Montclair State College - La Campana Yearbook (Upper Montclair, NJ)

Page 23 text:

OH WAD SOME POWER How ridiculous everyone else is! How queer they all look, talk, and dress! But stop; is it only the others? Why surely, we answer, Oh yes! Shall we look at ourselves for an hour Since no beauty can elsewhere be found? Of course, we complacently answer. And languidly smile, at the sound. First, we who have followed the fashion By bobbing our bothersome hair Will permit you to say w e are stunning. Though we hear the sime words everywhere. We spend our spare time by the mirror — An hour, at least, for a curl — For we think they are very becoming And add snap to a cute little girl. We recall — once it happened in math class Daddy Stone said, 1 don ' t like that stare You send vacantly out of the window As you pass a small comb through your hair. As we left him he said to the others, Please don ' t all have your hair cut next week. ' Daddy Stone, that we ' ve flunked we forgive you, Only w hy look at us when you speak? Next, we who have not clipped our tresses. But whose hair is so carefully roughed That our heads look like ' live sofa pillows With Woolworth ' s best ten-cent rats stuffed. We would now like to know, Mrs. Humphrey, Pray whom do those words of yours fit, It would not hurt the coiffure of some girls If it could be reduced just a bit? Now we with the white, white, white noses And the prominent bloom on our cheeks Are so glad you have noticed those haircombs; But hark! It ' s Miss Woodward who speaks. To a classmate who uses no make-up, Surely we do not cause her to say, My dear, what a shame! what a pity To spoil your complexion that way! 19

Page 22 text:

En Route On any peaceful morning, when the sun is risen to just its happiest point in the sky, and the shopkeeper and office-holders are bustling forth to the scenes of their daily occu- pation, — the high church tower with its great town clock, chimes forth the hour of eight, and the City of Orange awakens to the responsibilities of a new day. Then from the near by station, with its high white pillars, issue forth a few early mor- tals whom the 8:03 train has just deposited at the depot. That these mortals have come from South Orange, and that they are bound Valley Roadward and not to the haunts of pleasure and joy, is easily detected by the strange manner of bundles they carry. For who other than a student at our dear M. S. N. would ever appear in public fondly clutching a huge butterfly net or dandling an Xmas box filled with projects? Up the hustling Main Street, noisy in the pride of its own cosmopolitan appearance, comes the Orange car. With its usual rapid efficiency, it tarries at each corner, and politely waits w hile a tattered old ash waggon and a tottering old horse make up their minds to cross the street. Main and Day! Crosstown, Valley Road! Let ' em off, please!! Let ' em off!! shouts the noisy conductor, and he lets ' em off. It is all over, that pleasant ride in the Orange car, where all the windows are closed, and where we dangle hopelessly from the leather straps, unable to extricate our slender left foot from beneath the gentle tread of a man with a great bottle of muddy coffee, and our right from under a boy with a package of sardine sandwiches and a decided tendency toward onions, — it is all over. For those from East Orange have now arrived at the corner of Main and Day and are boisterously greeting their South Orange friends. From the vestibule of the corner Drug Store, appear a few sleepy heads, and a few dreamy mouths droop down, as the verdict is announced, Here comes the car!! Oh! Please make him wait. 1 haven ' t any Life Savers! and Peggy Morrison dashes into the drug store. And there with a grandeur unrivaled, with haughty jerks, and proud leaps forward and back, the Valley Road trolley skips up its muddy one-tracked way. Experience, it is said, is the diploma of life, and the Valley Road is now passing into premature middle age. It is able, perfectly, to understand the babble of conversation, and the shrieks which rend the air. ' Has anyone a Fountain pen? — Done your Pedagogy? Now really but you ought to see him, — 1 simply can ' t keep the curl in, — He ' s the dearest thing, — Oh! girls! Look at the New Arrow Collar! And then ' mid the uproar of noise and confusion, the little Norm. Sch. card is placed in the window , and the bewildered wheels, w hich had really given up all hope of ever arriving anyw here, groan a profound sigh of relief. Ten minutes later, aft r the roll has been duly taken, and the evil-intentioned from East Orange have tried to skin thru an extra transfer (and have been properly squelched by the eagle-eyed conductor) and time has been allowed for Marion Dudley to finish her shine and Fran. Halley to buy her paper; then, the anchor, as it were, is hauled in, the prayers sent up, and, amid a number of creaks, groans, and jumps, the car moves northward toward the green hilled country of our No Man ' s Land. With a sigh of relief, the great town clock in the high church tower, tolls eight-fif- teen. Once more the corner of Main and Day streets reposes in sequestered sleep. Tne City of Orange has again become a drow sy, dreamy retreat. ELEANOR FORGIE 18

Page 24 text:

We are next with the skirts and the oxfords That have quarreled and drawn far apart. See! as gaily w e skip down the hallway We cannot help stealing your heart. Since you are a judge. Dr. Chapin, Of how a young lady should look, We are sure to be well recommended. For you must rate us first in your book. Room for us! We ' ve made passing a science We ' ll skin through each task you devise. Clever girls, but we are not escaping Mrs. Bridge and her all-seeing eyes. Nor can we get by dear Miss Morris; If the rest fail, she siill has a way To find out what lies under our hairnets: Otis knows what is there, and Binet. Now the good little girls — we are perfect; For we study from morning till night. We don ' t even back down from a project And w hatever we do is just right. Hear the faculty ' s voice raised in chorus Daddy Stone shakes his head, folds his arms, May the State we ' re insulting forgive us; We are forced to turn out some ' schoolmarms ' ! ' So no matter how well we conceal it. One may look like an imp or a saint, They can see our pet fault here at Normal, And they don ' t think we are what we ain ' t. ELIZABETH L. LINSON. EDITH M. LUFBURROW. The Palatine Board Editor in Chief, J. Wesley Lord. Associate Editor, Isabel Simmons. Literary Editors, Elizabeth Linson, Edith Luffburrow, Clar Gruver, Madeline Banta Ethel Davis, Elizabeth Peterson. Social Editor, Mary Adams. Alumni Editor, Josephine Scull. Historian, Mary Patterson. Joke Editor, Eleanor Forgie. Art Editors. Isabelle Fuoco, Elizabeth Wurthman, Virginia Scull. Advertising Manager, Janet Porter. Business Manager, Jeanne Powell. Faculty Advisor, Miss Fennell. 20