THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 123

 

 

 

 

\ N JE thought we had celebrated the twenty-fifth anniversary of the opening of

Bryn Mawr to the fullest extent at 1910’s commencement, when the campus

was invaded by an army of policemen in white gloves, and President Taft spoke,

and the Endowment Fund was won at five minutes to eleven, and we all sat huddled in

the cloisters, hoping that the mammoth canvas above our heads would confine its groanings

and frantic upheavals to its rightful territory. But when we returned in the autumn, fired

with zeal for severely academic pursuits, we learned that last June had been but a mild

preliminary and that the twenty-fifth anniversary was only just due, by reason of that same

complicatedness that makes you count on your fingers if you want to find out in which
October a girl in the class of 1905 was a Sophomore.

So we all understood, and kept our ears particularly pricked up, and soon heard
reports worthy of attention. College presidents were to come crashing in from all directions,
with eminent litterateurs in their wake, and as for deans and professors—they were to
be as thick beneath our feet as the grass in the campus (in the spots where the faculty do not
consistently tread upon it). We accepted this news with due complacency, generously