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Page 30 text:
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160 THE SENIOR OCCIDENT SONG OF THE SWEATER: MY ROWS-AWRY My rows-awry, The hours I've spent in sweater art, Are like a string of pearls, I sigh To count them over every one a part, My rows-awry, my rows-awry. Each hour I purl, each purl take care, To drop no stitch, lest I be stung, To count, yea count unto the end; And then a sleeve is hung, Of memories that blurr and burn, Oh memories that blur and bum, 1 drop a purl, yet strive at last to learn To knit across, sweet art, ot knit across.—Ex. Learn— How to look grave and dignified. How to survive 4 years’ hard labor and still be a decoration to society. The Proper Care and Cultivation of a Stand-In. The little Idiotsyncrasies of the Faculty. Their Manners and Customs, etc. How to pass the posture test alive. How to take gym and go to the Temple in the same afternoon. How to return safely from the drugstore and many other helpful processes invaluable to ambitious, young high school students. All your problems may be successfully solved if you but ask the Seniors—THEY' KNOW’ all these useful little parlor tricks by heart and will be glad to give you the benefit of their age and experience. “HOT FROM THE CLASS ROOM” “Here we have a simple homogeneous parametric quadratic simultaneous equation.” “You can’t come in this library again.” “Now Alfred—” “Confession is good for the soul.” “The girls in this class certainly are athletic; they can talk and breathe at the same time.” “Francis has been looking at his notes.” “You may go to the board.” “Got your lesson?—Get out.” “Down to Scotty’s Academy.” “Use your head.” “Now, when I was in England—” “Beginning with the last row the assembly is dismissed.” Sproaty—“Hey, can you tell a bad egg from a good one?” Roswell—“I don’t usually tell a bad egg anything, but if I do I break it gently.”
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Page 29 text:
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THE SENIOR OCCIDENT 159 which would not go over thirty-seven miles an hour. Mr. Y— opened the throttle wide. We were soon making tine time when suddenly a man pointing two revolvers at us, ordered the machine to be brought to a standstill. He told us the speed limit was twenty-one miles an hour. He took us back to the nearest attorney. You may imagine the surprise when upon reaching the city we read in large letters: Alfred Sproat, City Counselor and Attorney. As we entered the office four stenographers rose to greet us (this was the custom in Mexico). We naturally felt chagrined, but our embarrassment knew no bounds when we recognized the four stenographers to be the Misses Dorothy Heinrich, Edith Kneeland, Monica Hayward and Alberta Schwcndler. When we greeted Mr. Sproat he gave one of his old time hearty laughs. And then he charged us a heavier fine than any other tourists have ever had to pay. At last we again started for Vera Cruz. When we were about ten miles from the city we had a blow out. As there was a large high school building a short distance away, I decided I would wait there until the machine was repaired. My knock at the door was answered by a very small girl. I asked to see the principal and was soon shown to the office. Much to my surprise I found Miss Dorothy Wetmore just in the act of punishing a refractory child. She greeted me with blushes and cordiality; then asked me to step into one of the rooms until she would be at liberty. In the next room I found Miss Verna Altpeter calmly instructing thirty youngsters. Before 1 had time to chat our machine was repaired and at the door. For the third time we were riding toward our destination. When we finally reached the city we decided it would be wise to go to the bank before meeting the rest of our company. The experiences of the morning had greatly diminished our funds. Something seemed familiar in the appearance of the girl at the cashier’s window. I stopped a moment to look more closely and was soon shaking hands with Nelda Masters. As I walked to the farther end of the bank. I met Florencce Schneider just coming out of the private office with Phyllis VanCise. After waiting some time for Mr. Y— I came to the conclusion that it was taking too long to write a check. Thoroughhly out of patience, I went over to the teller’s window to see what was keeping him. I found him calmly con- versing with the young girl in charge of the window. He seemed to be quite unconscious of the long line of business men he was detaining. But I too forgot about them when I recognized the young lady as no other than Doris Logan. On passing out of the bank I noticed Morris Almstead, about whom I heard later that he was married to Adelaide Schaefer, and going out with other women. I noticed also Francis Daniels, who spoke to me and told me that he had established a system of academies all over the country, and had Mildred Smead as his private secretary and Lucy Gay as tht fessor of French. As we stepped out of the bank I saw a limousine stop and out jumped Ray Huls; as he passed I noticed he had another boil on his neck. We got into the machine and started for the hotel. On our way we passed a large home and on the porch was this astonishing sign: “McKie and Schoeffel. Undertakers.” A little farther we noticed a little governess wheeling a baby carriage. It was Sarah Bond. She waved to me and we stopped. She told me she was governess at the Madden Homestead, and that she was wheeling James K. Madden’s son. I took a peek and found him to be the image of his father. We drove on and soon .came to the hotel, where we met Basil Moore, who told us he was winning fame with his speeches on ‘‘World Peace.” This is the future of the Class of January, 1918.
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