Collegiate School - Torch Yearbook (Richmond, VA)

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llIll!lllllllIlllllllIIlllllllIIIIllllllIIIIlllllllIIIllllllIIIIllIllllllIlllllllIIIIIllllllIIIIlllllllIIIIlllllllIIIIlllllllIIIIlllllIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII llnllllIIIIIllllllIIIIllllllllllIIIIIlllllllllllllllllmIIIllllllllllIIIIIllllllllllIIIIIllllllllllIIlllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllli IIlllllllIIIIIIllllllIIllllllllIIIIllllIllIIIlllllllIlIIllllllIIIIlllllllIIlllllllIlllillllllllllllllllll lllllllIIlIIIlllllIlIIIlllllllIllIlllllllIIIIIIlllllIIIIlllllllIIIIIlllllllIlIIIllllllllIIIIIlllllllllIIIIIIIIIIIIlIIIIlllllllllllIIIIllllllllIIIIIllllllIlIIIIlllllllllIIllllllllllllllllllllllll Miss Greentree Falls Asleep I have come, says the student. 'fYes, you have come, says Miss Greentree, shaking her head slowly in a matter- of-fact Way. ' UI have come from-,H resumes the student. Of course, of course. You have come from Wonderland, interrupts Miss Greentree. Ah! there's Where you are Wrong. I am not Alice, and I know nothing about Wonderland,,' says the student in a defiant vvay. Indeed! Then I did make a mistake. I did not realize that you were George Eliot! says Miss Greentree, blushing slightly. The student laughs. There's no use in your trying to guess any more, for I come from a land that you have never heard of, but I shall tell you something of it. First of all, I am someone whom people of your kind dislike. I'm Miss Modernism! Oh, my gracious, my gracious!'! despairs Miss Greentree. !'Don't despair so soon! says the student, shaking her finger at Miss Greentree. I vvon't take your place yet. But my day will come soon enoughf, Where do you come from ? asks Miss Greentree, in an impatient tone of voice. !'As I said before, I come from a place you knovv not-a place where people do nothing except Writef' How heavenly! exclaims Miss Greentree. I No, it would not be heavenly for you. Far from it. You would be entirely out of place, with your queer-old-fashioned ways of writing. Modernists would ridicule you, and even jeer at you. My people Write poetry, full of rhythm and beauty, full of music and gorgeous pictures. They can write any Way they choose, for originality adds charm. They place Words Where they please, for they know not the various rules for sentence structure. There is no such word as rule in their language. They laugh at their ancestors, for using such things as commas. And yet my generation surpasses in every Way the Writing of any other generation. You wonder when my day will come. I shall come when-. What's that! cries Miss Greentree, starting from her chair at the sudden striking of the clock over the fire-place. I have been dreaming. She snatches up a paper from her lap and starts to read it. Where is my pencil? She murmurs, and ,after finding it, she marks in the margin of the paper, Look up rule for comma fault in Woolley. That was a funny dream I had,', says Miss Greentree, giving a charming little chuckle to herself. I Wonder When- ? M. C. H.

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1IIIIIllllllllIIIIIllllllllIllIIIIllllllIIIIIIIlllllllllIIIlllllIllllllllllllllllllllllIIIlllllIIIIIIIHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII in :nu uInnunmnmmumnnnu llllIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIlllllIIIIIIIlllllllIIIllllllllIIIIIIIllllllllIIllllllllIIIIIIIHIIIIIIIIIIHW T H E T O R C H 51 allmmmInInmmmIIIIIIInmIIIIIImlmIIIInnnunmlmnumm1nununllllml Inmuuunmummmmlll I 1 unnmmmnnmllmuxlllllInumIIIIunnIIIIInrunIIIIIImnIIIIIImmIIIIImxlllllllllllmllllllllmllllIlllllllllllllll Yes, and suppose he should hnd us heref' I answered, what would we do ? While we were shivering at the thought, something fell with a loud thud. Jumping as if from an electric shock, we looked around. Our relief was great to find that it waslonly a piece of plaster which had dropped from the ceiling. Nevertheless, we left the kitchen. The next door we tried was swollen from rains and stuck, but finally it gave way, and we went in rather fearfully. Everything 'in the house seemed alive by this time. The old gentleman in the picture on the wall laughed mockingly at us. A board creaked under our feetg a nut from a pile in the corner suddenly rolled across the floorg a mouse squeaked somewhere upstairs. Really frightened now, we tiptoed to- wards the front of the house, our only idea being to get out. Then a light footstep sounded behind us. We looked around cold with terror, and saw, no, not the keeper, only a chipmunk, who had captured the wandering nut and was running to the window with it. At last we got outdoors, but everything was still terrifying. The sky was nearly dark, there were great white caps on the lake, and even the flowers trembled, it may have been in the wind, or it may have been for fear. We caught a whiff of smoke, and imagined that the keeper was enjoying his pipe in the kitchen. Afterwards we found it came from the chimney of a house a little way off. lt is not necessary to say that we ran all the way to camp, and that it was long before we visited again the house of a thousand ghosts. MARGARET GORDON, 224.

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IIIIIIIIIIlllllllllllIIIIIIIIHIIIIIIIIllIlllllIIIIIIIlllllllIIIIlllllllIIIlllllllllIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIHII inumm:ummuuummuunuunm muuunuunmnuumu uummnmnnnuuuuunu 1nnnummInummunnummIIlmmumnmnunnmmnmmri T H E T O R C H 53 llllllllllllllllllllllllIIIIIIlIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII llllllIIIIIlllllIIIIIIllllIIlIIIIIlllllIIIIIIllllIlIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIUIIIIIIIIllllIIIIIIIlllllIIIIIllllllllIIIIIIIlllIIIIIIIIllllIIIIIIIllllllIIIIIlllllIlIIIIlllllllIIIIIIIllllIllIIIlllllIIllllllllllllllllllllllll Oakhurst Orchards NE afternoon last fall, I was invited along with my mother and father to have tea with Miss Margaret Montague at Oakhurst Orchards, her summer home. After driving for five miles over a rough, mountain road, after waiting for a cowrto amble slowly across the road, and after waiting for about five gates to be opened and closed, we finally came upon a most pleasing sight. There was a house before us which reminded me of pictures I have seen of English homes. Cream- colored plaster had been used in pleasing contrast with dark wood-work. There was a flock of sheep serenely grazing on the lawn, which immediately dispersed as we drove up. Miss Montague made a charming picture as she poured tea from an old silver- service on the cool, vine-covered porch. The house is built on the side of a mountain, and the View from the porch was most delightful.. Away across on the mountain to the front of the house were Tony Beaver's pine trees, where Tony Beaver ,saw the sunrise, looking like three sentinels silhouetted against the fast-increasing grey of the sky. I would have liked to lookout over the mountain all afternoon, but a still more beautiful sight was awaiting me-the Hower garden at the back of the house. It was one mass of color, with the beautiful green mountain as a background. As we stood on the porch, and watched the sun sink behind the mountain- leaving the gloriously golden western sky in its wake-it partly explained to me how such surroundings could inspire a person to Write as only Miss Montague can Write. M. H. D.