Wheaton College - Nike Yearbook (Norton, MA)

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CLASSROOMS Morpheus or Lucipher? From the halls of Mary Lyon to the nooks of Stanton basement there is a constant battle twixt these two for classroom domination. Many an excited professor has winced at the subtle snores from the back row; many a timid teacher has refereed for the enthusiasts of the first row. As the grey dawn seeps through the cracks of the zoology laboratory, clear-eyed freshmen eagerly probe their homarus Americanus, search- ing for Truth. (Thus sayeth the Wheaton College catalogue.) What better background for a love letter than the aroma of formaldehyde? Fret no more professors! Your science B1 classes are not shaking their heads to contradict; they are merely getting into the swing of the tennis matches. There is nothing like a good map to clarify a history lecture. And then there are those in Mary Lyon 7. It is not that they are small; it is not that they are illegible; the main difficulty lies in their lack of boundary lines. Even the Spartans might have been daunted by our frigid, lightless halls of learning. However, to really live, we must suffer! Page sixteen

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The gentleman on the left is Mary Ellen Chase En Marche encore Swing it! seen to rush out for a cigarette after a class. Mr. Creighton tells music App. that he prefers Bessie Smith to Nellie Lecher, but warns not to trust anyone who is MAD about Beethoven. Snatches of conversation run together and are lost.in the atmosphere below. Mr. Sharp looking up from his Thackeray, “Really Miss X wouldn’t you find it convenient to major in some field other than English?” Or Miss Burlingame, “Are you having trouble at home?” Miss Marshall, ‘Ethyl Alcohol is almost 200 proof.” Mrs. Korsch, ““Are my seams straight,” Mr. G. “I do my thinking in bed,”’ Cressey, “Am I urban or rural?” Miss Jennings starts, the bell has rung. Dr. Sprague, “The worst thing for a man would be to be a woman.” Miss Okie, ‘““Breathe—2, 3, 4, breathe—2, 3, 4.” Page fifteen

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Come blustery December mornings, the back- to-nature devotees of our faculty begin the morn- ing with a smile, a sprint, and an open window. At least the floors have their dust to keep them warm! Terpsichore, come aid us! Instill us with your grace! No matter how we aspire, we always ex- pire. Pity poor Plimpton! Her very foundations will always groan their protests against thunder- ous attempts at dance. Her stage and doors bear scars, evidence of those who leap too far. Her floors glow with cleanliness and glower with con- tempt for our dirty feet. From dancers to dust- mops! It must be quite a shock to innocent observers when a bevy of bodies comes tumbling from the windows of Mary Lyon. This is not a suicide squad, but only eager scholars on the way to another class. In spring, Apollo’s fans crowd the classroom windows, thrusting out pale extremities in an effort to soak up vitamin D. Dr. Sprague cannot put enough emphasis on the place of the sun- worshippers in our society. But— Despite our gripes and groans and shivers, We love these rooms, and thank the givers. Page seventeen