Woonsocket High School - Quiver Yearbook (Woonsocket, RI)

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8 Till ; QUIVER melody, and the dance began. Pleading a headache, I sat out as many dances as possible, and watched the others. It was not a pretty sight. The dancing was fast and furious. The girls became red-faced a.. i tousle-headed with the heat and excitement. Those who were the noisiest and did the most daring deeds were the most popular. Then, involuntarily, I became the most popular girl there. While drinking punch with the pompous Mr. X. I dropped my fan. He stooped to pick it up. A maid, passing by, struck my elbow, and before I knew it, the contents of my punch-glass were dashed over Mr. X’s hean. Horrified, I stood speechless. I felt that I was grinning foolishly. Mr. X stood up, his beautifully correct evening clothes dripping with punch I became aware that everyone was laughing and cheering me. Mr. X himself was laughing uproariously. Then I realized that they thought 1 had done it purposely—they considered it a clever joke. I remember the rest of the evening vaguely. I know that I danced almost without ceasing. I was very hot and terribly tired, but I could not get away from my admirers. At last it was over. The stars were dim, and a pale light showed in the east, when I reached home and tumbled into bed. At luncheon next day I told my interested relatives about mv experience. My mother and sister were shocked, and I could see that they were anxious to find out whether or not I would cultivate my new acquaintances. “Now that you have made a hit with our best young people,” said my brother-in-law, “I suppose you will be in the social whirl for the rest of the summer.” Just to tease him, I hesitated a moment. “No,” I said firmly, “never again will I attempt to rise above my humble station in life. I swear it.” And up to this time I have kept my vow. Sincerely yours, DOROTHY PRARAY. 16. WHEN COMPANY “DROPS IN” One cold day in February, I accomplished about eight days’, work: to wit, I chopped and sawed one-half of a cord of wood, sifted a pile of ashes that had been accumulating since the beginning of winter, carried three hods of coal up to the kitchen, and ran about seven errands. This, together with the fact that I had not had very much breakfast, made me feel “as hungry as a bear.” I was planning, however, to have a nice dinner of corned-beef and cabbage, apple pie and cheese, and tea.

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THE QUIVER teachers. I was eager to meet these wonderful people, but I feared that, among them, I should appear ignorant and countrified. Grace Nelson called for me in an automobile. She sat in the tonneau with a young man, whose name I understood to be Mumpsy. 'f'he driver’s seat was occupied by a plump, solemn-faced youth, whom 1 shall call Mr. X. I took the seat beside him, and he proceeded to entertain me. I learned that he was the son of an associate of William Rockefeller, and that he had just returned with his father from the Rockefeller mines in the West. I asked him leading questions about his travels, but he kept the conversation on a strictly financial basis. He spoke solemnly of big deals in Wall Street and on ’Change. He was very amusing, but not by the greatest stretch of my imagination could I call him clever. When we reached the club-house, I was introduced to a great number of boys and girls. Then dinner was announced. In the brilliantly lighted dining-rocm, I could observe my new acquaintances. They were indeed wonderfully dressed, but there was something about them that did not quite come up to my expectations. The boys were weak-looking and too well groomed. The girls resembled the ladies one sees in musical comedies. Their table manners were by no means perfect. My dinner partner, a chinless youth, generally known as “Buddy,” devoted himself to me. As per instructions, I began to talk in a low voice about athletics. He waived the subject as “an awful bore,” and discoursed at length upon the newest dances. The young man on my right claimed my attention and told me that my gown was “perfectly fla-fla.” Not certain whether I was being complimented or not, I merely smiled. I spoke to him about music. He told me that he preferred musical comedy to opera. I learned that Caruso was too droll for words” and that Mary Garden was “a winner,” but her growns were “absolutely weird.” In desperation I turned to “Buddy, who informed me that the salad was “beastly.” Suddenly I heard a squeal. A girl had thrown an olive across the table, hitting Grace Nelson squarely on the nose. Grace responded by throwing a radish. The young men entered the fray, and soon a veritable battle was raging. I shrank back, aghast. Where were those well-bred, cultured young people of whom Ethel had spoken? The girl opposite me threw back her head and uttered a loud guffaw. Immediately her partner slipped a salt-cellar into her open mouth. I noticed that three of the girls were smoking cigarettes. I felt ill. At the height of the confusion, the orchestra struck uo a syncopated

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THE QUIVER 9 This list of food was changed just because some “swell” company were coming for dinner. I was not informed what we were going to have, but I was sure that it would be no good. About twelve o’clock the company came. After the usual exchange of compliments and such rubbish, they took their seats at the table. I was established between two very stout women. I had been told to keep up my part of the conversation at the table, but I need not repeat that there were two women seated beside me. Oh, I can see myself and that dinner now! The first thing on the menu is a small plate of “julienne,”—at least that is what they call it. The soup would fill about a teaspoon. I am always passing things back and forth and receiving, for my kindness, a “bewitching” smile. Next I am handed a plate of “turbot.” I take a taste to try it and find that it is all gone. Before the next course of “rote de-lievre” is brought along, 1 have some gossip with my neighbors,—that is, they tell me some of their hard luck stories. They talk of the wholesome bouillon they had at Mrs. Clarkin’s; of the new pink dress with the chiffon on the outside that Mrs. Malachy has made; and of various other things. I feel as if I am going to faint from want of food and from excess of dissappointments. I think that a block of wood or iron, or any other thing that did not come from France would be very wholesome and delicious. Some “ragout de mouton” is next placed on the table. More French! I have a good mind to shout out, “Where’s the corned-beef and cabbage?” However, when I think of the Philippic that I shall be the entire audience of, if I do, I change my mind and say something complimentary to my neighbors. I feel that at any moment I shall fall asleep, never to awake. I am slowly fading away. Just then a baker’s cart passes by. As I am seated near the window, I see all the nice things with which the baker fills his basket to take to the next house. Then comes along a man selling baked beans for ten cents a quart. Presently another man strolls by, carrying a portable delicatessen. The appetizing odors are wafted in through the window. Just imagine how I feel! Meanwhile my neighbors are exchanging gossip. There is now placed on the table a dish of croquette, which we eat a la francaise. Though it has a big name, the croquette proves to be plain mince-meat. . . Soon some “parfait au cafe,” some meringue, and some marmalade