,

in folk-dancing wishing to learn “ Peascod” or “ Pork and Beans” or whatever its
impossible name may be. For the rest, rehearsals were conducted in the Pem East
music room under the head of chance meetings. ‘There was, to be sure, a fifty
cents’ fine if one chanced not to meet, and Valeska Wurlitzer fought, bled and died
trying to teach wildly galloping choruses to one-two-three-kick along the practice
room corridor, than which a more inconvenient spot 1s not to be found.

There comes, at last, the great night. The previous evening, after extracting
sophomores from behind banners, from down ropes, and from out radiators, we have
a dress rehearsal so unspeakable as to promise a successful show. Betty’s scenery
is charming but has refused to stay up, no one knows her cue, half the costun es have
been in quarantine and the other half asphyxiating their wearers by infirmary

fumes. Now comes the moment itself. There are rumors that ’21 is desperate;
others, that they have guessed the animal; others, that they are waiting till the

I go into the small room of the gym

”

eleventh hour to effect a dastardly “coup.
and start savagely applying make-up to a row of faces—make-up that remains
in pink blotches and blue lines for days. What a joy it is to give certain anti-
powder-and-pink-underwear enthusiasts an especially lurid countenance! After
the operation, they blink at their apparition in the one small mirror and wonder
if it’s wicked to admit they look well. Someone rushes in, all eyes, and gasps,
“Barbara Murless is barricaded in her room by ’21! There 1s a pitched battle

”

going on In Pem East.’’ Someone else hurries up the steps, dashes against the
door, which, in her excitement, she forgets to open, and falls into all the make-up.
Itis Margie. She is in evening dress and triumphantly indicates the jacket of Mur-
less’ costume which she thinks she has hidden by wearing the sleeves as trousers. The
battle is at its height. Word is issued to rescue the besieged. Most of ’22 as well
as all of ’21 think she is the animal. A detachment whose faces already blaze with
war-paint and whose costumes can bear hard use, march to the rescue. The battle
ceases. The audience trails in. Some of us peek through the curtain and squeal
with joy at sight of faculty in mandarin coats, 21 in evening array and juniors’ and
seniors’ legs dangling expectantly from the race-track. Cecil, who has been under
the delusion that we’re of such Irish tendencies as to keep our animal in our parlors.
and has-spent the past four weeks walking into freshmen’s rooms, is there, all teeth.
The audience grows impatient and we gather to sing the curtain song. It is a great
hit, for most of us keep on the key and the persistent mutes have carefully been
sent on distant errands. The lights go out and the show begins.

For the rest, | remember a multitude of things too jumbled to relate. Peggy
Kennard as the museum custodian has some slight difficulty with the nether part
of her costume; Em is knocked down by the first “specimen,” a Bryn Mawr “‘ Char-
lotte”’ on roller skates; Prue tries to restrain a wildly uncontrolled orchestra:
and Conti plays the part of a Christian ass (this last is considered rather shocking,
and, perhaps as a judgment on our sinful levity, the donkey head falls off during

,

the first act); ’21 confidently sings to a blue devil, which is quite as it should be.
and looks very proud when Murless swaggers out in the blue devil uniform. Cecil

is}