Woonsocket High School - Quiver Yearbook (Woonsocket, RI)

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 » THE QUIVER A LITTLE JOURNEY INTO SOCIETY 250 Ballou Street, Woonsocket, R. I., March 20, 1915. Dear Miss Mowrv: Perhaps you will be interested to hear about an incident of niy summer vacation. It was an experience that is now of interest to me, but, at the time, it was far from pleasant, for it caused the destruction of some of my illusions. While I was staying at my sister’s home, I received an invitation to a dinner and dance at the Country Club. The affair was to be given by Grace Nelson, an acquaintance of mine. As I had never attended a young people’s dinner-party, I was over-joyed at the invitation; but my brother-in-law refused to be enthusiastic. “I’m not sure you’ll like it, Dot,” he said. During the next few days, my sister told me about the young people whom I was to meet at the dance. She said that they were children of the oldest and wealthiest families in the city; that they were being educated in the most select schools in the country; that they had been given every opportunity that wealth, position, and breeding could offer; that, consequently. I, who had had few opportunities. must be very careful of my conduct. She instructed me to be modest and gracious, and to speak in a low voice. “I don’t know these young people very well,” she said, “but their parents are our friends. Be careful, Dot, and don’t disgrace the family.” When the evening of the dance arrived, I was filled with nervous delight. My good friends in Woonsocket were polite enough when it was necessary, I thought, but they were not especially clever. Now my dream was to be fulfilled. I was to meet clever, well-bred boys and girls, who had traveled extensively and had studied with the best

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THE QUIVER Still as farther on I go, Ever worlds of wonder grow, Many more the road can show, Wandering far and free. Spanning rivers deep and wide, Leaping down the mountain side, Roads go on whate’er betide, loining sea to sea. T. BUELL CARD, ’1C. SPRINGTIME When joyous spring comes on the scene And frosts no more we see, Our pulses thrill, our hearts are keen 'I‘o share the springtime's glee. T’is then we see the budding flowers And hear the robins sing, The vi’lets peep from shady bowers,— All heralding the spring. T’is sturdy March that first appears With breezes fresh and strong; Then howling, shrieking winds one hears, That lash the seas along. Then April comes with tears and smiles, And daffodils so gay; I hen sunny May with merrv wiles To cheer the dullest day. At last comes June with all its charm, All decked with roses fair, With leafy trees and sunshine warm To bring us pleasure rare. Of all the seasons of the year, The springtime is the best; For then the twitt’ring birds we hear. And all the earth seems blest. ANNIE L. NAISMITH, 16.

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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