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Page 8 text:
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□ VERMILION SCHOOL OF AGRICULTURE AND THEN 117HAT? A SKETCH, by BARBARA VILLY CORMACK T was all over Mary leaned her head back, and put up her feet, as the train lumbered joltingly along. She was going back home. And she meant that “back” part of it, too—for after two winters at the School of Agriculture she had learned how “backwoodsy” home really was. Now that the rest of the gang had left the train and gone their various ways, that noisy, excited bunch of sing-songers, she had time to realize that it was all over. Some of the tunes at the big closing dance last night were still echoing through her head. She still breathed the scent of the lavender sachet that had lain with her new evening dress, and she could see a misty vision of the gym. in the glow of soft colored lights. How strange to think that there would be no more dances like that, and no more classes, no more exams., rto more labs. Stranger still, the ending of a host of other little unimportant details, dear chiefly for their very familiarity—the tearing in and out of one another’s bed¬ rooms, to borrow, lend, or tell something; the chaffiing and joking of the other girls waiting on the stairs for the dining room to open: the clatter of chairs and cups as they all sat down to a meal; the same bunch waiting in the rotunda for the mail; shout¬ ing merrily to each other on the rink; playing the odd game of basketball. Mary’s eyes grew misty. Oh, but it was hard to leave it all. There was nothing for it. though. There were no possibilities of a third winter, and even if there were it would be Jim’s turn next. And even the Kid Sister had begun to grumble—wasn’t going to wash separators all her life, or break-in calves, etc.—just the same line of talk that Mary herself had taken up about two years ago. No, she was going back home. And then what? After the first excitement of seeing the folks, and their admiration of her self-made glories in the dressmaking line, her special prize for sewing, her carefully kept note-books, and her permanent wave, —it would all be as it was before. The same chores, the very self¬ same round. Even tonight she would get out her new apron and fry the potatoes for supper, wash the dishes on the stove, trim the lamp wick, and probably set bread, seeing it was Thursday. In the kitchen, there would likely be an odd lamb or pig, to be raised by hand, and possibly boxes of cabbage plants. Tn town, men would be discussing how soon they could get on the land. The self-same round, from beginning to end. There must surely be something more to life than this. There had been moments during the last two winters, moments in a big assembly, in a game, or after a specially good Lit., when she had longed to do herself something grand and noble, to give up part of herself to making something better and finer. You couldn’t do that farming. She had even mentioned something of the kind once to Jack—Jack, that ever permanent, who had hung around steadily for years back, both at home and at school, and who had said goodbye gaily yesterday, with the words “See you Sunday,” just as if neither of them had ever been away from home at all. Jack had better watch out, though. There had ben other boys at college,—and she wasn’t going to get tied up to another life of washing separators, fetching cows, feeding chickens, etc. If he was really seriously thinking of getting a job, elevator agent, or something, it was all right, but she had no time for a man that was going to waste his life fooling round a farm. No, sir, not now, when she had seen something better! ❖ When she picked up her suitcase and got out, there was Dad on the platform to meet her, Dad and Jim, all smiles and wel¬ comes. “Gee, kid,” thus the brotherly greeting, “you sure do look like a fashion paper!” They drove home with sleighs and the box, for the car was not yet running. The box squeaked and growled as it slid over the well-worn trail, and everywhere were muddy pools of swiftly melting snow. “Best get the wheels out tomorrow, Jim,” said Dad. It was the end of winter’s long siege. Mary found herself anxiously waiting for all of the road’s familiar landmarks, and watching the spots most likely to be bare of snow. “Going to put a culvert here this year? I see they’ve filled in the hole at the corner since Christmas. When d’you figure to be on the land, Dad?” It was the same when they got home. Everything was so dear and familiar that she simply couldn’t ask enough questions, even about the tiny cabbage plants that were already showing at the window. “How many pigs are there?” “Has Clover had her calf yet?” “How’s Belle’s foal wintered?” and so on. The Kid Sister had shrieked with admiration at the “permanent,” and the Frenchified hat, but now that she was here it really didn’t seem to matter so much. After the bread was set and wrapped up for the night,— Mary had insisted on doing it herself,—she slipped outside alone. A cheery little robin was singing full-throated into the last gleams of the setting sun, and the air was filled with the warm breath of coming springtime. The robin stopped, and there followed th t deep, soft silence that the country alone can give. Mary caught her breath. How lovely it was, all of it,—the peacefulness, and the dear homeliness of the buildings silhouetted against the sky. College days, dances, dormitory and all, seemed to be slipping away into the realm of dreamland. This, after all, was real. “And I belong,” she told herself, solemnly. She went indoors again with shining eyes. “My, it’s good to be home again,” she said. Mother looked up from her mending, and smiled. “Guess it’ll seem a bit quiet at first,” she answered. But, funnily enough, it didn’t. There was so much to do; so much to see, that the fresh spring days were full to overflowing. Clover’s calf took such a time to feed; they had just killed a pig, so there was lots going on in the kitchen; and there were all the seed catalogues waiting for attention. Oh, just lots to do. Sunday morning came Jack,—just as familiar as everything else. He found her clad in overalls forking hay into the mangers. “Didn’t rank those clothes in sewing class, did you?” he asked. She laughed, and tossed a forkful of hay over him. “Doesn’t it seem a long while ago,—all that?” she asked him in return. They were rather a silent pair for a while, till Jack managed to get something off his chest. “Say, kid,—I know the way you feel about it, but I thought (Continued on Page 29) [ 6 1
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Page 9 text:
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° J. EIIioH B.J. Whitbread E.W Cor mack Miss l.Riis Dr C. J.WHnworffi. Homs Economics Veterinary Science WFB atz- Miss L. Milne Home Economics MissM.PShau) tic me co2icmic5 D.A.An reW
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