to all classes. Our attitude in regard to tubs was marked by an enforced servility. Our beloved canes had been wrenched from our hands, our red tarns from our heads. Moreover, the sincerity of our humility had been probed by divers mental tests. But our Day of Reckoning was at hand. First came the carousing in Pembroke, the greedily devoured army-meat and war greens, attended by raucous bursts of laughter and bellowed songs. A pro- scripted tarn was flung rakishly upon an antler horn — mute testimony to our abandoned spirit. The gifted Weenie Stewart writhed through the intricacies of an orgiastic hula-hula especially for our delight. In unrestrained ecstacy we crowned her with lettuce leaves. Enflaming speeches were in order, and original poems of inspiring quality. With wild huzzas the banquet adjourned to the campus to pillage and to wreck. Our trail was marked by a series of superb dummies; Holly and Tom in close embrace, Foote in her rotundity, the sinuous Cecil, Goggin the glorious. Clothes- lines of green skirts and red tarns flapped skittishly between lamp-posts. Withering and contemptuous sentiments were chalked on every walk. Carelessly lolling on Senior Steps, amidst a plentiful drive of hail, we sang unseemly parodies, and abandoned this pursuit only to brighten up the atmosphere of our several halls. Such was Freshman Night. Like other unbecoming institutions, it has been suppressed. In an atmosphere of equality and peace revenge is out of place. Freshman Night is dead. Requiescat! Dorothy Wells. Need we say this was written before May 13th. 21