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

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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

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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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I HAD always wanted to learn how to ride, and when I came to college and heard that there were horses in the gym, my ambition knew no bounds (leaps and bounds, I mean). Of course I was disappointed when I discovered that the horses were practically inanimate. I say practically with intention, for my expe- rience with a gym horse was such as to convince me that there was still some life in the old girl yet. A gym horse is like no other horse on earth; wild horses, circus horses, clothes horses, Charlie horses, up to this time had held no terrors for me, but the first time I looked a gym horse in the mouth, I knew that Fate had it in for me. I was told to mount. I looked about for the stirrups, but as there were none, I concluded it was something in the nature of bareback riding and grip- ping the pommel firmly between the thumb and forefinger, I managed to crawl into a sitting position on the horse with sufficient alacrity to escape the notice of Miss Applebee, who was conducting the performance. During the ensuing hours, I learned that the rider (or rather the would-be gymnast) was supposed to rise and fall more or less rhythmically on different parts of the horse at difFerent times (a vestigial remnant, I suppose of the old-fashioned posting). Well, the rise and fall of the Roman Empire had nothing on me, especially in regard to the fall. I bit the dust of the arena with pain and, as I did so I could have sworn that the horse kicked me. I could not stand that — not for a minute. I reached out and grabbed it by the leg. O Tempora, O Mores! O Death, where is thy sting? It was Miss Applebee ' s leg! Of course there was nothing for me to say, and if there had been, there would have been no time in which to say it. The ensuing moments had evidently been requisitioned by Miss Applebee, and I withdrew, rubbing my knees and vowing never to enter the gymnasium again. Vain delusion! As I had proved such a social failure at the horse, I was sent to the bar to make a name for myself. At the bar I assumed all kinds of undignified positions. Like a kindergarten, we spent our time making baskets and cutting. However, I learned a great many things I never knew before, and under the stress of great emotion have written the following in appreciation of my good intentions: Gym meet, and ne ' er a star. And one clear call for me. Oh, may there be no moaning of the bar When I roll up on thee! I know my knees are bent, a sad disgrace! My swing takes me too far. I dare not look my captain in the face When I have crossed the bar. Emily Anderson