THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 162a

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

   

 

 

3 aL
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Fo
Pie ICS! What one subject could stir up more or more poignant associations than

 

   

picnics? The reason they are so full of tender association is that they come in spring—

most sentimental of seasons. What spring may be in the cold wide world we have yet

to learn, but in our little cloistered community it fairly oozes sentiment. The natural effect
of balmy air and bursting buds is balanced by the fact that the Seniors are going away.
This is about the time that little branches of arbutus and violets begin to appear on your
room-mate’s desk. Then, some day, you hear a scurrying of feet outside your door.
A giggle. A long pause—then fresh scuffling. Feet adjourn. But only for a while—then
they return, emboldened by a desperate resolution. A knock. You call—“Come in!”