Bryn Mawr College Yearbook. Class of 1911

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Pts Bee Meee Bie Miia B


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he Book of the



















Class of
ineteen Eleven

OL POTNLOL dodvator


















Press of
The Jobn C. Winston Company
Philadelphia






Editor-in-Chief
Marion SturGes Scott

Editors
RosaLinpD Fay Mason CATHERINE LyMAN DELANO
Lemta HovuacstTeriInec MaArGARET JEFFERYS HOBART

Art Editor
Marcery EuizABEtH HOFFMAN

Business Manager
MARGARET JEFFERYS HOBART


















Class Mfficers

1907-708

Chairman—FLORENCE WYMAN
President—RutH VicKERY
Vice-President and Treasurer—AMY WALKER
Secretary—NoRVELLE Brown

1908-’09

President—AmMy WALKER
Vice-President and Treasurer—IsoBpEL ROGERS
Secretary—Dorotuy CoFFIN

1909-710

President—AmMy WALKER
Vice-President and Treasurer—IsoBeL Rocers
Secretary—Dorotuy Corrin

19102"11

President—Amy WALKER
Vice-President and Treasurer—IsoBEL RoGErs
Secretary—Dorotuy CorFrin








AAA thy hy Ge C4

3/y



















Foreword

\ N 7 © are having a foreword because Hobie says Mr. Clarke says it will look better, and we are

very particular about looks. So far as we know, no class has ever had a foreword before,

which was rather against it to Leila, the conservative member of our board, but when we

pointed out to her that it would be a good place to state our motto, she was reconciled to it. She

thinks a good deal of that motto, does Leila; in fact, we all do, when it comes to that, and it seems as

if the class were with us. Our motto is “There is no hurry.” Some of them wanted “Haste makes
waste,” but that seemed to us to be a bit stereotyped, and we are nothing if not spontaneous.

It is our conviction that to a patient class like 1911, a mere matter of a week or so, or perhaps
a year or so, sooner or later, principally later, will make no difference at all, and though we are natu-
rally spontaneous, we are capable of living up to our convictions. Besides, we will all enjoy reading
the class book to our grandchildren more, if it hasn’t been about the house too long. For ourself, we
fancy something fresh for grandchildren—it seems more wholesome.

We hope that other classes, who have known us in college, may sometimes care to look over and
read our book. We hope English readers will not, or, if they do, will omit the foreword, as we are
painfully conscious of a lack of transition just here. And we will be glad if any of our friends find
anything to interest them in these pages. But, in explanation more than in apology, we announce here
that this book is primarily for the Class of 1911 and wholly by and about the Class of 1911. We are
deeply and frankly interested in ourselves as a class, and now that we are out of college, we want,
more than ever, to emphasise our entity and continued existence as a class. Few of us can write well,
those who can do not put their fine writing here. Here it is our pleasure to recall and to record any-
thing that brings back the spirit of the class, both serious and gay—not only events and experiences
at Bryn Mawr, but all the characteristics, even to follies and shortcomings, that we shared, and that
bound us more closely together. In short, a frank case of spread-peacock.

Now we have written a foreword—quite the first that has ever come from our honest pen. You
may say what you like about it, we suppose that, like most work of human hands, it has its defects, but,
take it all in all, it is a foreword, and as such we glory in it.

We herewith have the honour of presenting the book of the Class of 1911.

Marion Srorces Scort.

426411







PAGE

ForEworp ; ;

OFFICES HELD BY 1911 a igi

Tue First Ten .

ScuHouarsaires RECEIVED BY Muaxonas 0 OF 1911

Our First Crass Meetine, Marguerite H. Layton

Rusu Nicuts, Margaret A. Prussing. ........

Cuoosinc THE Cxiass AntmaL, Catherine Lyman Delano

1911’s Stncine, Margery Smith aig

“Every FresamMan;” or, Not VULGAR Bor, pen
Houghteling . ‘

BrninpD THE Scenes, M siete Setenis Hokus

Gym Drittis, Marion D. Crane i ;

Breaks, Phyllis Rice, Ruth Tanner, Mas ary Williams

FrresHMAN Cxass Suprer, Frances Porter . :

Tue Sout, Ruth Wells 4

On Fresaman Year, Marion Sisatian Scott aa

1912 Coucnant, 1911 Rampant; or, How We Rip tHE
CoLLEGE oF AN INJURIOUS CUSTOM, ng Morehead
Walker . bos EH

CoMMUTING AND THE Ce eteaineta ties, te Clifton :

Tue Gym Contest, Isobel M. Rogers eS th

1911 A ra Mopn, Margaret Jefferys Hobart ......

1911 en NEGLIGEE; or, Dramatics, Marion Sturges
Scott . . .

SUNDAY Gincknion Maigoh A. Peas A

Lantern Nigut, Helen Huss Parkhurst

Tue Poriticat Rarity, Amy Morehead Walker

Precious Stones, Rosalind Fay Mason

Couiecr Prriopicas, Leila Houghteling . 4

Tae Mystery or THE PEAcocK’s SQUAWK, tin. s.
Russell . : sen

FAREWELL To 1909, Aue M ae Walker :

ATHLETIC STATISTICS ; Cie

EneuisH Magsor, Alice Eichberg : ‘

On Becomine UpprerciassMEeN, Marion Shoe Scott ;

Tur Passtne or Mitx Luncn, Catherine Lyman Delano

CoLuecE Sones, Alice Eichberg :

Tasie Emotions, Virginia Custer Canan . .

Banner Nicuts, Marion Sturges Scott

Las, May Margaret Egan .

Proctors, Margaret Jefferys Hobart

Track, Isobel M. Rogers

May Day rrom THE INSIDE, Catharine lita Dalans ’

May Day From tHE OvrsipE, Louise S. Russell .

Quizzes, Jessie Clifion . ay te

Arntetic Scenes, Helen Emerson .. . Gian ae

Tur Nurses, A Four Years’ REACTIONARY BY A Wiaues
Senror, Rosalind Fay Mason .... . pee

Tue Jupiter, May Margaret Egan

ee er Ga, ed a

11
14
15
16
18
20
23

28
30
34
38
40
41
44

48
50
52
53

56
60
64
66
68
70

72
75
78
86
89
92

- 95

97
99

. 102
. 105
AO Ud

109

ae
Seas 8
Pa yj

a ty § |
. 128

PAGE
Our Senror Metoprama, Catherine Lyman Delano. . . 127
Oras, AN ExpLopep Suprerstit10n, Rosalind Fay Mason 131
Marrons vs. One's Favourtre Autuor, Helen H. L.

Henderson. BE oy ae RT a Sale ER OD ae 133
How To Keep a Sncase, pena H. Layton. . . . 186
Curnese Poetry, Helen Huss Parkhurst . ..... . 188
Cuass Goats; or, APOLOGIA PRO VitA Mra, Margaret

Jefferys Hobart Seo shield ok Fe aNd ate LL Pe . 140
Fire Dritis as SEEN BY THE i Ciiereaddaenn, Leila

Houghteling and Catherine Lyman Delano ..... . 143
Water Foro, feolel MM. Bomere 56025 oy aia oe
Sones or 1911, Charlotte Isabel Claflin ....... . 146
Note Taxrina, Marion Sturges Scott . ....... . 148
To THE SEnror Steps, Rosalind Fay Mason ..... 150
Har an A. B., Elizabeth Willis Taylor. . . . . . .. 151
On THE Ricgut Track, Alpine B. Parker . . .... . 158
Senior Year Dramatics, Margaret A. Prussing . . . 155
LEctTURES; OR, TATLOR-MADE AND TAYLOR-MAID, Margaret

Jefferys Hobart . Cree ety ty Sa Bim ak Aa De
MOARTOET WMVER S55. UU miduiatit ier Howe le alan wee 160

R-revence, Rosalind Fay pT Ae ae en eta atay eg ae
Twenty Years Later, Leila Cates and Catherine

Lyman Delano i 16
Prenics, Marion Sturges Scott eer Ws Cian gees earn Ua, Bil 162a
Masor Potecon, Margery Hoffman ........ 163
Ture Hyena Cuius, Margery Smith. .... . . 167
1912’s Junior-Seniorn Supper, Marion Sturges ‘Boot: 173
Tur Otp Gym anv THE New, Leila Houghteling . . . . 175
FAREWELL To THE Liprary, Margery Smith . .. . . 177
3.00 A. M. anp Auu’s We tL, Rosalind Fay Mason . . . 179
Facuuty Reception, Agnes Lawrence Murray ... . 181
Smenror Crass Supper, Marion D. Crane ...... . 184
Ture TreasurRER’s Report, Isobel M. Rogers . . . . . 186
Acapemta, Margery Smith .. . ae eeei | y 3
Wuen Greek Meets GREEK, Fella Hovghisting « Sat oe
Tue Passine or THE SWEET Girt Grapuate, Ruth Wells 191
Tue Ciass Propnecy, Margery Hoffman ...... . 198
BonFIRES .. . 203
GARDEN ParrTIEs, " Esther Stuart Cornell ao prpeen

Sturges Scott ... . . « 204
COMMENCEMENT Rewmanaat, Margures A. (Pruning . . 208
Ture COMMENCEMENT Procession, Alpine B. Parker . . 211
Tue Last Lar or tHe Course; or, THe Exit or 1911,

Margaret Jefferys Hobart . .. . pie ee
Our Last Cuass Megtina, Catherine oan Daichi i Ske
Rel DA OME AME Cy LU a ee la ary et a) wie wii 220
L’Envor, Marion Posies Scott BO TS acs 221
Ciel ADORE Roo ee eat ee cae oes 222
Ti ECMOMTAM SO UR ie sree ar atia wos et penta 228
Te PACULPE scence ay orn Oma ap eters woe 229

——

THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN Ir









MOffices Held bp 1911

- 1908-09
Christian Union. Secretary—Mary Wi..1ams

League. Secretary—Marion CRANE
Self-Government. Advisory Board—Mary Cast, Letra Hovcntenine
Undergraduate. Assistant Treasurer—MAnion CRANE
Athletic Association. Vice-President and Treausrer—HeELen EMERSON
Tipyn o’ Bob. Business M anager—Mary Case. Treasurer—Kate CHAMBERS
Lantern. Assistant Business M anager—CATHERINE DELANO
Philosophy Club. Secretary—Catuertns DEeLANo
Law Club. Secretary—Mouuin Kitner
Consumers’ League. Secretary—Estuer CORNELL |
Equal Suffrage. Secretary—Marcaret Prussine. Advisory Board—Amy WALKER
College Settlement. Elector—FuoRENcE Woop i :
Mandolin Club. Business Manager—Maraury HorrMan |
Students’ Building. Secretary—Isonet Rogers

Oriental Club. Vice-President and Treasurer—HANNAH M. Dopp

19092710
Christian Union. Treasurer—EtHEL RicHARDSON
League. Treasurer-—Kate CHAMBERS

Self-Government. Secretary—Mary Taytor. Treasurer—Virainta Canaan. Executive
Board—Lrita HovucutTerine, Marion CRANE. Advisory Board—
Heven Trepway. Library Proctor—Marcaret Hopart
12 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN





Mffices eld bp 1911—Continued

Undergraduate. Vice-President and Treasurer—MARGARET PRUSSING
Secretary—CaTHERINE DELANO

Athletic Association. Secretary—Katrx Cuampers. Outdoor Manager—HeLeN Emrrson

Tipyn o Bob. Managing Editor—Marion CrANE. Business Manager—LovlIsE
Russevit. Editors—CHarLotte CuaFuIn, HELEN PARKHURST.
Treasurer—KatE CHAMBERS

Lantern. Editor—Manrion Crane. Assistant Business Manager—CaTHERINE DELANO
Philosophy Club. Vice-President and Treasurer—Lois LEHMAN
Equal Suffrage. Vice-President—Marcaret Prussine. Advisory Board—AmMyY WALKER
Law Club. President—HrELEN HENDERSON
Consumers’ League. Vice-President and Treasurer—EstHER CORNELL
Glee Club. Business Manager—Estuer CORNELL
Choir. Organist—JULIA CHICKERING
Students’ Building. Secretary—Isope, Roarrs

May Day Representatives. Marcarrt Prusstnc, CATHERINE DELANO

1910-711
Christian Association. President—Lxutta Houcuteine. Vice-President—
Kate CHAMBERS

Self-Government. President—Marion Crane. Vice-President—Leita Houcurenina,
Executive Board—Marion Crane, LertA HouGcHrenina. Advisory Board—
ARIsTINE Fiep, Dorotuy Corrin. Library Proctor—Marcaret Hoparr

Undergraduate. President—Caturrinn DELANo. Musical Committee—Mary WILLIAMS
Athletic Association. President—Heten Emerson. Indoor M. anager—KatTr CHAMBERS
THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 13
OOOO

——_—_—_—_—_



Mffices Held by 1911—Continued
Tipyn o’ Bob. Editor-in-Chief—Manrion Crane. Managing Editors—
Hewen Parkuurst, CHARLOTTE CLAFLIN

Lantern. Editor-in-Chief—CuaRLoTTE CLAFLIN. Editors—MAarion CRANE,
HELEN Parkuurst. Business Manager—HeELen TREDWAY

Philosophy Club. President—CatHEerRINE DELANO
Equal Suffrage. President—Amy Wa.xer. Advisory Board—Marcaret PRossine
Trophy Club. President—HrELEN HENDERSON
Science Club. President—He.ten Trepway. Vice-President—Marion Scorr
Glee Club. Leader—EstHer CORNELL
Choir. Leader—Manrcary Smitn. Organist—Ju.iia CHICKERING
Mandolin Club. Leader—Hi.pa ScorRamM

Students’ Building. Chairman—Isoset Rocrers

English Club. President—Heten Parkxuurst. Members—Viratnta CANAN, CHARLOTTE
CLAFLIN, Marion CRANE, CATHERINE DeLano, May Eagan,
Marocaret Hopart, Amy WALKER

Head Fire Captain—Kate CHAMBERS
Members Students’ Council—CaTuHERINE DeLano, AMy WALKER, HELEN TREDWay
14 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN





Trepway, HELEN...

CRANE, MARION ....

CLIFTON, JESSIE...........

Darxow, ANGELA...

DELANO, CATHERINE.......

BGAN, MAY 0 coe

Emerson, HELEN ...

DoouittLe, MARGARET ....

Wiisur, CONSTANCE

CLAFLIN, CHARLOTTE

ee eee

oe ee # @

ee eve ee

“ee ee @

re We de). Yak ae

@eernteHe

eeeewee

First Ten

NG ek es Physics and Chemistry
Dubuque High School, Dubuque, Iowa.

OE AA SRB Rae mt Mey aera Philosophy and English
Arlington High School, Arlington, Mass.

ai Gees bs ioe Mathematics and Chemistry
Philadelphia High School, Philadelphia, Pa.

ee a oe vis oe ea es Greek and Latin

Nea asks ues va Philosophy and English
Francis W. Parker School, Chicago, IIl.
Rosemary Hall, Greenwich, Conn.

SOT TE A Oa a autres eigen French and Spanish
Rosemary Hall, Greenwich, Conn.

ee oe eas Mathematics and Physics
ee ee eee Greek and Latin

TS CIS ae Oe ae Mathematics and Geology
Asbury Park High School, Asbury Park, N. Y.

a, Greek and English
Cambridge Latin School, Cambridge, Mass.
THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 15







SDcholarships Received by Members of 1911

Maria L. Eastman BROOKHALL SCHOLAR
Helen Tredway

EuizaABEtTH Duane GILLESPIE History PRIZE

Helen Ramsey
Hilpa Schram

EvuROPEAN FELLOWS

Helen Tredway, 91.621
Marion Crane, 88.3

GrorGE W. Cuiups Essay Prize
Marion Crane

Mary Heten Ritcuie Prize
Marion Crane

GRADUATE SCHOLARSHIPS
Greek—Angela Darkow
Latin—Margaret Doolittle
Chemistry—Helen Tredway
16 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN









HAT a contrast to some of our perfunctory “25 cents fine for non-attendance”

class meetings was the mysterious, melodramatic setting of the first class meeting!

Then our faces had not yet acquired that unmistakable class meeting look,

one of mingled dullness, virtue, and indignation, especially if the day were rainy and the
place of meeting the Gym.

At first our one chief thing was to guard against any appearance of going to a class
meeting at all until wafted there by Lucky Providence in the shape of a Junior. Lots of
“Juniors” came around to see us that first day to tell us confidentially to meet in the cloisters
at six o'clock. They were such pleasant girls, with frank, engaging smiles, but with such
a disconcerting habit of sitting on the 1910 side of the chapel the rest of the year. Then
other Juniors came who told us not to believe anybody or go anywhere but just to wait.

My particular Lucky Providence came late when I had almost given up expecting it,
came with Pleasaunce Baker popping in at the Merion dining room door and beckoning.
[left my soup precipitately, after a hasty apology to the faintly and frigidly amused warden.
After Pleasaunce’s whispered question, “Are you a Freshman?” she gave me directions as
we went up the stairs, then we separated to go different ways.
THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 17

—_———



I opened the door of the middle suite just as Pleasaunce had said, “‘ Not a soul was to be
seen, not a sound to be heard.” I opened the bedroom door, and there, filling the room to
overflowing, piled up on the floor, on the bed, and perched on the bureau, was the first class
meeting.

There were figures familiar and yet strangely unfamiliar. Flo and Anna sat huddled
up in a corner in kimonos, with soap and towels in their hands, just as they had been seized
on their way to the bathroom. Harriet Couch was there in evening dress and cape, with a
gold band in her hair which riveted my attention like something new and strange, although
I had seen it every day for the past year in school.

My climax has to suffer somewhat here for no Sophomore jumped out of the closet or
crawled from under the bed, as Florence Wyman was nominated chairman. Everything
went smoothly, and we elected our chairman, with the usual implicit faith in our Juniors,
though not one of us knew who, what or why Florence was. Somebody opened a window
and a cheer went up from the crowd of Juniors gathered underneath.

The meeting was over, and we all adjourned to the Arch for the singing and cheering
and to meet our new chairman.

Thus was the little account settled between 1909 and 1910. After the words of “Les
Romanesques,” “One first class meeting with variations attempted,” and 1911 was hence-
forth to go calm and undisturbed along the path of regular and uninteresting class meeting.

MARGUERITE LAYTON.
18 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN





Rush Mights

AM commissioned to detail our Rush Nights because until I was a Junior I never took

part in one and so have a calm, judicial opinion of them. Freshman year, I remember

well, we had a wild class meeting when, among other things, we learned to sing with an
appearance of enthusiastically believing it, that “here we came.” The choice of people
to lead the line was another important thing accomplished at that class meeting. Some one
suggested Jeanette and some one else said: “Get up and let’s see you.”” Then Jeanette
arose, inflated her brawny chest, and rolled up her jumper sleeve to show us her muscle;
that was enough—and she and Agnes Wood successfully butted their way through all
obstacles.

Speaking of jumpers—I was ignorant in those days, and when Florence told us we were
to wear “jumpers and short skirts,” I had visions of us in some sort of baby clothes. The
appropriateness of it even made me mad. I was so relieved when Scottie told me a jumper
was a “middy blues.”

Well, that first Rush Night, I hear, was fearfully thrilling, and it accomplished the
purpose it was meant to. It introduced us to 1910 thoroughly, and to 1909 most pleasantly,
and we were not divided.

But the thrill of Sophomore year. It began when we decided to wear Pierrot costumes,
it rose when John Richardson discovered 1912’s tune and Amy and Scottie wrote derisive
words to it,—it reached a climax when behind Radnor we scattered the Freshmen, like so
much astonished chaff, thanks to Schmittie’s correct imitation of a Freshman. I did get
in on some of that Rush Night, for, coming out from town, and entering Denbigh, I heard
Kate Rotan Drinker shout, “No violence! Remember, no violence,” while she pushed
Hoby through the wall with one hand and propelled 1912 along with the other.

A little farther down Elsa was begging us to remember that we had given up violence,
while she deftly hung Delano over the electric light fixtures and helped the Freshman keep
on the key.

When we finally arrived under the Arch, Jeanette and Frances Hearne still locked in a
deadly struggle, Leila “ironing out” any one who came in her way, Virginia acting like a
snow plow through the masses of 1910, the Freshmen had been as it were discounted and
the contention was carried on by those most interested.

As Juniors we had arrived at the point of decrying violence ourselves, with fierceness
THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 19





that dared 1912 to lay hands on one Freshman. Detailed to clear out the halls before the
rush entered, we encountered one persistent party of ghosts which had to be dragged out
by the heels from some room on the ground floor of each hall. The corporealness of their
supposedly spiritual bodies made it stiff work, and we felt justified in bumping them along
the floors as we hauled them forth. Then, too, there was a curious weight, a feeling as of
solidity to their “rushes without violence” at doors of the various halls. If there were any
Freshmen in that rush, I don’t remember them (I suppose there must have been, however),
but the uproar, and the pushing, and the fighting, all so strictly “without violence,”’ were
simply wonderful.

It was with a proud consciousness of our superiority and yet with undignified regret
and open longing that, with satin capes and supercilious smiles, we watched the same old
“rough house” sweep past.

Past! Ominous sound, yet for us there was one thrill left in Rush Night. Our bones
creaking and gray hair waving in the breeze,* we had the satisfaction of taking our places
on the Pem West steps and of starting that first Anassa.

MaRGARET PRUSSING.













*Ig it etiquette to write this way about Senior year
20 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN





Viagra =

Sock =» i; Sah ee

CHloosING ©




HE notices posted on this particular occasion by our secretary did not state that the
business before the meeting was the choice of a class animal. But we all knew not-
withstanding; and our Freshman hearts thrilled with that sensation, possible only

to Freshmen, of being about to do something irretrievable: something by which we, as a
class, would stand or fall in the eyes of the college. All of a sudden, we were roused to
tremendous interest in the fauna of Bryn Mawr and its environs. At least we sought out
such of the fauna as had the misfortune to be coloured green. And all such green animals
we looked up in the encyclopedia, where we discovered the qualities of their inner souls;
also, much information concerning their symbolism in ancient days (as will appear later).
Then, crammed with information and ideas, and crammed also with antagonism bred by
recent controversy at the luncheon table, we betook ourselves to class meeting, ninety
strong.

The nominations took place as they would in any election. The list read as follows:

frog, scarab, chameleon, green dragon, and peacock. After they were closed, I believe that
THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 21







Ruth was on the point of asking the nominees to please withdraw, when she realised the
difficulty involved. Since then, however, I have been told of a class, one of whose members
had the honour of being nominated as class animal. We, however, simply proceeded to
speak for our nominees. Scottie made a fiery and eloquent speech in favour of the frog.
I think most of us know where her ardour for a frog came from. Thus inspired, she spoke
at length of his beauty, grace, and decorative quality. Members of the biology class, how-
ever, thought only of the limp, bony (not to mention odoriferous) creatures that awaited
them with outstretched arms in Dalton; and Scottie did not, so to speak, carry her audience
with her. Then another spoke in favour of the scarab. She reminded us of what a charm-
ing ring it would make, and we were all delighted with the notion until someone vaguely
suggested expense. Imagine dispatching a little order to Egypt of “eighty scarabs for
the Junior Class!”’ ‘“‘Besides,”’ said Scottie, clinching matters, in her snappiest tone, “As
if any one would want to have an embalmed bug for her class animal!’’

As for the chameleon, we dealt with him most scornfully. We recalled his propen-
sity for changing colours; a propensity of which, even in those early days, we felt ourselves
incapable. Then Rosie addressed the chair. She said, both loudly and fervently, that she
thought a green dragon would be beautiful! Again she repeated the remark, with that
intense empressement of which only Rosie is capable. We somehow felt that Rosie must
know a dragon personally; that she must have deep, intimate reason for her feeling about
dragons. We dared not protest. So we passed to the next candidate.

He was mine. Someone had given me two peacock pillows for Christmas, and I couldn’t
help thinking how nice they would look, decorating a class show, or something. Also,
I thought I remembered having seen peacocks in the Catacombs; and behold! the
encyclopedia had revealed to me wondrous facts concerning the elusive bird. After I had
endeavoured to set forth these facts in polished English, the inevitable protest arose. The
peacock was the bird of ill-omen. Oh, well, that was mere superstition, far beneath us
as Bryn Mawr students! And finally it was said that 1911 had a reputation for conceited-
ness (a thing which, by the way, we did not long retain), and that the peacock was the
“symbol of vanity.” Then I played, as I thought, my trump card. Fresh from research

in the reference room, I replied with dignity: ‘‘ Anyone with any education at all would
know that the peacock stood for immortality.”” But then Scottie, who also had been to
the reference room, rose and retorted with fervour: “Anyone with any education at all

y??

would know that the frog stood for inspiration
I relapsed into painful silence. Both of us had perjured our souls, but it would have
22 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN



been a case of the pot’s calling the kettle black, had either one protested. Fortunately
Amy saved the day. She had spent the preceding evening poring over “ Bartlett’s Fami-
liar Quotations.” “It is immortality to die aspiring,” she quoted magnificently; and
our Freshman souls were thrilled. No one else had even thought of a motto. Frog,
scarab, chameleon and dragon now stood forth in all their pitiful, fleshly nudity, in their
hopeless lack of a suitable quotation. We did not then stop to reflect whether we desired to
die, even for the pleasure of doing it aspiringly. We did not consider whether the peacock
had a peculiar tendency toward dying—aspiring, or any other way. We merely voted,
hastily and enthusiastically, and the majority favoured—the peacock.

CATHERINE LYMAN DELANO.
THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 23







OME of those people,—who lacked that subtle something called class-spirit, a thing
which covers all faults and extols all virtues,—have been heard to say that 1911 was
not a singing class.

Now that is manifestly untrue and most wretchedly unfair, for everyone sang, whether
she could keep a tune or not. Especially those who could not. This feeling for the heroic
seemed to urge them on to the most daring attempts to rush the heights of melody quite
unaided by those arbitrary little steps which the over exact have seen fit to include in the
octave and call a scale, No more deadly blow could be dealt a classmate than to request
her not to sing on all occasions. Of course we grant that there were some saints like Hoby and
Leila who would consent to smother their musical emotions for the so-called good of the class;
but this was only on occasions such as when Pallas Athene had to be led out to be
decently murdered, the corpse being properly interred in the cloister. With them the
murder might have approached the indecent. During this operation they were quite for-
bidden to utter a sound, and as result of this stern prohibition spent many a wet morning in
a snug bed bemoaning the bitter fate which decreed that discretion was the better part of
valour, and their slumber more valuable to the community than their song. Oh! this nipping
the bud of rising genius is one of the necessarily hard things of college life. Who knows but
that many of our now muted song-birds might have become Patti’s? I don’t mean chicken
ai la Miller,—but real prima donnas, stirring the hearts and clouding the vision of the en-
tranced audience, with never a sound to cause the spine to quiver or the flesh to creep as
it used to do in those early days of their musical careers when the shattered committee cast
them from the music room with cries for mercy. Oh, who knows but what our Alice or our
Rosie might now have been climbing the steep Wagnerian slopes, balancing easily on the
highest peaks (not shrieks, lest you misquote me) and holding the throbbing attention of
the vast opera house with the “liquid” notes of the Rhine Maidens.
24 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN





It would be hard to place these singers satisfactorily because they could excel in so
many parts. I know Rosie would have made a bully Parsifal; but I’m not quite so sure
about Alice for Kundry. However, she might do the part with real feeling, and thrill the
house as she came crashing down the wild cadences of Wagner’s magic maniac.

But alas these things, which I picture before the ardent members of the most noble class
ever graduated from Bryn Mawr, are only the fleeting visions conjured by a doting classmate
who sees what might have been from out the that which is not. Nothing can be done, for
the time for working such wonders is past. These with others of that vast crop of frosted
blossoms fell withered beneath the bitter blast of ingratitude blowing from off the iceberg
of our class-spirit.

“For goodness sake, don’t sing so loud in the Lantern Song, your flatting puts everyone
off the key,” were the biting words which cut deep at the roots of some truly musical emotions
when the desire to sing was opening the lips of some Freshmen as the Spring sap opens the
petals of the crocuses in the cloister—(a good old classical illusion).

It may thus be stated that it was with the fervour of the early Christian martyrs that
the various music committees worked, sorting and re-sorting the sheep from the goats. In
spite of the most scrupulous care in selection there were some sad mistakes and many a student
who was thought sufficiently white and fleecy of voice to be admitted to the flock of the
chosen few, developed most alarming traits which soon put her into the category of the
refractory members or black sheep, and from there it was but a short step to the limbo of the
goats. In fact, in spite of the game of weighing in the balance, which F. Wyman and B.
Taylor started in music-room G, there were found to be a shocking number of those found
entirely wanting in every musical requirement. Some couldn’t carry a tune wrapped up in
a basket and others were discovered to have no sense of rhythm and could keep the jolliest
waltz time to the most solemn march ever written.

Having mentioned the committee in terms of semi-disparagement—at least, as regarded
their inhumane treatment of the goats,—I feel called upon to give some idea of the results
of their efforts and also of the patience of the mutes.

Dawn hours and wet feet was the lot of the average singer—to that add a petrified
smile, which had to be maintained at all costs, and you get the fate of the musical directors.
They, of course, had to be examples of cheerfulness and early rising. About seven-thirty,—
it should have been quarter past,—a chastened and saddened multitude went beneath the
Arch and proceeded to the library. In this procession worried mutes walked by the sides
of singers and busily tried to remember just which foot came on just which syllable when
THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 25









they stepped out of the cloister door, for it made a vast difference. Often the rhythmic beat-
ing of the tin pan by the fountain and the shuffle and sway of the line overcame their sense
of obedience and caution and they would burst into song, only to be suddenly hushed by the
person behind. On the whole, Lantern Night went off well and the class was very graceful
in its acceptance of compliments on the singing. No one said a word about that galley ser-
vice in the moist morning when we staggered and tottered into the cloister before breakfast
trying to achieve that most difficult of feats, to keep our breath and our balance going down
steps.

In looking back you realise that those were grand days. Our feeling for freedom per-
mitted us to sing any song any way, not caring who wrote it either, how, when, or why. Each
singer felt at liberty to put forth her own interpretation and often there were as many render-
ings as there were girls to rend them, but on the whole the effect was fair and anyone with
a sufficiently wide range of musical knowledge could come somewhere within ten composers
of the song we were singing. For let it be known that our choice was exceedingly varied,
extending from Wagner to Weber and Field.

Now I have spoken only of those dear lost voices, and they were lost, through no fault
of their own. Let us turn for one brief moment to the people who really did the musical
work and rode hard on the outlaws and uncertain members. It was Norvelle Browne who
for two years gave us a clear firm starting note and had voice and faith enough to keep many
people on the key and some people somewhere near the tune. Among these latter ones were
a few staunch adherents, who knew a good thing when they saw it, noticeably Leila, who
would get near enough the air occasionally to strike a fine alto. —

Most of this happened Freshman and early Sophomore year and was in the golden age
of our singing life, when it never dawned on the class that it was not a body collected solely
for the purpose of regaling the campus with song. Then no one was discouraged and
everyone sang.

About the middle of Sophomore year was introduced a regular system of Black Hand,
which kept many of our most lusty members under a sort of vocal cloud from which they
could but occasionally burst forth and could shine only when out in such company either
where it was thought that they could do no damage, or where kind friends could not get at
them to remonstrate more forcibly than by savage glances. By the end of Sophomore
year the reign of terror was having an excellent and most salutary effect on the fractious ones,
and the busy pens, pencils, and brains of Betty, Delano, Mary Frank Case, Amy, P. Rice,
and many others were putting out enough songs to keep the class busy on the athletic field,


26 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN

—_——

while our polite ditties to the upper classes, inspired by some of their illustrious members,
should have ensured us a place on their good books forever.

At the end of Sophomore year the Herculean labour of a song rested quite easily on the
class shoulders and we stood at the foot of Senior steps and sang our returns of 1909’s praise
quite happily. We seemed to give each other confidence singing en masse and had an almost
touching faith in our starter. Toward the end of May the songs took a sadder note and
moist-eyed Sophomores began to count the days before June should scatter the protecting
red class to the four corners of the earth, perhaps never to return.

At last the end came and 1909 ceded the steps to 1910, and the old classes stood shoulder
to shoulder on the ground for their last collective song. Mutes and all broke into “Thou
Gracious” with an astounding vehemence and it was the strength of the rush which carried
the song without a tearful breakdown.

Junior year was one singularly lacking in all musical efforts, save the singing at dinner of
the May Day songs in which 1911 merely followed the lead of 1910. It was fortunate for us that
little was required for we had lost so many voices that we needed time to recover and to develop
another leader. What we lacked in song we tried to make up in dignity—but it is a question
as to how we succeeded.

In the course of time we were given the steps and we did manage to get up without
mishap. I suppose every class that takes the steps for the first time feels as though it had
stolen something and been taken red-handed; but in spite of emotion we did start “Thou
Gracious” and were for the first time full-fledged singing Seniors.

In the Fall of 1910 anyone coming on the campus about half past seven would have heard
a “sound of voices,’”—but—it was not around the psalmist’s crystal sea, and if it had been
I am sure those “harpers harping on their harps” would have thrown down the instruments
along with their heavenly crowns and beaten a hasty retreat from the scene of confusion.
The sound produced was wonderful and fearful. The curious may want to know what I’m
driving at—well it’s 1911’s Senior singing, and that is something that won’t be driven and
can’t be led. There was the class gathered on Taylor steps in all stages and kinds of attire,
fighting merrily over and around the patient form of Pinkey who had been made leader—
a position much like the one of the person who blacks his face, sticks it through a hole in a
canvas and dodges the ball of the ardent pleasure-seeker who aims to hit the nigger-baby,
and thus get a good cigar—well it was a toss-up between Pinkey and the other fellow. There
she sat in medias res ducking her patient head and waiting for the storm to pass. From the
description it may be gathered that Amy was not there. Each girl had a request for a song






THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 27





and no two were of the same mind. Some shouted fiercely for the Denbigh opera, some for
“Bi” chorus, while Esther and other soulful ones, P. Rice among them, insisted gently but
firmly on J’ai Perdu. It was usually decided by mob majority and the lower classes’
calling for Hellie Henderson and Pinkey to do the Helen and Menealaus. These would
follow another embarrassed storm of protest from the “Titian Terrors” which was joined in
by the Seniors pro and con and in the course of time the duet was evolved, the effects being
varied by a few coughs and giggles ending in choking laughter. This of course was not the
solemn and awe-inspiring function that it should have been, nor was it always a riot. There
were many nights when no one fought with Scottie and when the class sang even though with
much true feeling and a good measure of real success. Such evenings were the redeeming
features and went toward the making of a very fine singing average for the class of 1911.

Of course, a few fractious mutes and people like M. Smith who knew thoroughly every
third word in a song, helped to bring down the average, but, considering the drawbacks and
the scarcity of voices, the Senior class did creditably in its vocal performance.

MArGERY SMITH.
28 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN




























































or “fQot Pulgar, But—”’

HE Freshman Show was our first colossal break; there had been plenty of lesser

breaks before, but they all led up to this one great never-to-be-forgotten climax.

I can well remember the class meeting in the gym when Pruss read us the manuscript
of the show, and how we listened complacently to it, finding nothing unusual in the setting
of the first scene or in the open hits at our respected faculty. I remember that I objected to
asking the age of the President and was almost reduced to tears by the scornful words of
Hoby, Ruth Vickery, Prussie and several other dignified people. Aside from little details like
this we were satisfied. It was evident from the beginning that Providence willed that I alone
should be responsible for that first scene, for my companions on the Scenery Committee
were laid low at the crucial moment, Dottie Thayer with appendicitis, Hoffie with water
on the knee. HowI laboured with Mr. Abernathy about those miserable doors for the
first scene! He couldn’t understand why we wanted so many and why they should be of
that particular kind. Finally he said “Oh, yes, they are to be tavern doors, aren’t they?”
THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 29



We left it at that, as I really couldn’t explain any further, but he must have thought we were
going to give a pretty gay show with four tavern doors in it.

It is almost beyond comprehension that we never suspected that anything was wrong
even after our Senior friend in the gallery had announced in clarion tones that the scene
shifters were “disgusting fools,” and Frances Browne, in a sort of last agony of despair
had made us remove the sign “Well of Mimir C. T.”’ from the stage. We threw all our
young energies into the show and thought we were doing ourselves proud. But not long
afterwards our eyes were opened and we realised the worst. I always thought that the
criticism of the show in the Tip was worded with wonderful skill. Practically all it said
was that the play had the great merit of ending better than it began. What a mixture
of truth and caution that statement is; it can be interpreted any way you want to take
it and still not lay the writer open to the charge of having said anything definite. But in
spite of its failings our Freshman show was funny; in looking back I think it was one of
the funniest things that ever happened to us. Besides this, it has been useful as a model of
what a Freshman show should not be, and so we can be sure that its glory will never be
lessened by unworthy rivals, but that it will go down to fame in lonely splendour. And
if, as our Senior song says:

“We came to startle fair Bryn Mawr
With things she’d never seen,”

we certainly fulfilled our purpose and set a high standard for the rest of our career.

Leita HouGHre.ina.
30 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN





‘ |
a » *
2
—





Y

y



Ss SON So -
SESS,”

Ss

WE S
SS

SAAN
WS :





Y subject was suggested to me one hectic day last April. It was the week before
1911’s farewell appearance on the boards—Peggy and I were at the Tea-house
dejectedly eating milk-toast. We had spent the morning showing the scenery man

how to turn Media’s palace into the Petkoff’s cottage, and the afternoon selecting Bulgarian
uniforms from Van Horn’s supply of American military costumes.

“Scottie has written something for the Class Book about 1911 Behind the Footlights,”
Peg volunteered. I looked up from my bunch of lists—so much derided by Leila—and
grunted,

. “You and I had better write about 1911 Behind the Scenes.”

So we arranged, in order that the article might be full of feeling, to write it while we
partook, according to our immemorial custom, of a common* Tea-house meal on the night of
the performance. For some reason, however, we were a little hurried that evening,—I
think that Mr. Skelley had forgotten to send the chairs over to the Gym,—and we put off
this important duty until after the press of Finals and Commencement. But Peggy, if



*1. e., Common in its original sense of side-by-side. Far be it from me to suggest anything less laudatory of a Tea-house supper.
THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 31





you please, dashed, diploma in hand, from the Gym platform to the Broadway stage, and
I found myself left alone behind the scenes.

Then I considered asking Catherine to help. She really knows a lot more about it
than I do. Only I am afraid that she is disqualified. She has won her orchids behind the
footlights. My only dramatic hit I made behind the scenes, when I charmed the ears of my
audience by a tuneful serenade. Moreover, Catherine in non-dramatic fields has issued
beyond the background and stood majestically and effectively in the public eye. While
I—well, everyone knows my modest, shrinking nature. I remember that when Amy
asked me to serve ice cream at our Senior reception, I thought, here at last is my chance
to come forth into the arena. So, adorned in my new hobble, I strutted carefully to the
Gym, only to discover the bitter fact that my station was on the back stairs, half way
between the festive table and the base of supplies. Up and down that ladder-like ascent
I toiled, my train tucked up over one arm,—you all realise, of course, how becoming that
is when the skirt is narrow and attached to the petticoat,—up and down, between Gym
Jennie and Dotty and Virginia.

Since then I have known my place and have stayed discreetly behind the scenes. Leila,
who has always shown a kind solicitude for my soul’s welfare, once thought it might be won
better, if I were to remain under the scenes. This she attempted to accomplish at the dress
rehearsal of Arms and the Man, by heaving the heaviest flapper-wing at me and pinning me
down securely under the weight of an oak forest and a stone wall. Had not Pruss wanted
the whole of the stage for her company, Leila’s philanthropic endeavour would have proved
completely successful.

In point of fact I began my dramatic career under the stage, partly because in the old
Gym it was the only spot where the stage manager could find a resting place, and partly
because I had to make my immortal address to Everyfreshman up through the anathematised
well. There I caught Ellen Pottberg when she made her exit with that remarkable ease
and grace which the old stage facilitated. There it was that I extricated from her gray
pencil case Scottie, kicking and screaming in convulsions of laughter, while I listened to
Mary Frank’s sobs as I rolled the mangled pieces of her handiwork out into the open. Oh,
that was a merry day! Down in the swimming pool H. P. as mistress of the robes rescued
the Lobsters from a watery grave, and up in the Gym, Leila and her sturdy band set the
stage amidst the thundering jeers of 1908 and the piteous entreaties of 1909. Some think
that 1911 made the sensation of its life after the curtain went up. I believe that glorious
moment was before.
32 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN





Sophomore year the scene shifters, led by Peggy and Catherine, sought pastures new.
The stage was reared at the non-pulpit end of the Chapel.

“We made up in the Interview Room
And costumed in the Hall.”

Never was Taylor so desecrated before. We are therefore not surprised to find the same
class, in their Senior year, led by the intrepid members of the English Club, inviting Mr.
Hadfield to render Kipling from the pulpit and to arrange his rouge pots and powder puffs
on the altar of the first president. That performance resulted disastrously, for on the ensuing
Sunday night the Bible was found to have vanished mysteriously, and Dr. Barton and I
were forced to make an agonised search for it while Catherine held the minister in sweet
conversation. We were just on the point of wiring Mr. Hadfield But I am straying
from my story. As Sophomores our impiety met with less frightful consequences. It is
true that only one person at a time could shift scenery without falling into the laps of the
faculty, and 1912’s themes were in danger of being made up more rapidly than the English
Department had bargained for, but bruises soon heal and the odours of even spirit-glue can
be dissipated by gardenias.

Then came His Excellency and the new stage and the real green-room. Such luxury
enabled our energy to manifest itself in a new direction. Catherine transformed Indian
clubs into the hoofs of an orderly’s charger, and Scottie and I displayed our recently acquired
knowledge of physics in the manipulation of a telephone.

Junior year was a study in dramatics sans stage, sans scenery, sans play, sans rehear-
sals, sans all the essentials and accompaniments of the art. Nevertheless Rock produced
an eroplane; Pem, an aurora borealis; and Denbigh, a flock.

Senior year introduced Shaw and Shots. We used caps for Press Cuttings with the
result that I was deaf for a week. When Peg told me that I’d have to be the fusillade in
Arms and the Man, I nearly wept. Instead I procured a pistol from Van Horn. It kicked
at the dress rehearsal. Scottie and Hoff got no cues—or at least none at the right time—
and I shot Pruss in the leg. So next day I went to the Oracle. I had to wait until the
President had finished consulting it on the subject of the new paint on the lamp-posts.
But its answer was not cryptic. It simply lent me its own gun. With pride I sat me down
on the Gym steps and rehearsed the fusillade once, twice, thrice, again and yet again until
I was forcibly stopped by a message from the Deanery inquiring whether interclass feuds






THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 33

————_—_—_—_—_—_—_========_====





had taken the place of hazing or whether we were merely collecting statistics for use in our
Peace Essays. Nevertheless that night I did not miss my cues.

Later in the evening, when I rang the curtain down with the same little bell that had
rung it up on Everyfreshman, and Catherine closed her prompter’s copy, and the class
gathered rapturously around Peg and her all star company, I decided that though less bril-
liant and esthetic than the activities before the scenes, no less varied and thrilling were the
activities behind.

MARGARET JEFFERYS HOBART.
34 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN







a







Y first recollections are naturally, in general, of the old Gym, and particularly of my
entrance examinations. I remember most distinctly, not my first examination,
but that fateful day when I essayed to write my entrance English paper—on Edmund

Burke. It was not a day to be forgotten. It was a stormy afternoon, with the rain dashing
in through the swinging windows, and it was five years since I had read Burke’s Conciliation.
Moreover, I was struck at once by the incongruous juxtaposition of Miss Donnelly and the
parallel bars. It was a triumph of intuition, but there is nothing like English, especially
entrance English, for sharpening the wits.

The intervening time is blotted out between that effort and the day when I was guided
into the maze of little upstairs offices for physical examination, heart-and-lungs, and vaccina-
tion. The three operations as they were there and then performed are blurred together
in my mind, and I cannot remember for how much of the time I sat amazed in a toga.

Then there was that day of trials, the day when I struggled over the horse and manip-
ulated a wand under the inquiring eye of Miss Applebee, who thereupon put me in B,
light and heavy, with hopes of my improvement. There was ever that peculiarity
about my gymnastic situation; always there were hopes of me. I was strong and willing,
and, as Miss Applebee continued to remark, looked as if I had sense. Miss Applebee’s
THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 35







remarks might confer an invidious distinction, but they were precious to me. Word was
always being passed, “If she yells at you, it’s because you’re worth noticing.’ In those
days I hardly knew which to aim for: to be yelled at, or to be worth noticing. It was
after long determination on the latter alternative, backed up by my looks, that I got into
the gym contest. I think we all felt the strain of that occasion. I can see us now, as we
sat rigid between acts, hotly conscious of our hands and feet. It has never been so hot,
before or since, as in that week of our Freshman gym contest. As for the acts themselves,
will there ever be misery to match that miserable moment when you found your wand up
while everybody else was lunging to the right, and the whole class disgraced and defeated
because of you? Miss Ward met me next day with a solicitous inquiry after my health.
“T don’t think,” said she, “that you ought to go in for those gym contests. Your face was too
red yesterday.” Alas for 1911 and vaulting ambitions, her solicitude came too late. True,
we did win next year, but that was merely in spite of me. My face, I dare swear, was no
whit less red, but even as a Sophomore, I could not sacrifice my personal aspirations to the
common good, nor could I ascend with H. P. to that summit of indifference, not to say scorn,
from which she regarded all athletic prowess. But burning desire stood me in no stead.
To the last I might hold up my head with the English sharks outside the Gym, only to be
diminished and brought to the dust by my own Indian club within. In the old days, Miss
Applebee would bring Jack Morris or Frances Browne, into well-deserved prominence before
the Freshman. “Now then, Self-Gov.” she would say, “let’s see what you can do.” But
never once in the year 1911 did she threaten with obloquy our sacred institution. Miss
Applebee is not without the quality of mercy.

There was a season when we were equal, high and low, when Margaret Doolittle could
no longer point a finger of scorn from the top of the ropes, nor Willie twirl Indian clubs
derisively. When first we came back as Sophomores the old Gym with its familiar red brick
walls over the bulging front of the swimming pool had disappeared, and in its place was the
new Gym, with its fresh stonework, looking from Senior Row like the fairy metamorphosis
of some medizval castle. Its finishing, promised and repromised, was delayed until long
after Christmas, but Miss Applebee inexorably demanded the registration of heavy exercise.
Main Line inhabitants must have been constantly fighting off the fear of an hypothetical
fire, for the countryside was fairly infested by running students, girls in strange clothes,
with flying hair, who ran not as the mood might take them,—sporadically and for the pure
joy of living,—but doggedly, desperately, for thirty-minute periods. I remember—and
the joke is long since time-honoured among my friends—I remember once protesting to
36 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN





Pat Murphy, as we toiled together up the long incline past Miss Wright’s School: “Oh,
Pat—even horses don’t run up hill.” Pat, pounding on ahead, grudging every extra
breath, flung back her answer: “Horses,” she panted, “don’t have to register exercise.”
But for a steady pacer, commend me to Esther Cornell. One rough cart path, off Robert’s
Road, is indelibly impressed on my memory by the pains with which, upon one occasion,
I followed the indefatigable Esther. Once, to save my life, I sat down, but Esther went on
running, round and around me. However, fear of fat was ever an added goad to little
Esther. People who excelled in such exercises,—again the green monster gnawed at my
vitals—did stunts in the corridors after 10.30, agonising the proctorial conscience by a
protracted series of thumps. So we bided our time until that afternoon when Miss Thomas
and Miss Garrett watched the whole student body swing dumb-bells in the new Gym without
pounding itself.

It was in Senior year that I took seriously to fencing. Higgie was my first partner.
Higgie and I agreed that it gave us an agreeable medieval, or crusading, kind of feeling,
even though the chief command was, in Miss Applebee’s best tone, ““Szt down on your hind
legs.”” After all, there was the grand salute, with Ginger looking so handsome over your
shoulder as you did “‘sa-lute on the left.” I never got beyond dubious intentions as one
does in fancy dancing. “Better go into it, Crane,” urged Miss Applebee. “You need it.”
In that very first class, however, they did one thing with their arms and another with their
legs, and even the sight of Leila, valiantly effecting the combination, could not bring me back.

Light B was after all the emotion for Juniors and Seniors. You had then of necessity
laid away ambition as far as gym contests were concerned. You came with all your most
especial friends, added to three-fourths of the College, on Friday afternoon at 5.30. Miss
Gray gave you impossible Swedish exercises which nobody but her own fair self could do.
Or else Miss Applebee officiated. It was in Light B that Miss Applebee’s genius fairly
carried you off your feet. You lay on the floor, in the throes of inextinguishable laughter
as you regarded the uplifted legs of half the college, while your own collapsed with a con-
spicuous thud. Or you watched the most accomplished athletes and the most beautiful
girls succumb in the midst of a terrible heels-raise-knees-bend-legs-sideways-stretch com-
bination. Oh, but it was in Light B that we were idealists. And at the end, just to bring
you back to earth, as it were, you did a dance, a gorgeous peasant dance with three claps
and two bows and three steps forward—a dance suited to the brains of the most thick-
headed of English sharks.

I have always thought that my proficiency in Light B and kindred pursuits was the
THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 37



cause of the following effect: Two weeks before the last possible gym class of Senior year
I was fifteen periods on the black list; I went astray at the very beginning of the first semester
when Miss Applebee and Miss Taylor instituted a complicated system of registration whereby
you could do four periods of gym every week and still get on the black list by geometrical
progression. Scottie had eighteen periods to do. I won’t try to explain her situation.
Be that as it may, we appeared together at everything, and ended our so devised athletic
careers side by side. Thereupon Scottie approached me, “I want you,” said she, “to do
Gym for the Class-Book.”

Marion D. CRANE.


38 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN
















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BR "haw

N looking back over our four years’ brilliant career, we don’t seem to be struck with
the realisation of many breaks on 1911’s part. We arrive at the conclusion, many as
have been our failings, a lack of conformity to etiquette and traditions was not one of

them. 1911 in this respect was not a record-breaking class.

This was due, no doubt, to the excellent training given us by 1909 and 1910, and in part
to our natural docility and our capacity for the hasty cramming of yards of red tape. I
have often wondered how many sleepless nights Ruth Vickery and Amy must have spent
in learning by rote not only all of “Robert’s Rules of Order” but also the mighty bulk of
traditions to be poured, next class meeting, into our surprised and unwilling ears. Heard
protestingly they were, however meekly put into practice, but somehow we seemed to
get along with no great amount of trouble.

Of course, we were branded “fresh” during all the fall of our first year by 1910, but
what Freshman class has ever been able to evade this opprobrious adjective?

Our great social error, the echoes of which still ring faintly in the annals of the college,
was our Freshman Show. “Not vulgar—but!”’ Miss Thomas thus condemned it in chapel,
and for weeks it was barely mentioned. It was, perhaps, a bit outspoken, but 1911 loved
it tenderly then and still recalls its rebuffed first-born with affection.

Later in the spring we planned another little surprise for our upper classmen who had
taken our ‘‘ Melody in F”’ a bit humourously.




THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 39





Do you remember the first time we changed our class song? We had practised “O, The
Sunny Days of Youth” until the inmates of Pem East thought we were entering upon our
second childhood. At last one evening when “1911 Class Song” was called from Senior
Steps, we formed a solid Freshman phalanx and began. ‘‘O, The Sunny Days of Youth,”
we caroled lustily, then something happened. Like water falling from a great height, our
song broke into a thousand parts and each alone and unsupported vanished, as a drop of
water, into silence. The hitherto suppressed merriment of the multitude burst into a mighty
laugh, which, with our own deep humiliation, is forever fixed in the memory of those of us
who took part in this, our saddest vocal break.

Then, in Sophomore year Rush Night, was, we confess, rather rough. It is presumed
that we broke through the Freshman line, but it is a question whether that break belongs
in this catalogue. It was perhaps a near-break, no more.

This long article is at length justified when it records almost the final episode in our
career. Safely steered through the channels of traditions, and guided through the mazes
of red tape, at the end of our voyage we crashed upon treacherous rocks, unforeseen by even
Amy. Was it because it was our last chance to show our supremacy as Seniors that we should
dictate how many verses of class song the Alumne should sing? Or was it in defiance of
the august chapel choir which has recently demanded that no verse shall ever be omitted?
Or was it to make the revered Alumne feel that they were still Upper Classmen and we
Freshmen longing to make breaks?

Certainly I shall never forget the break we made into 1901’s and subsequent class songs
(even 1909’s, though we blush to record it) with our lusty Anassa. We hesitate to call
this a break, such a complete disruption of traditional etiquette it was, yet what secret joy
we took in it! There certainly were no Upper Classmen to reprove us; we were Seniors.

Even break privileges we could rightfully assume.
Puyuus Rice,

Ruta F. Tanner,
Mary A. WILLIAMS.
40 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN





This ought to be

Freshman Class Supper



UT I never wrote anything funny in my life you wail; and yet the cruel editor of
the class book who is probably one of the wits of the ‘class and has made funny
speeches on every occasion when they could be made and on some when she thought

she was being serious,* only smiles blandly, answering, “Oh, mine’s perfectly flat. Just
write anything and send it in by—’’ Let’s not mention the date, it’s so long passed before
you get the ambition to attempt the impossible. Then after a while you do spoil some
potentially pleasant morning being funny, but somehow your own jokes are too feeble and
you don’t think a class book article can be constructed like a speech—a collection of old
favorites, e. g., ““a woman, generally speaking, is generally speaking,” unified by “that
reminds me,” so you throw away your first attempt and wait until the gentle editor writes to
you that someone else has designed a beautiful heading for your article on “ Freshman Class
Supper,” let us say, and so because you don’t want the artist’s work to go unlabeled, you
sit down again to write that article.

There are two subjects tabooed by the Harvard English Department (and doubtless by
the same department at Johns Hopkins)—‘The Squirrels” and “ Why I hate to write daily
themes.”” Of course they ought to be tabooed, but what can you do when you remember
nothing about the subject assigned, but, say like Isabelle Miller, “I don’t know that question
but Pll answer another about the same length”? At any rate that’s the explanation of this
long preface to nothing at all, for as an honest fact that first class supper is as hazy in my
mind as the first week of college. I confusedly remember a feeling of expectation and of

importance as a class, and the only incidents I can recall are wearing the first dress I ever
had without a high neck and singing:

“* Nineteen eleven is the Stuff.”

* Leila and E., I cannot decide for which of us this is meant, but we are not eager. Take your choice.—Ed.

Frances Porter.


THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 4!



me













OONER or later every daughter of Eve has to leave Paradise. The particular brand
of fruit which sent us forth was General English. A “passed” in the entrance exami-
nations, and President Thomas’ cautious inquiries as to our mental ripeness, should have

warned us, but secure in the vague assurance that we had “always been good in English”
we insisted on sampling the course.

For the first month we handed in careless little themes about the campus and our ulti-
mate aim in life, and consumed quantities of Beowulf and listened to hazy lectures on
Eddas, and then came the quiz. The questions on the paper looked so guileless that we
answered them in a manner suggested by our native common sense, and went on to our other
concerns. Not until some days later was it announced that over half the class had failed.

Startled out of our youthful complacency, we questioned with mingled suspicion and
admiration those of our numbers who had not failed. A high prize, they shamefacedly
reported, appeared to have been set on the confession that “Beowulf awakened primordial
and hitherto unsuspected racial affinities in one’s breast,” and a statement that the baying
ad

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ae THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN





of one Garm was strongly reminiscent of certain strains in Siegfried was accorded an approv-
ing “good.” Quite clearly was it borne in upon us that the fortunate originators of these
aberrations of thought must have been inspired by something more potent than common
sense. And with no less clearness did we see the immediate necessity of adding that “some-
thing” to our mental equipment. Little did we dream that the quest of this talent was to
drive us from our Eden, occupy our every every waking hour, and drain our gladdest moments
of their pleasure.

We may as well proceed at once to a frank discussion of our trouble. Technically
speaking, we had no “souls,”’ at least the majority of us had none, and as it later transpired
even the admirers of Garm and Beowulf possessed at that time only the most rudimentary
sort.

Now, there may be those who claim they never set out upon this quest, never soiled their
““wholesome and hearty natures” with a “‘soul,’”’ but we would remind them that in spite
of much “looking heavenward,”’ tennis playing, ‘‘church work” and the like, they did acquire
enough soul to graduate with the rest of the class. In justice to them, however, be it said
that they have since made great progress in removing all traces of the painful acquisition.

The rest of us, however, led by the survivours of the first quiz, made it our chief business
to gain some soul before the next period of trial. Bungling methods and a somewhat vague
comprehension of the ulterior aim led at first to discouraging results. Mindful of Garm’s
unsuspected worth, we reversed our first plan, and mentioned with enthusiasm everything
which had struck us as queer or unnatural. As a result we gained some credit for originality,
but our sincerity, and even our intelligence, was suspected. In despair we sought to preserve
both originality and sincerity by a sweeping condemnation of the material presented for
our discussion, only to call down upon our heads reproaches for the utter lack of historical
and critical perspective.

At the time it dawned upon us that for theme writing also a “soul” was required.
Faithful accounts of childhood days and accurate descriptions of one’s mates gained no
approval from the reader who had asked for a reminiscense or a character sketch. We were
told in interviews that neither life nor literature seemed to have made any impression upon
us, and were asked why we didn’t “re-act” a truthful picture of stirring memories. Then
in a flash we understood we were to study ourselves, watch how things affected us, classify
and arrange our feelings.

At first we felt a bit delicate about starting such an investigation, a bit reluctant to
unearth the secrets of our psychology. But all too soon we succumbed to the fascination
THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 43



of the game. If one were alert, something new might be discovered every hour. In the
intervals between cheering at a water polo game one reflected deeply on the amphibious
origin of man, or during a hockey game, wondered whether a brute display of strength was
included in the modern ideal of womanhood. Both these ideas proved valuable for daily
themes, but infinitely more valuable for soul culture was the study of our literary sensations,
sensations arising from the perusal of great literature rather than from our own painful
compositions. Perhaps the most accurate method of registering the pulse of literary emo-
tion was to read a book through rapidly enough to provoke interest, and, pencil in hand,
to note down the places where any slight thrill of pleasure or disgust had been experienced.
Such incidents, somewhat seasoned, would then be ready for use in the next examination.
Any occasional contingency which then arose was disposed of from our general fund of soul.
For example, if uncertain as to the exact meaning of Swinburne’s Hertha we would say,
“it approached the condition of music,” and let it go at that. Or again, when we seemed put
off by the manifest immorality of Congreve, we would cut the knot by dogmatically declar-
ing that “‘imagination is the highest instrument for moral good.”’ By dint of such artifices
we all acquired enough soul to pass First and Second Year Literature and Composition.

When that had been accomplished the soul had become a permanent possession, some-
thing to dog our future steps from henceforth as relentlessly as we had hitherto pursued it.
Indeed, like Eve, we had lost our early self-unconsciousness in the attempt to search for
self-knowledge. And perhaps, after all, we should not have complained of our bargain if
there had never been a General Culture examination. Before sending us forth into the world,
the faculty saw fit to entice us into an expression of our philosophical, scientific, and literary
convictions. Our response to this congenial task was many pages of blue book bearing quite
distinctly the impress of the soul.

Months afterwards from an English tribunal came the death sentence, “frankly senti-
mental.”

Ruta WELLS.
44 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN







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(Sentior CLass SuPPER)

‘WAS really going to write a very funny speech. It wasn’t
that I wanted to. What I wanted to do was to be sen-
timental and sweet, and talk about what an exceptionally

nice class we are, and how much I love you all, and all that;

and especially bringing out that there never was such a class,
such a beautiful, clever, congenial, good-looking, interesting,
charming, lovable, dignified, totally perfect class. Some

! people might think that was funny, but, of course, we don’t—

we know that’s all right. Only I know that isn’t the thing to talk about, so, as I say, I
meant to write a very funny speech. Unfortunately I got dragged into a Canfield game
this afternoon quite against my will—and, as anyone might know, one can’t do anything
else while Pinkie is playing Canfield. Have you ever heard her? “Girls, girls, I am so
depressed—IJ can’t tell you how depressed I am—Oh here—this is too much, someone has
been imposing on the better side of my nature. I’ve got two queens of spades!” That’s a
mere sample. You might think she’d be ashamed of having two queens of spades, but she
has a wonderful way of blaming it on some one else. In the meantime, I was doing my
best to get a joke here and there, and finally Gordon said she had seen an awfully jolly
thing in Punch this morning. However, she couldn’t remember what it was—only it was
something about the coronation. I give you that on faith.
THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 45





I told Delano I couldn’t say anything funny about being a Freshman, and she said she
knew I could, because she had heard me say it a hundred times. That wasn’t very encourag-
ing. She said—all that about our being brought up better than any class since. That’s
perfectly true. Under the severe but beneficial influence of 1908 we were certainly reared
with a proper sense of the importance of Bryn Mawr, and the utter insignificance of us.
But that simply is harking back to what an adorable class we are now, and I must keep away
from that. Really, though, didn’t it make you furious last year, to hear 1910’s Senior song
about how they brought us up and how they were responsible for our good manners—when
we all know perfectly well that they—poor helpless dears—were as much under 1908’s iron
thumb as we were. And then that about 1912—how they “couldn’t improve on them.” 1911,
that delusion of theirs left the whole matter on our shoulders, and, do you know, I sometimes
have a sinking feeling that we never quite lived up to that responsibility? It was only this
morning, as Delano and I, mere Seniors with nothing but leisure on our hands, watched a
prominent member of the Class of 1912 do a restrained but forceful Marathon across the
campus—I really felt it then—that we had not given other classes the advantages that we
had had ourselves, and—that it was too late.

But this about being Freshmen. I was very thoroughly a Freshman, I haven’t been any-
thing so thoroughly since, till I became a Senior, but now I am just Senior all over—I can
hardly put myself back. I remember, though, that I was a loving child, I loved all 1908,
and all 1909, and all 1910. That was probably because it never occurred to me that they
would ever all come back at once. Now, I know that the sort of thing Delano wants me to
talk about is how Amy and I good-naturedly started Anassa all through a varsity game,
being egged on by the unforgivable Georgina—our own Junior, mind you! But all that
is a great deal too painful—I would much rather talk about how important I have been this
year—for I have had my important moments, though I fear Leila has got ahead of me
pretty often. And what does it matter anyway? Now we can start Anassa all we like,
and a good deal oftener. It keeps us cheering all the time trying to give a hearty welcome
to all our dear guests. If I seem bitter, it is just the relief—this is the first time I have been
able to talk without having Alumne round for ten days. I suppose Alumne are really
enjoying reunions with long-lost friends. But I always feel that they have all been in hiding
together somewhere, waiting to crush in as a crowd, just at the end of our Senior year, when
we having nothing else to do but cheer them.

As for Freshman year—Oh why do I have to talk about this anyway? What I want to
talk about is to ask you whether you think the caterer will be able to use our new mausoleum
46 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN





to serve the garden party refreshments on or not. It’s roomy, of course, but I shouldn’t say
it was handily arranged. And then—do you think when we all die and are buried on the
campus we will like to have separate vaults, or shall we be arranged in mortuary chapels
according to our groups? Can’t you see Cranie and Delano and me in a neat little one?
—and Prussie and Roz would each have one to herself, but, oh, my word! fancy the History
and Polecon group! Theirs would be a regular morgue.

Well, as to Freshman days—but, honestly, have you ever seen anything like the com-
mencement presents? Virginia has one neat, blue silk cage of a peculiar shape, which doesn’t
open and doesn’t smell—I have wasted hours shaking the thing mournfully, trying to find
out what it can be for. But I don’t know yet. But now Hobie has us all beaten. Have
you seen her latest? She was ecstatic when it arrived this afternoon, and I watched her
open the wooden box, and look elated as she saw the name on the card. And then she drew
out—no, I don’t know what they were. They were made of excellent but somewhat battered
mahogany, and had evidently been sawed off the piano legs. They were in the shape of
scrolls—quite lovely scrolls—just two of them—unattached, unexplained, and solid. Now
for a really tasteful and handy gift for a young girl, how could you do better? I’m going
right home and examine the parlour decorations to see if there isn’t some little extra ornament
that I can remove, to brighten some girl’s life with. But you know what commencement
presents are like, and we all have some queer ones of our own. I’m too sensitive about mine
to discuss them.

However, as to being Freshmen. Well, you know what we were like in Merion. If
you ever passed by one of those bare rooms, with nothing much in sight but a table, on which
were some unwashed cups—relics of last night’s smuggled chocolate orgy or last week’s
M. C. O., as the case might be, and a few packs of cards, and Dinkey, and perhaps a few
books on good manners, and then usually one or the other or both of Roz’s red bedroom
slippers kicking about—well, you saw a fairly complete commentary on our daily life. And
then the awful nights of cramming. Shall I ever forget Hellie, rolled in an irresponsible
ball on the floor, mixed up with a down quilt, and Iola in a dainty retiring robe—they were
much like our mere nightgowns, but you felt that there was a difference—murmuring
sweetly that she must wait a few minutes till she could see out of her eyes. Which, when
you come to think of it, was not an unreasonable request.

Well, you know the rest. 191 1 gave a shocking bad show, of which we were the most
shocking bad part. I refuse to discuss that show again. And then parties. Why, of
course, we had highly hilarious and wild midnight parties, mostly smuggled chocolate—
si THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 47





and did all the foolish things a Freshman can do, and, I may say with modest pride, a great
many more ingenious things than Freshmen nowadays seem to be able to do. And it was
all extremely pleasant, while it lasted. But now—Oh now, of course, I have got to the point
where I go on parties with just H. P. and Miss King in the cloisters, and she reads poetry
till it’s dark, and then I ingenuously but takingly ask her what Heaven will be like. I
really do, you know. I would quite surprise you. In fact, I surprise myself.

But I am running on interminably, with a heart full of good will, and with not one joke.
I’m so sorry. And I feel that I am growing sentimental again, so I had better stop at once.
Here’s to the Freshman days of 1911.

Marion Sturcess Scort.
48 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN



1912 Couchant, 1911 Rampant

or

wow Wie Rid the College of an

GInjurious Custom

ss COLD, stinging ecstasy,’’ followed by a “slow,
A warm purification.” These words, applied
by a revered instructor to those (you see I

lived in Merion) daily concessions to public opinion,
C, hot and cold tubs, apply with equal cogency to
1911’s hazing of 1912. An ecstasy it certainly was

for us to find ourselves with a class below—we who

for a year had been trodden under the iron heel of seniorial oppression—suppression,
depression, whatever you choose to call it. The last term, if I remember, was chiefly
descriptive of our side of the affair—the imprint of the heel, so to speak. To return—we
meant to be stinging—to 1912, and no one will deny the chillsomeness of college corridors
in the late hours of the night. So much for the first part. There was a pause of afew days.
Then it appeared that somehow we had done that hazing so completely that in the minds
of some people the job seemed completed for life. To be sure, we had attained to no
heights such as “’11 in pants.” We had simply and logically utilised the advantages which
nature had given us, of tubs, basement, etc., with a proper regard for the life, limbs (excuse
me, Iola, the “portion below the knee”), and property of our victims. _ Hoby had
unwittingly voiced what was to be the general opinion as she stood, on the night itself,
at the bedside of a newly awakened Freshman. The aforesaid Freshman, on opening her
eyes and beholding the impressive figures in front of her had gasped out: ‘Oh, how
wonderful you are,’’—to which Hoby intoned the grim reply: ‘No, we are not wonderful,
we are ter-ri-ble.”” And apparently we had been, terrible. Most people seemed to think
we had. So then came the purification. Of course it was slow, in accordance with the
dignity of B. M.S. A. for S. G. And various people from Rock and West assured me that
“warm” was a pale word for it. 1911 stood rebuked, and tried to forget about it. We






THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 49







succeeded for a while. But in the minds of those in command the impression seemed
to linger, and at last in the spring, after several hotly argued Self-Gov meetings, hazing was
abolished. The place of comment is not here. But whatever our sentiments as to the
rights of the case, I don’t think anyone in 1911 would surrender the memory of the time we
hazed 1912, or the glory of being the most thorough hazers the college had ever known.
By the time that we could speak carelessly and with dignity of “Sophomore year,” we
began to think, somehow, that “there were giants in those days.”’

Amy MoreHEAD WALKER.


50 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN


















/ : A? yf 4
SONG
vot x SES Sere Wk x SS Nx

Baise Kx, SOON





, — [| — ji ja!
ae

a ie = ua i

AV

s CLOISTERED
cir



(Sentor Ciass SUPPER)

Secure within these cloistered walls and far from all riff-raff,

I wonder if you ever ask, “ How lives the other half?”

When your alarm clock tinkles do you ever think of those

Who board the morning milk train, while above a pale moon glows?
It is a hard, unlovely life but has its compensation,

We feel we do a noble work dispensing education;

Though it makes you rather nervous to feel a sooty eye

Is glued in fascination to the mysteries of Bi.

But then we have a grievance; the lunch room is our bane.

We came equipped with appetites; four years we’ve watched them wane.
Now when the menu calls for fruit, the uninitiated

Would never know it meant an apple gnarled and antiquated.

A moistened napkin decks the bread, to keep its freshness better,
And by the time that we arrive we can’t tell which is wetter.

We look askance at custards and we whisper, “Nevermore!”

We know that friends in Rock have scorned them just three days before.
There’s something they call chicken and we really can’t deny it,

For while it looks like naught but bones, we haven’t nerve to try it.
Then, people will ask questions till we flee with one accord,

For at the hundredth repetition one is a trifle bored.

One need only mention college; it’s sufficient to incite *em:—




THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN

Oh, don’t you really mind the train?
It must be awful in the rain.

You really don’t mean they detain
You to take gym, I would complain.
And can you study on the train?

You say your eyes don’t feel the strain?
And don’t you find it tires the brain?
I'd really think you'd go insane!

And then, of course, you miss the main
Part of the college life, but gain
Advantages of home. It’s plain

That commutation is a bane.—

And so, ad infinitum.

Jessie C.iirron.

5!
52 | THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN





The Gym Contest

Shocks always occur at this season, and I got one from the Gym contest. I
was awakened from Latin Prose Comp. by a strange, weird gurgle repeated over and over.
I shivered at being all alone. Could it be a drunken man? Trembling with dread, I
sought the hall in search of a friend. The lights were low, but in the dark two forms could
be made out with swinging arms and revolving Indian clubs. There were sounds issuing

from them,
“Swing, swing, T-T,
Swing, swing P-P.”

**Good heavens,” I cried, “‘ what is this?”

“Swing, swing, Mr. King,
One, two, an hour to do.”

Down the hall mystic forms were gliding, forming 4’s, in front of 1, 2, 3, 4.

IsoBeEL RoaGeErs.


THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 53





4

HIS article does not deal with Pruss’s wardrobe. To be sure, once at a President’s
reception I hailed five of her gowns before finding her. Moreover, evening dresses
play an important part in college life. Before a formal meeting of the English Club,

H. P. always takes a solitary walk with at least two other members to discuss the arrange-
ment of the nine on the Rock window-seat with regard to esthetic values. That was a
serious consideration this winter owing to the fact that the Senior costumes de bal were all
different shades of the same color, a point which the President noted when she remarked
to me in one of the long reflective silences that fall upon hostesses and guests at a Faculty
Reception, 7

“T should think that at least 68 per cent of this year’s Senior Class have pink dresses.”

Directoire and hobble, sheath skirt and coal-scuttle hat, were duly recognised by 1911.
Freshman Class Supper witnessed the trailing of first trains by conscious maidens. (I
still remember my jealousy and mortification on that occasion. My first train did not appear
until Sophomore year.)

But décolleté finery is not intrinsically collegiate. Therefore let us pass it by.
—

54 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN





Nor do I refer to our academia. Caps and gowns vary little from year to year, although
1913 has shown a tendency to substitute willow-plumed creations for the modest mortar-
board. Furthermore 1911 has already awarded Amy the palm for her scholastically tat-
tered drapery, and in spite of the fact that I know it was graft and that my gown has fully
three more rents in it than hers, I must acquiesce and eat my bread of bitterness in silence.
I wish rather to treat of the undergraduate fashions set by our versatile class during their
four prolific years.

It was never a trait of 1911 to merge individuality in corporate identity. Neverthe-
less Freshman year Rock en masse went into yellow-trimmed black Peter Thomsons. The
rest of their classmates were on the point of proving their admiration by prompt imitation
when the following episode dampened their ardour.

It was a Thursday morning, and the fortnightly preacher who had been lodged in the
Prophet’s Chamber was breakfasting at the Warden’s table. As eight-fifteen drew on the
students began to assemble. First came Harriet in her yellow-trimmed black Peter Thom-
son. Blanche followed her garbed in the same fashion. Then Beulah ditto. The clergy-
man’s eyes grew wide with interest. He stopped eating and watched with the research
air of a Ph.D., in the making. Finally, when the sixth Freshman arrived and completed
the symmetrical semi-circle of yellow-trimmed black Peter Thomsons, he said,

“*So this is your school uniform.”

After that Rock never tried to set a fashion. But the other halls did. Merionites, for
instance, were never seen without the adornment of a canton flannel animal, and Denbigh,
represented by Phyllis and Cranie, set the pace in hair ribbons. Pembroke and Denbigh,
under the leadership of H. P. and Charlotte, united on the subject of jumpers sans stays, and
Radnor advocated the daily use of slickers lest one be caught by a storm on the way home
from lectures.

As we grew older and more individualistic, fashions were set by single members of the
class. For instance, one day Senior spring Dotty appeared at breakfast looking her most
coquettish in a peanut straw hat trimmed with a green scarf. By noon Hig had acquired
one, and during the afternoon Hoff and Hellie and H. P.—no, I made a mistake—H. P. only
borrowed Dotty’s because her hair was in curl papers. By the time we were waiting to
sing on the steps, peanut straw hats trimmed with green scarfs were as thick as students
in the Art Seminary the night before a Renaissance queeze.

Then there was Scottie and the Mackinac jackets. It was hard enough before Christ-
mas to tell where Scottie ended and Louisa began, but after Christmas it was impossible.
THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 55







Once I tried to set a fashion. I showed Crook how to make a suit such as I had seen
in Devonshire. I purchased gray stockings and imported gray boots to match. Then I
grasped my walking stick firmly in my hand and burst upon the astonished gaze of the
college. But they, whether out of provincialism or jealousy I do not know, derided me as
an Anglo-Maniac, and clung to their hockey skirts and sweaters.

Except in this single instance I must confess 1911 showed marvelous wisdom and
unconventionality in their choice of clothes, a fact which we realised when one of the Senior
Receptions was devoted to a discussion of the relative merits of knickerbockers and the
harem skirt, and President Thomas told us that she wished the advice of the Senior Class
on the subject of the modern woman’s costume.

MarGaReET JEFFeRYs Hospart.


THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN

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desire explicitly to point out that that title is the child of my own brain. I thought

of it myself, and to use it for this article. But I was so proud of it—for you see I thought

it was funny—that I told it to some friends, and they thought it was funny too, and
the next thing I knew, I saw my own dear title glaring at me from bonfire transparencies,
and being used in the vulgarest way on and in speeches, and now it has lost all the sweet,
fresh innocence that once captivated me. It hardly seems like the same title to me any
more, but I have to use it, as I chose this article merely on its account.
THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 57







As for the meaning of the title—it needs no explanation, among us and our friends.
To put the matter briefly, we made our entrance on the Bryn Mawr stage in kimonos, and
our exit in a nightgown. But on the whole, we handled the matter very delicately. For
my part, I don’t see that there was anything in our plays that a girl wouldn’t like her own
father to see, and why we should be so old-fashionedly squeamish about the moral innocence
of our own and our friends’ male relations, I don’t know. Perhaps I don’t feel the
matter so keenly, because my own costumes were generally fairly respectable. I could speak
more feelingly about one of our without-violence rush nights, when a gentle Junior ripped
my Pierrot costume—a dainty thing, but not of the soundest construction—off my back
while I was too excited to notice it, so that I later found myself dashing airily about
the campus in a high hat, a ruff, and a—well, let us let it go at en negligee.

However, Pruss has done full justice to those playful parades. And I feel that I
must seize this opportunity to tell how I fell off the stage of the old Gym. In my early
days it was quite the thing to have done that, and having done it, you talked about it.
You see, it seems 1910 had a Freshman show which they were quite willing to talk about—
an advantage to any class—and in the course of that show a whole chorus of puppies, or
kittens, or it may have been June bugs, fell off the stage, and having done so, talked
about it. It seemed to me that every one I knew in 1910 must have been a puppy, or a
kitten, or a June bug, or a young rhinoceros, or whatever it was that shared in that
unfortunate mirth-provoking incident, and they each, separately, used to get me in a
corner and tell me about it, and I used to laugh. As a Freshman I was nice, that way.

And then I fell off the stage myself. It was only dress rehearsal, but I did, I fell right
off backward, and at the time I was being a pencil, which is obviously much funnier than being
a zoo. I couldn’t even let anyone know I was going, because as I began to fall, my
mouth piece, which was inadequate anyhow, got switched round to my ear, and my cries
only re-echoed up and down the tube. I should say “hollow tube,” but that requires too much
modesty even for the sake of dramatic effect. I was in that tube myself, and very
emphatically in, and in it I had to lie, in a cramped position, till my cue came—and
went—and they missed me, and started a search, and finally discovered me, and undid all
the seventy-six hooks required to make a pencil of me. But did I mind? Bless you, not a
whit! I lay there just revelling in how funny this must be. It seemed good to be able
to come back at anyone who began to tell me about those baby bears with a tale of my
own like this.

And it is one of the deep and lasting sorrows of my college career that I never could
xO oe ee

58 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN





get anyone to listen to that story. It ought to be funny, and I always told it in the
breeziest way I could, for it seemed to me the kind of story that went with a lot of
breeze, and I can’t think why it wasn’t very popular. I’m sure it wasn’t, though. Oh,
of course by Senior year I could sometimes keep hold of a defenceless Freshman long
enough to tell it to her, but Freshmen think there is something to any kind of Senior
reminiscence. That’s just the way Freshman are made, and it doesn’t mean anything.

Isn’t it strange, after all, how insufferably dull one always finds accounts of plays
one hasn’t seen? I used to think I should choke the next person who told me that
I ought to have seen Ivanhoe the Eleventh, or La Princesse Lointaine, or last May Day.
Instead I used to pretend I had seen them, which was absurd on the face of it, as
I had never beheld the campus till the fall of 1907. But anything to silence these
descriptions of what might have been antediluvian antics, for all I cared for them. Some-
how it took me a long time to connect up this attitude of mine with the way Gordon and
Louisa and those people used to hold their ears, or run, when Prussie and I started the
love scene from His Excellency, or to discuss the Bourgeois Gentilhomme. But these
things are borne in upon us. You may tell the present undergraduate all about how we
gave plays in Chapel, and ate three meals a day in the History of Art room, and about the
uncommonly vulgar young man, who made us up, murmuring unspeakably fresh nothings
to us from Miss Donnelly’s own desk; but you can always see by the expression of her
face that she regards that as just the sort of thing that might have happened before her
own presence had invested Bryn Mawr with reality.

I wonder whether our college plays are really any fun to anyone but the cast. We
like to think they are, or it wouldn’t be half so much fun to give them, but we are really
the people who enjoy them most. All the excitement of the green room, and the make-
up, and, most of all, the rehearsals, was fun, and the more you complained the more
thoroughly you were enjoying yourself. The long palpitating waits at the P. U. S., when
you knew just how long before your cue came, and you were eager for it; and then it
came, and all of a sudden you realised that your entrance was being distinctly hampered
by the fact that you had no knees at all. Also you had forgotten what the play was, to
say nothing of your own lines. In that condition, you tried to walk on the stage with a
firm masculine tread and make a few brisk, cheery remarks, trying wildly not to grin
maudlinly if the audience gave you a lawfe; or you dashed on holding up a finger of each
hand, and singing in pseudo-Turkish, then, standing on your head, you suddenly realised
that both your cap and wig had fallen off and that a long auburn pigtail was sweeping the


THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 59





stage. Strictly high class and variegated vaudeville we were, 1911, and you never knew
what we were going to do next. One of our most successful exhibitions of versatility and
adaptability was in a little farce entitled Cue Hashings, delivered extempore by Miss
Prussing and Miss Egan, while the rest of us were showing a rather pitiful tendency lamely
to girdle and copy Bernard Shaw. Itis nice to think that some of us rose above mere imitation.

One thing—we were not ashamed of our plays, and we didn’t care who knew what they
were. I think one of the nicest traits in our character was the way we spared the other
classes from sudden surprises, and all such shocks. If anyone didn’t know what play we
were going to give within a week after we had chosen it, it was distinctly her own fault.
In fact, it looked like carelessness on her part.

Nor is there any reason why we should be ashamed of them. If there was anything
harmful in our plays it was to our digestions and not our morals. We had to eat through
all of them, and believe me, eating on the stage is no joke. I don’t believe that Casie and
Delano and Margaret Friend were half so sorry as their dramatic instinct prompted them
to look when Leila interrupted their little banquet in Le Bourgeois. And as for me, if
I ever suffered more than the time when some idiot made it necessary for me to gulp
five chocolate creams instead of three in the midst of a speech, it was in His Excellency
when I was watching Schmidtie, outwardly so much at her ease, betray her real nervousness
by dropping four lumps of sugar into the demitasse of coffee she was pouring out for me,
when | couldn’t even look agonised, not to say mention it. The fact that I knew the coffee
was rootbeer didn’t help at all. Pinkie was the only person who really rose to the height
of enjoying a meal on the stage, for no one could question the real relish with which she ate
her breakfasts, both as Menelaus, and as Major Petkoff. Acting seemed to give her a
fine appetite, and it was a pleasure to watch her.

It is sad to think that the plays are all over. Esther may some day be an imposing
middle-aged mother, Delano I should say stood as good a chance as any of becoming a
fascinating marchioness, and Schmidtie, though not exactly the Evening Star, is at least
sure to be a very gay and smart little lady before whom M. P.’s will not be the only ones
to fall. But alas! Pinkie has been an irascible father, Casie an elderly beau, Prussie
a dashing young lover, and I a dirty orderly for the last time. And Hobie? What is a
noise without Hobie ?

All our plays, such as they were, did full duty in the way of amusing us, anyhow, and
in affording cues and jokes for the rest of our lives. We, who had the fun of acting in
them, feel a debt of real gratitude to the rest of the class for spending their money and much
of their time in letting us disport ourselves on the stage about twice a year, and then
applauding us for it. Marion Sturges Scort.
60 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN













Breakfast “a





SceNE—A tea pantry.
Time—8 to 10 on any Sunday morning during college.

DRaMATIS PERSONN2.

You.
:

You and I are dressed in jumpers and hockey (or other) skirts, and pumps or slippers.
You and I do not quote Shakespeare wittily, at times,nor are we in love with some member
of the faculty, nor are we having a “college girl’s frolic’? such as one sees illustrated in “The
Ladies’ Home Journal.” Breakfast 1s in course of preparation—it is a serious business, and
you and I are ordinary mortals, without extraordinary habits and views or ways of speech
conforming to that impossible type, the College Girl.

These facts should be remembered.

The properties necessary for this entertaining little comediette are extremely simple,
viz., an heterogeneous collection of spoons and china, two patent toast makers; tag ends
and component parts of dismembered chafing dishes; a frying pan; eggs, bacon, coffee, and
smells of cooking.

: cee if you ask me I think we’re pretty decent to make the breakfast for those
azy dogs.
THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 61





I.—Personally, we are saints. Do you know anything about making coffee? Pinkie
makes it one way and Scottie another, and I haven’t an idea what you do first. Gosh!
The pot hasn’t been washed out since it was used last. Turn on the hot water, will you?
We always have coffee in a machine at home—the simplest thing.

You.—Yes, my dear, my mother would have a fit if she could see the way we fix food
here. My! This knife is dull. For goodness sake, can’t you turn off the hot water now?
It’s spattering all over me. I’ve endured it patiently for five minutes, but it’s soaking
through now, and it’s hot. , |

I.—Oh, I beg your pardon! If you don’t wash it out well, though, Craney spots you
right off. She likes her bacon not so well done, by the way, when you come to frying, and
Ginny has to have her’s like a cinder.

You.—Did you, when you were little, just loathe bacon, and have to eat it because it
came to the table? Dr. Leuba says

I.—Yes, my dear, and codfish balls, and mush. We invariably had all three Sunday
mornings and Sunday School afterwards just used to finish me. I wonder I ever grew up——

You.—But that’s just it. Dr. Leuba says you have to force children to obey because
you can’t appeal to their reason, and

I.—Well, I’m never going to make my children eat unnecessary things they don’t want
to, nor go to school until they’re eleven, nor read anything but the poets. Oh, jimminy!
look at this piece of toast! Do you think I might scrape it off? That is, of course, I’m
never going to have any, but if I did, I wouldn’t.

You.—Now [’ve got all the grape fruit fixed.

I.—How many will there be?

You.—Six or eight.

I.—What a mob.

You.—Yes, I hate a big breakfast party, but this is all 1911.

I.— ! That’s the third time I’ve burned the same finger trying to fish this piece
of toast from behind the burner.

You.—Idiot! Use a fork!

I.—There “ain’t no” fork. And whose are all these spoons, I ask you?’

You.—Never mind. I don’t know. They belong in the tea pantry, I guess. What
are we going to have besides——? Ga—lory! Look at the coffee! Quick, take it off!

I.—I can’t! Don’t you see!

You.—Turn it off! It’s geysering all over the toast.
















62 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN

I,—(Shrieks.)
You.—( Ditto.)
Voices on the Gulph Road singing:

“Come, ye faithful, raise the strain.”

You.— Who's that?

I (looking out while buttering).— Craney and Amy and Hoby. Do you know what
1912 is giving us—Junior—Senior—I mean?

You.—No, worse luck, and I can’t get a word out of a soul. You know, of course.

I.—I do not. My! this coffee looks funny! I talked to Barb a whole hour yerterday,
pretending I knew all about it, but nothing doing, she never mentioned what it was.

You.—Well, it’s hard, not knowing when everyone else in your class knows but can't
tell.

I.—Oh, my dear, I've been longing to ask you what you thought of the Tertium Quid
ever since Undergrad meeting. Did you ever hear of such nerve?

You.—Never! She has just about as much manners as a goat. But you know I
heard something about her, from my aunt, last summer. It appears she's never had any
bringing up——

I.—Evidently. Give me that jar of bacon, will you? I think we might as well begin
on this now.

You.—Oh, certainly, and yet she reads a lot and sometimes I think she realises-———

I.—You think she’s sincere, then? I thought she put on a lot of that brusqueness
because she thought it grown up or something.

You.—Oh, no, it’s natural enough. Did you see H. P.'s Insurgent about “the amen-
ities of college life"?

I.—I must say, I think she’s right in spots. I had to come to college to be lovingly called
a “dirty devil” by my best friends.

Enter two fellow-students newly arisen. They wear new and flosvie boudoir caps
(Christmas presents to cach other), but these characters may be omitted altogether and
their voices outside the door substituted, if actors or boudoir caps are scarce. They add
immeasurably, however, if introduced.

Tury.—You angels, to get things ready. We had no idea what time it was until——
(they yawn simultaneously).




THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 63



You and I (bustling things together)—Here, you goodfornothings, take the toast.
Got the coffee? By the way, where is the cream? Don’t we get any?

Tury.—On the study windowsill.

You.—Can you manage the grape fruit? I’ll hold open the door.

I (vanishing).—I hope there’ll be enough toast.

Tuery (appreciatively, as they exeunt).—Such swellness!

You (releasing the door, which you have been pinning back with one foot while balanc-
ing coffee and bacon in either hand).—Lord! I’m hungry!

Curtain.

MARGARET Prussina.


64 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN







fRANTERN nicHft

E had possessed our own lanterns for a year and knew better how to value them than
when, in the hush of the darkness, they were given into our hands. By the choos-
ing of other lanterns that we in turn should give, and the learning of strange,

half-understood Greek syllables we were preparing ourselves for the approaching ceremony.
The realisation had come to us that the singing and procession and carrying of lights were
a kind of ritual.

It was under Pembroke Arch, the place of nearly every beginning and ending in college
life, that we gathered. The night was very still, but above the tree-tops a light wind bore
swift clouds across the face of the moon and away, past Taylor tower and high dim gables
and on over the hill-top. Moonlight lay on leaf-strewn paths and gray roofs, and across
it were flung the long, straight shadows of poplars. We had never dreamed of such a night,
even for this most sacred ceremony of Bryn Mawr. When we fell into rank we thought
of those who stood waiting for us, silent in the cloisters. A blue light flashed out from
the shadows as we lit for the first time the Freshman lanterns, and with the first slow words
of Pallas Athene we moved out through the Arch.

It was half a dream, that solemn walk along the well-known way from Pembroke to the
library, and we went in a kind of ecstasy, singing with more heart than ever before the
song we still love best in all the world. Then came the slow progress through the dark
corridors of the library, and finally we reached the moonlit cloisters where even the foun-
tain was stilled and there was the great hush of a multitude. Over and over we sang the
beautiful lingering Greek words as we wound down behind the pillars carrying our blue
flame—until we stood at last, a second long line, before the Freshmen, we with them alone
under the stars. A moment later they bore the light which we had surrendered and we
THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 65



felt that they belonged, in a new intimate way, to Bryn Mawr. They had passed through
the initiation rites, and stood there, forever and mysteriously different. All this meant
much to us as well, for it was we who had helped to receive the class of 1912 into the fellow-
ship of those who honour the lantern as the symbol of many things that are very precious.

Heten Huss PARKHURST.


66 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN














uy

OO etl






*“Everybody votes but women
Yet they have lots of sense,”

sang the Bryn Mawr suffragists on a memor-
able night in November, 1908. Isay “sang,”
roared would be nearer the truth, but as I
wish to make the unenfranchised seem as
decorous and womanly as possible, I choose
the more conventional word. Not, however, in the hope of fooling 1911. For they
were there, and roared themselves, if not “Votes for Women,” then “Keep Dry,’’ or
“Vote for Taft,” or some other equally commendable sentiment. I hope other people’s
recollections of this night are as muddled and hazy as mine. I remember the suffrage
parade, because I was in it, and I remember most of the songs, because they were sung
on various occasions afterwards, and I always learned every song I heard—first, and this
time, because I was an underclassman; second, because Scotty always learned them,
and I couldn’t have her ahead of me that way; and third, because it gave me such prestige
with R. Wells and Cranie. To them it made me a prodigy of intelligence, and to one of
my philosophical standing, such opportunities are not to be neglected. Well, as I say, all
I remember is the songs, and I’m not going to repeat them here. We all know how they
sounded, ensemble when the procession started at the Arch; and with the Bryn Mawr
Band at its head, went down to the athletic field and back, glittering with transparencies
and howling with enthusiasm. Then there was a few moments’ rest for throats that felt
like sandpaper while we all streamed up to the chapel. Only Jeannette was delayed.
She, having water on the knee, had been deemed an appropriate driver for the water-wagon.
Once up, she had conducted it around the course in the best Arizona style. But she couldn’t


THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 67





get down, and when the rest of us had sailed unfeelingly by her, who should come to her
rescue but Dr. de Laguna, who reached up like an amiable and attenuated angleworm, and
brought her in safety to the ground. Meanwhile the crowd in the chapel had settled itself
expectantly, and soon the speeches began. No words of mine could do justice to Leila’s
delivery of that lovely lyric, of matchless simplicity and seventeenth century tone,
“Tam beer.” She is an editor, and may append it to this article if she wants to. Or what
can I say of Elizabeth Tappan as the lean (!) and hungry “thothalist,” or Barbara Spofford
as the Republican orator? They were not disturbed by any amount of interruptions from
Democrats and Suffragists; or by Prohibitionists ostentatiously opening umbrellas and
rattling rain-coats; or by red-handed anarchists and rabid socialists. A squad of police-
men, led by Boggs, kept irreproachable order. And when we adjourned we felt, although
we hadn’t voted, we had had a very good time.
H Amy Moreneap WALKER.










68 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN







9 we

‘
J (SopHomorE Ciass SupPER)

ISS TAYLOR has done me a great and unexpected honour in asking me to speak
M to you to-night, and though I am quite unprepared I shall do my best to make
a few impromptu remarks. (Here the speech is drawn from under the center-
piece.) I am glad that Miss Taylor has so kindly limited the subject so that it excludes
not only memory gems, which are sacred to the English department, and should there-
fore be passed by with averted eyes, but also diamond solitaires. A person who has, in
a year’s study, gained no more knowledge of the diamond, that gem of emotion pure and
simple, than that it is an isometric crystal of octagonal shape and with a concoidal fracture,
would touch far too heavily on ground so filled with romantic associations to unnumbered
classmates.

But as I think of these greystone buildings of Bryn Mawr, constructed, as they are,
of Wissahickon gneiss, containing particles of mica and showing marked flow-structure,
and as my imagination wanders over the green campus, and I remember that it is a base-
level plain, elevated to its present altitude during the tertiary period, I feel that by virtue
of superior torture I am qualified to speak to you on the subject of geology.
THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 69





Do not be alarmed, dear friends; I do not propose to confuse you with abstruse science.
My geology is usually in words of one syllable. If, however, I should perchance make
use of any long names, be assured that their meanings are as unknown to myself as to any
of the ungeologised. Far off will be the day when I treat a cretaceous formation of Octoraro
schist, for instance, with vulgar familiarity. Of the list of books that have hindered
me in the pursuit of my degree, I should place my geology note-book at the head. It is
with the most formal courtesy, therefore, that I wish to introduce to you, my dear class-
mates, some rocks I have met and attempt to acquaint you with the haunts where some
of them may be found. We hitch our Little Wonder Wagon—not to a star, for this action
would transport us too high to study even the loftiest igneous formations; but to one of
Byrne’s swiftest steeds, who transports us as rapidly, though upon the earth. Indeed,
it brings one of our party, who is not holding on, in direct contact with interesting boulders
on the road. She is assisted to her feet from a sprawling position on the road, and _ several
inches of earth which, with her, is removed from the road, reveals a block of limestone,
which had shyly hidden itself there. Limestone is a very retiring rock and very deep in
character; often as deep as ten feet.

There are other rocks, too, which have their especial merits. Shenandoah limestone is
a true representative of old Virginia; Baltimore gneiss is what the name implies; Paoli-
lithic granite brings us more nearly in touch with the charms of the “Main Line.” I am
sorry to say that the one representative of Chicago, masonry, is, though charming, some-
what artificial. Lastly: I cannot forbear presenting to you the dinosaur of animal origin,
whose foot-prints are to be detected everywhere in the sandstones of time. He does not
properly belong with the rocks, and is looked upon by them as a parvenu, as his family
dates only from a few years before the Flood—and yet, I for one think him charming.
He is so young and sprightly and as guileless as a young Haverford student; only twenty-
one billion years old.

All the rocks that I have mentioned are specimens of the titled aristocracy and very
attractive in their way. And yet they are rather unimpressionable. Perhaps they do not
care for my hammer-and-tongs way of making their acquaintance. But you, my class-
mates, could, I am sure, gain me an enétré into their exclusive society. Should you join
their humble servant in drinking their health, not forgetting their queen, the beauteous
B—, I am sure you would soften their stony hearts. Although the highest H. C. intimacy
can never be mine; yet, by your most gracious help, I feel that the scale of justice may
yet incline on the merciful side of 60%. Do let us therefore drink the health of geology.

Rosauinp Fay Mason.
70 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN










oe

-EGe =





Ate |

HEN you see this heading some of you will think it is the forerunner of something

\ \) good by H. P., Charlotte, or Cranie, and will say “Aha! An intellectual treat!’

While some, but this is not probable, may be brought to read it by the method

which Higgie used during that hectic Commencement week when she wanted me to read

Miss King’s poem in the “‘Lantern.”” She said that she would do an errand for me for every

verse of the poem that I would let her read me. I consented and in this way most of my

library books were returned and my bills at the Pike paid and a good deal of the poem was
read.

But all this doesn’t explain why I, an awfully “wholesome” girl (ask Hellie if you
doubt this), am writing this article, and there really is a reason. This is it. This afternoon
our debutante President and our debutante Editor-in-Chief dropped in on me, and in the
course of the conversation the latter said that she had a perfectly good illustration drawn by
Hoffie for College Periodicals and no article to go with it. Therefore, as I could not let the
labour of a fellow Hyena (although she is not a Hyena in good standing, as she got
credit in Major Pol. Econ.) go in vain, I have started this article.

And since I am now an Alumna “out, out in the wide, wide world,” I cannot refrain
from comparing college periodicals with those of “the world.” Immediately I see that the
THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 71



Tipis the Town Topics of Bryn Mawr. For what could be more spicy and to the point
than an item like this—‘‘ Mary Jane Jones, 1896, was married to William Smith, November
18, 1901”’—a mere matter of eight or nine years after—or perhaps this in the May number,
“Louise Brown, Jane Black and Helen White visited college in October. It is always nice
to have the Alumne with us.” But as I write I suddenly remember H. P.’s editorial on Spring
and Hoby’s Distinction between Commonness and Vulgarity. I therefore withdraw every false
word I have spoken and state boldly and with the utmost conviction, that the Tip is the
Atlantic Monthly of Bryn Mawr.

Now to come to the Lantern—shall we call it the Outlook?—but really I cannot com-
pare it with any magazine know. It combines so many elements of the purely esthetic and
literary with such things as college notes, that it is unique and beyond my powers of descrip-
tion. In one way at least it is exactly like the Class Book, and here I blush with pride, and
that is because H. P. has written an article on Chinese poetry for both.

And now since I, an “Athlete” with my nose twice in Miss Thomas’s file, have ventured
into the field of the “‘#sthetes” glorying in their unbroken noses, I humbly apologise for
my intrusion and withdraw promising never under any circumstances to do such a thing again.

Lema HovucHre.ina.
72 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN
















ieTERy OF
TWE FEACOCKS
STOR WH

(Senrior Cuiass SUPPER)



REMEMBER once reading in Sophomore year an editorial in the Tip on the subject

of rainy days. It expressed the sweetest, most optimistic sentiments imaginable.

It said we didn’t care how wet it was under foot nor how gray it was overhead, but went

about with faces even more happy than on sunny days. We liked to have our skirts flapping

damply about our clammy ankles. We vied with each other in seeing how far the water would

squirt from our shoes every time we took a step. In fact, we were apparently perfectly

wretched if, during the week, we didn’t have at least four rainy days. Some of you, perhaps,
remember that article.

I shall never forget it nor the first rainy day after I read it when I awoke to find the

rain dashing in sheets across my bed. I lay for some time undecided whether to commit
THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 73







suicide by getting up and seeking a convenient bread knife, or by lying quietly and drowning,
but I suddenly thought of that Tip article and jumped out of bed. I really didn’t want to
miss any of the joy of that lovely rainy day. To be sure, I was not quite in the spirit yet,
but I was certain that it would take only one or two cheery words from my happy classmates
to put me in a proper exuberant state of mind.

I opened my door and started down the hall, smiling bravely to myself. Something
whirled by me, and it was only by a miracle that I saved myself from being knocked per-
fectly flat by one of said classmates. I called back a cheery good morning to save her from
embarassing apologies. I may be mistaken, but I don’t think she answered.

When I got to the dining room I smiled brightly on those at the table. As I went down
to the other end to get my napkin, I heard one of them mutter, “I should think people might
have some sense and not grin inanely day in and day out.” That was a little hard, but I
decided to lend her my Tip some day in an off-hand manner, and gently guide her to scorn the
weather.

All that morning my professors disappointed me a good deal. They seemed unwarrant-
ably annoyed when I answered brightly that I was unprepared. By this time my cheer was
a bit frayed. Every one I met seemed to avoid receiving the encouraging smile that I wore
frozen on my face. 2

The crisis came about three in the afternoon when I was reproached bitterly for having
removed my umbrella and rubbers from the room of a girl who had borrowed them several
weeks before. I went to my room, and with hot tears streaming down my haggard face,
I tore that editorial into small bits; at the same time I solemnly vowed never again to
endeavour to make a joke or even to smile on a rainy day.

Now, this morning I explained all this to our toastmistress. I told her that on a day
of this kind it was not at all mysterious that the peacock should squawk, that even a butter-
fly might and I should not be surprised, but she was firm.

It is only lately since we have begun singing on the steps that I have been impressed
with the omnipresence of the peacock’s squawk. At 7.20 punctually there begin shrieks in
all directions, “Let’s begin; there are plenty here; let’s hurry up and sing something.”
Yes, it is true, the steps are full and imposing. I’m pretty stupid not to begin. There in
the front row are Leila, and Higgie and Kate Chambers and Mary Minor and Isabelle Miller
and Isobel Rogers and countless others. Of course, there are plenty, and in great confusion
I start to sing or announce that we are coming or that we are out again, or some similar
axiomatic ditty. The burst of sound is not so great as it might be. So that at the end of the
74 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN



song I suggest that we might wait a few minutes for more to come, but I am again assured
that there are plenty.

This time an airy sweep of the hand directs my attention to the second row where sit
in gorgeous array Rosie and Anna Stearns and Hoby and Agnes Wood and Hilpa Schram.
This time my confidence is fully restored. I start out with vigour but something is still
a little wrong. I stop and there is absolute silence.. Higgie’s lips are violently moving and
her head is waving in time to the music, but I hear no sound. I begin to have a terrible fear

of the truth. Can it be that I am the peacock’s squawk?
Louise S. Russe .t.
THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 75

————— =—=_=

a ee
FA NEWELL
7 tear, ,

\
ae
¥ ~
o. , 3
“A, :
f -

AE BR

VER since we had come to college we had heard vague and alluring whisperings of a
delightful odd-class occasion at the end of Sophomore year, at which one wore a
hockey-skirt off the campus and frolicked in festive seclusion with one’s beloved
Juniors. No accurate details were to be had. 1908 and 1910 scoffed in stolid (and ignorant)
even-class derision at an odd-class sentimentality, and 1909, knowing how an atmosphere












~

J
\
76 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN





of mystery enhances any and all charms, gave us no hint of what was to occur. So on
the Saturday after finals, when we began to assemble in front of the Arch, somewhat worn
with exams, but with the infinite and blessed gulf between us and them that comes when
the last one is over (and there are no papers to revise), we hadn’t the dimmest notion of
what the next hour or two was to disclose. Isabelle Miller and Willa discussed it, as they
waited in nervous and worried impatience for the rest of the class to arrive. Those girls
never could get used to 1911’s attitude of deliberate dignity on any and all occasions. They
thought it was unreasonable that we couldn’t once in a while arrive all together, and make an
impressive appearance. Little did they appreciate the perfect co-ordination necessary
in order that no more than three people in the class should ever arrive at the same moment,
that there should be no sudden intrusion of brawling members, but a slow, fractional
arrival minute by minute so as not to overwhelm whoever might be expecting us. And
this day we treated 1909 with no lack of our usual consideration. At length, when the
party was assembled, we left the Arch, “‘side by side,”’ in the direction of the tramp woods,
down past the power-house and over the road, through the deep grass until we came to
where 1909 was waiting to greet us. Things began with a cheer, and soon there was no
doubt in our minds as to what was meant by “Olympic games.” Barrow races, peanut
races, three-legged races, sack races—every conceivable sort of contest had been planned,
and was carried through enthusiastically by both hostesses and guests. Gradually the
number of contestants in each sport thinned out, as winner was set against winner, and
then to the victors came the spoils, bands of red holding two inverted clumps of daisies,
which batted becomingly over the eyes of the wearers. We refreshed our weary bodies
with sandwiches, and “in lemonade, since we could not have wine,” we pledged the health
of the hostesses to whom we owed so much.

Then came the final contest between the victors, a desperate race over ditches and
fences, through long grass and around trees, and back again across the brook, with a final
desperate wriggle through barrels lying on the ground. There were only three, so even the
privilege of wriggling had to be fought for. The excitement of seeing Jeannette and
Hoffie coming through their hard won tubes at almost the same second was insupportable.
In a moment it was over, and Hoffie had won, and received at Pleasaunce’s hands the extra
wreath which was the sign of her special triumph. _ Little by little things began to subside,
the air grew cooler and we realised that it was time to say good-bye. I don’t think there
was any one who didn’t think a bit seriously as we stood there singing those farewell songs.
It is always rather a solemn thing to be with a body of people whom one knows are soon
THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 77



to be separated forever, particularly when one cares for them as we did for 1909. With
them went all the good wishes that 1911 could give, and behind them stayed the memory
of much pleasant companionship and of very kindly friends.

Amy Morenrap WALKER.


THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN







































bockep
Won by 1908
First Team

J. ALLEN
A. Stearns, Manager
K. CuamBers
M. Kitner
I. Rocers
D. Corr
H. Emerson, Captain
L. Hovextetmne
A. Parker
P. Rice
V. Canan

1911 beaten by 1910—6-2, 3-8,
1-1.

Second Team
E. Taytor
M. Suir
H. Trepway ds



Freshman Wear



F. Porter

M. Scorr

M. Horrman

R. Vickery

H. Henperson

M. F. Casz, Captain
F. Wyman

F, Woop

M. Wirurams, Manager
1911 beat 1910—4-0
1911 beat 1909—8-2
1911 champions

Basket-Ball
Won by 1908
First Team

J. ALLEN, Captain

L. Hovente.inc, Manager
H. Emerson

V. CaNAN

















I. Rocers

E. YarRNaALu
M. Scorr

H. Henperson
A, Parker

1911 beaten by 1910—'-6,
9-10, 11-5.

Second Team

E. Corneix, Captain
H. Trrepway, Manager
F. Woop

J. CHICKERING

M. Kitner

K. CHAMBERS

F. Porter

M. Frrenp

D. Corrm

1911 beaten by 1910, 2 games,
first one—6-2,


THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 79



1911 beaten by 1910—7-2

140 front 6 i. sccckeo ee I. SeEps, second
Plunge for distance. ..A. Woop, first, and record

—_—_
Ftesbman wear—Continued
Indoor Crack Weet N. Browne
A. Parker
Won by 1909 J. CHICKERING
M. Horrman, Captain F. Porter
K. Cuamsers, Manager M. Scorr
J. ALLEN L. HoveHTEeLtine
H. Emerson P. Rice
A. Woop M. Frrenp
C. Detano I. Rocers
Places Won
Runting high . 66 6a ee J. ALLEN, third Fence-vault ....
Shot-mut 6 ee J. ALLEN, second Ring high ......
Hep-step 26 vee eeeecke ies H. Emerson, second Rope climb .....
Three broad o.5 scss eee ee H. Emerson, first
Cater Polo Swimming
Won by 1909
Won by 1910 1911 Team
J. Atiten, Captain I. SEEps
D. Corrin A. Woop
M. Frrenp M. Frienp
E, Taytor D. Corrin
J. CHICKERING M. Horrman
F. Wyman A. STEARNS
V. Canan J. ALLen, Captain

F, Wyman
A. CHANNING

Places Won by 1911

Swim under water? oes cccivtiscss I. Sreps, third

Dive for form ..
Fancy dive .....

Class Points
MD ce cece. 20
SO os ae k < 67
SEE pica eea ee 17
WE oe a gs 17

Individual Points

H. Emerson, 12, third place

Spe H. Emerson, third
seid Che H. Emerson, second
oe rea aera es M. 8S. Scort, third

Individual Points

I. Szeps, 11 points, second

SO Cs ane 6 points
ROGGE isk ee nee,
as a kek 5
i jk Sea le ay

A. Wood made college record in

plunge, 37 feet 2 inches

4 oe aula as Ga 66 I. Seeps, second
a ats mas I, Sreps, second
THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN





Cennis

M. Kitner, Captain
A. Stearns, Manager

Cennis Singles
Won by 1908

L. Houghteling beaten by M.

Bishop, ’?08—5-7, 6-1, 6-0

bockep
Won by 1910

First Team

J. ALLEN

M. Kitner

M. SmiTH

M. HorrmMan

I. Rocers, Manager
L. Hoveurte.ine, Captain
H. Emerson

M. Scorr

H. Henperson

P. Rice

V. Canan

1GiT 06; TBIO Gos es 2-3
2012 oe. 1010 64.5... 1-8

Second Team

A. WALKER

A. A. STEARNS

K. CHAMBERS

F. Porter, Captain

H. Trepway, Manager

Freshman Pear—Continued

R. Vickery beaten by H.

Schmidt ’08—6-2, 6-4

H. Emerson beaten by H.

Whitelaw—7-5, 10-12, 6-4

Class Tennis Champion—H.
EMERSON.

SH/ophomore Wear

D. Corrin

A. CHANNING
I. Mitter

M. Hicernson
A. PARKER
N. Browne

aeea te. 1910 2... 4-1
Rete OO, BOIS. 0 5% 6-1
1911 champions

On Varsity—J. ALLEN
Made B.M.—H. Emerson

Wasket-Ball

Won by 1909
First Team

J. ALLEN, Captain

L. Hovente.mnc, Manager
H. Emerson

V. Canan

I. SEEDs

M. Scorr

M. Prussine

A. Parker

Cennis Doubles
Won by 1908

M. Kilner, L. Houghteling
beaten by R. Romeyn, 710,
C. Simonds—6-3, 6-3

H. Emerson, I. Seeds beaten by
E. Swift, E. Tenney—9-7,
1-6, 6-1

E. YarNALu
I. Rocers

1911 beaten by 1909—5-9, 3-2,
2-12

Second Team

M. Hicernson, Captam
. Kitner, Manager
Porter
RussELL
. CHAMBERS
. WALKER
. CoRNELL
. Corrin
A. Murray

OH > aN WS

Preliminaries
1911 vs. 1909—6-5, 0-1, 2-0
Finals
1911 beaten by 1910—0-4, 2-5

On Varsity

J. ALLEN
L. Hovenrte.ine
H. Emerson
THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 81









a

Indoor Crack
Won by 1909

H. Emerson, Captain
K. CuamsBers, Manager
L. Hoventre.ine

see eee eeeeeeee

20-yard dash
20-yard hurdles

eeee ea eeueeveae

Runnings WON 6 66 ce cuss

Sabet oi aks wa ek L. Hoverrmane, Bret
A. Parker, third Class relay ....
Swimming Cater Polo
Won by 1909 Won by 1910
D. Corrin, Captain
Team J. CHICKERING
D. Corrin, Captain E. Taytor
I. Sereps I. SEEpDs
M. Frienp M. Frienp
E. Taytor J. ALLEN
A. WALKER V. Canan
J. ALLEN 1911 beaten by 1910—7-5
V. CaANAN Tennis
M. Horrman ;
NW Baowe M. Kitner, Captain
D. Corrix, Manager

Class Points Cennis Singles
1000 23:53, 40 Won by 1909
1016). 33 33 Preliminaries 1911 vs. 1912
Wl oc. cee 6 Won by 1911
Wis 238i Aas 14 I. Seeds vs. M. Corwin—6-2,

4-6, 6-3

Places Won by 1911

Seventy-foot swim back—I.

Seeps, first

H. Emerson, first
H. Emerson, first
A. Wa ker, third

Sophomore Pear—Continued

F, Carry
A. Parker
A. WALKER
I. SEEps
Class Points
1909

Places

Standing broad
Hop, step, jump
Running vault .

M. Smith vs. E. Faries—4-6,
71-9
H. Emerson vs. J. Haines—6-2,

6-1

EN Vb bNiewes 7
RAN hia ss 46
PR VHA NM hs nee 8

Individual Points
H. Emerson, first

ae ace H. Emerson, first
dal weenie H. Emerson, second
7. civ H. Emerson, second

Running high jump ......... H. Emerson, first

Finals—1911 vs. 1909
Won by 1909

I. Seeds vs. A. Platt—1-6, 4-6
M. Smith vs. M. Nearing—M.
Smith won
H. Emerson vs. A. Whitney—
3-6, 1-6
Class Tennis Champion—H.
EMERSON

Cennis Doubles
Won by 1909
Preliminaries 1911 vs. 1912
Won by 1912

M. Kilner, H. Emerson vs. M.
Vennum, J. Southwick— 1-5,
6-2

M. Smith, I. Seeds vs. E. Far-
ies, J. Haines—64, 4-6, 3-6

D. Coffin (sub. for L. Hough-
teling), H. Henderson vs. M.
Peirce, M. Corwin—3-6, 3-6
THE BOOK OF

THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN



Dockep
Won by 1910

First Team
J. ALLEN
F. Porter
M. Smiru
M. Scorr
I. Rocers, Manager
I. Miter
H. Emerson
M. Ecan
P. Rice
L. Hoventetine, Captain
V. Canan

1911 vs. 1913
Won by 1913—2-4, 2-2, 2-3

Second Team

F. Porter, Captain
H. Trepway, Manager
K. CHaMBERS

A. PARKER

J. Cuirron

J. CHICKERING

D. Corrin

E, Corner

M. Duures

H. Henperson

M. Crane

M. Hoxarr

Second Team

Preliminaries
1911 vs. 1913
Won by 1911—6-3

Suntor Mear

Finals
1911 vs. 1910—5-5

1911 vs. 1910
Won by 1911—6-1

On Varsity

J. ALLEN
H. EMerson

Basket: Ball
Won by 1910
First Team

J. ALLEN, Captain

L. Hoventetine, Manager
V. Canan

I. Rocers

H. Emerson

M. Ecan

M. Scorr

E. Yarnaryi

A. ParRKER

H. Henprerson

Preliminaries—1911 vs. 1912
Won by 1911—10-9, 25-6

Finals—1911 vs. 1910
Won by 1910—9-7, 19-11

Second Team

M. Hicernson, Captain
E. Russe.., Manager
J. CHICKERING

A. WALKER

K. CuamBers

F. Porter

E. Corneiyu

M. Frienp
D. Corrin

Preliminaries—1911 vs. 1912
Won by 1911 (by default)—
10-2
Finals—1911 vs. 1910
Won by 1910—13-9, 7-8, 7-3

On Varsity
J. ALLEN
H. Emerson
A. Parker

3ndoor Crack

Won by 1911
Team
A. Parker, Captain
I. Rocers, Manager
F. Carry
M. DooutrTLe
M. Scorr
H. Emerson
A. WALKER
J. ALLEN
L. Hoventretine
V. Canan
H. Henperson

Individual Championship
Won by H. Emerson

Class Points
SBE ee aries 52
WIG ok ie 7
ROIS is iveweas 9
BAG oe ic ws cs 36
THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 83





Hurdles. 3.7% H. Emerson, Ist; A. Parker, 3d
Rope climb ....F. Carry, 2d; M. Doourrrte, 3d
H. Emerson, 3d

Running Walt. ics 6 66a:
Three broad jumps,

Junior #ear—Continued

Places won by 1911

H. Emerson, Ist; record broken

Swimming Weert
Won by 1910

Team
M. Frrenp
J. ALLEN

Seventy-foot front ..D. Corrin, J. Aten, third

Swim under water ...........-

Standing broad

Shot-put ..J. Aten, Ist; L. Hoventerine, 2d
bila Mile dae ma la H. Emerson, 2d
Hop, step, jump. H. Emerson, Ist; record broken

BOA ROH Cs ER ie i ca ea as 1911
V. Canan Class Points
M. Ecan Be eae. 34
M. HorrmMan BR Pe 9
J. CHICKERING 5 i ps ARI se pS ae 16
Ms chew e ees
Places Won by 1911
Faaey Give) oo asa ei. J. ALLEN, second
D. Corrin, first 140-foot swim on back ........ M. Frtenp, third

CHater Polo Cennis Singles €Cennis Doubles
Won by 1913 Won by 1913 Won by 1913
1911
D. Corrix, Captain 1911 vs. 1912 1911 vs. 1913
He grein C. Justice vs. J. Southwick. H. Henderson, H. Emerson vs.
z psn! Be Won by Justice—6-3, 6-4 G. Hinricks, M. Dessau—6-4,
; 2-6, 6-4. Won by 1911
e oe H. Henderson vs. E. Faries. aiid
. Hopart ‘
V. Cause Won by Faries—6-2, 6-4 P. Rice, H. Ramsey vs. L. Stet-

M. Scort, sub.
J. CHICKERING, sub.

1911 vs. 1912
Won by 1911—6-1, 9-0
1911 vs. 1913
Won by 1913—10-1, 6-1

6-2

H. Emerson

H. Emerson vs.
Won by Corwin—6-3, 2-6,

Class Tennis Championship—

son, K. Page—6-2, 6-3. Won

M. Corwin. by 1913

C. Justice, E. Yarnall vs. K.
Williams, A. Patterson—6-4,
6-8, 6-0. Won by 1913
THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN





Henior Wear

bockep On Varsity On Varsity
Won by 1911 per Hake, Copies L. Hoveuteine, Captain
First Team sg SMITH ae
H. Emerson, Captain H =a V. Canan
I. Rocers, Manager oT
S Dedien L. HovenTELine
M.S
rey RAlte Basket-Ball Crack
A. Parker Won by 1913 Won by 1911
M. Ecan First Team i
I. Miter

L. Hoventetine, Captain

E. Yarnautt, Manager Parker, Captain

L. HovcGHTELING

J. Cuirron

H. HenpDERsSON oe ne Rocers, Manager
P. Rice a na EMERSON
V. Canan ee Ravenw HovcuHTeLine
Preliminaries—1911 vs. 1914 M. Ecan DoouitTLe
1911 won—8-1, 11-0 MM Score Carey
Finals—1911 vs. 1913 A. Parker Canan
1911 won—3-2, 4-2 H. Henperson snes
Preliminaries—1911 vs. 1913 ENDEESON
Second Team é 1913 won—17-13, 12-10 PorTeER
H. Trepway, Captam HorrMan
D. Corrin, Manager Roccad Tous Co¥rFin
J. CLirron Murray
A Tiieke M. Hicerson, Captain is aes
K. Cuamsers . reali : FuNKHOUSER
R. WEtts E. sammie Hiccrnson
M. Taytor y alata Hoven reine
M. Frrenp Sige tame CHAMBERS
E. Moons L. Russet, Manager
M Ceikse A. Murray
M. Hosart M. Frienp Class Points

Preliminaries—1911 vs. 1914 1 Gat Ow rere ae oo 34
1911 won—2-1 Preliminaries—1911 vs. 1918 1918 14
Finals—1911 vs. 1912 1918 won—11-4, tie 44, 1911 1018s
1912 won—8-2 defaulted SOG ce 20
THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 85







Rope climb

Senior Mear—Continued

Places Won by 1911

Be ee yp ree Me Emerson, first

1911 vs. 1914
1914 won—6-3, 9-6

Three broad jumps .........5.: Emerson, first
Sia SV LD anand pws Carey, third Hop, step, jump ..............Emerson, first
Standing Groed) 54.655 6h ese ees Emerson, first POUR FACS 6 Se Cibo die Cie As 1911
ge aiin hu wen HovexTe ine, first Individual Cup’ won by H. Emerson
Swimming weet M. Frrenp Class Points
Won by 1913 M. HorrmMan MOE ys 211,
Team M. Ecan Oe boca 9
D. Corrin, Captain A. WALKER ee ai 241,
V. Canan, Manager J. CHICKERING A ou aks 23 1-6
Places Won by 1911
TO-foot beck’. 005 2 A ee Frienp, first Dive: tor form’ secu ae is ek Canan, third
Plunge for distance ............ CaNAN, second 140 -foot back 222i ies Frienp, first
140-foot front 222 ii Corrin, third Maney dive 06. ciWadecaiess - HorrMan, third
CHater Polo Fencing
1911 Team Alumnae Team
Ecan E. Kirxsrive
CoFFIN B. Ex ers
Ho¥rFrMaNn C. Wesson
FRIEND
Canan Varsity Team
WALKER H. Cuampers, Captain
HovuGHTELING

M. Hosart
H. Emerson

Alumne won—6-3




















of

86 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN
” “= Be /AaStinaG
ae yy
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if; mera Bel i t Lif "e

VO OLMIS, HE Yt OES GSTS iy) This LUG 7 y





English Major










ony

pope ANY 1/4







NGLISH Major! Yes, we all know what that means. Ursa Major would put its
tail between its legs and run when it saw that coming. But (ay de mi!) not all of us
have as good sense as Ursa Major. And so, every year, some few of us (“‘we are the

music-makers, and we are the dreamers of dreams”’) succumb to that most fatal of all errors
—an idea; and we go in for Major English with a courage born of trusting and childlike
ignorance. We begin, of course, with the common herd; it is only in later years that those
individualistic tendencies develop which are the sure mark of—well, I majored in English
myself. The first year we learned to appreciate the charms of—we may as well let it go
at “the charms,” for I forget who wrote them; we heard to our horror and dismay, Mr.
Stopford Brooke—think of it, Mr. Stopford Brooke!—had actually stated that Cynewulf
wrote the Riddles; we translated Chaucer with a zeal and venom to which our prepara-
tion for orals was but the mere dalliaunce of a summer’s day; and lastly, we went so far
as to permit our peacock to roost on nothing less significant of said peacock’s world-wide
importance than the Ygdrasil Tree. Our literary efforts, however, on the score of pure
heavenly inspiration, would have put Cedmon himself to shame. Why I came to College,
what a wealth of possibilities lurks herein! Possibilities that in numerous instances were
no doubt unsatisfied by any other than the eternal woman’s reason—“ because.” Already,
you see, our vague poetic tendencies begin to unfold—the mystery gathers. Recall your
“first view of the campus”—a euphony suggesting at once “first aid to the injured”’;
your smiling “exteriors,” your Turner “sunsets”! And all this is but as the shadow of
the candle to the glories that lie before you in second year. You begin, modestly enough,
with descriptions, technical and otherwise (‘‘technical” to try the common herd,
“otherwise”’ to bring out the geniuses); you argue heatedly that hazing ought not to be
abolished (futility of argument already shown—but you were not one of the geniuses); you
find out that Kipling is valuable to Us (this is the Faculty “Us,” far more terrible even
THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 87





than the mighty editorial “we’’) only for his treatment of India, and so decide to take Poe
as a subject for your twenty-four-page essay; and come at last with bated breath to your
narrative. There is something imposing about a narrative—imposing at once to you
and on you. In a world where there is nothing new, it is not the simplest thing imaginable
to generate a tale original, clever, and entertaining. But, after you have been told that
you must take something for which you need not procure the “atmosphere” out of books,
but out of the depths of your own experience—with a longing backward glance at your
interminable preparatory school “runaways,” you settle upon either a murder or a love
story. And somehow you blunder through—or you don’t, as the case may be. Cases
alter circumstances. Of course, after this tremendous effort, you fall to copying Bacon
and Pope with ease and fluency—another vindication of the superiority of the creative
activity over the imitative. You have made progress in this second year in other directions
too; you have taken to reading Shakespeare and the Paradise Lost. Shakespeare’s
manifold subtlety of characterisation is brought out in some such question as this, of Goneril:
“Was she a hippopotamus, was she a whale—what kind of a monster was she?” Friends,
who of us will ever forget, “Hamlet, that boy of thirty, who was to be sent to England
for a six months’ holiday”; which of us does not remember that after falling for nine days,
“the starch was out of the angels”? And what one of us all but could find somewhere in
her lecture notebook an exquisite illustration of the Ptolemaic astronomy which Milton
sets forth?

By this time the common herd has dispersed “‘to fresh woods and pastures new”’; the
faithful few remain. Perhaps you choose drama, let us say, and Middle English poets.
If here isn’t Chaucer again, bless his heart! You greet him as an old friend; for you are
in deep water, with none but sharks about you, and he makes you feel more at home. Having
gained by this time that “wider view of life” which was recommended as a foundation
for reading Troilus and Criseyde, you translate unhesitatingly and unblushingly, as far
as this is possible. ‘‘Drammer’—even now I think of “drammer”’ with a sickening fear;
while that course is given, the moral reputation of our college is not safe. But it was inter-
esting, oh, yes, and we learned a lot; we even wrote charming little comedies of our own,
the scene of which was laid in the Mermaid Tavern. And we recall one dramatic incident,
illuminative of the spirit of the course, that might have been entitled, “When the Sleeper
Wakes”’; we refrain from mentioning names. ‘Miss Mason, what do you think of this?”
And so we go to the heights—English Major. We sport with Carlyle and Newman; we
smile indulgently at Ruskin; we patronise Matthew Arnold. We hear, to our breathless
88 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN







amazement, that Keats is Keatsian; we unbind Prometheus, as we plan our undertakings
for next winter with an eye to freeing, not mankind, but womankind; we thank an almighty
and loving Providence which has allotted to man but three-score years and ten for his earthly
works, that Wordsworth, doubtless owing to lack of time, had to stop at the Prelude.
And then, with perhaps just a little throb of sorrow, we turn back to some of those sweet,
funny, sad first year memories,—to the old, wistful, melancholy Anglo-Saxon; and we
bow our heads regretfully, in the pain of parting, to the inevitable law that

“Nothing and none may stay.”
ALICE EICHBERG.
THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 89

Sy Ay (UG

On Wecoming Upper
Classmen























“Standing with reluctant feet
Where womanhood and girlhood meet.”

T is very sudden, this becoming upper classmen, and it is very sweet, but a little sad.
We stand at the brink Sophomore June and look forward to it eagerly, joyously, but when
the time actually comes, and we are going up the front steps of Taylor, and wondering

whether we look to 1913 anything like what 1909 looked to us, we begin to realise that in
this gaining of importance we have also to give up something—the “happy days of youth,”
that we began to sing about the end of Freshman year, are all vanished. When we were
Freshmen every decent thing we did was considered “promising.” When we tied a hockey
match we were applauded, and when we got through a short song all in one key, our Juniors
felt that they had reason to be proud of us, and people shook their heads, and murmured
that it was not safe to say what we might not do when we grew up. But when we became
Juniors ourselves all was changed. We were no longer a budding rose, and all the “ promise”
of our youth counted for nothing save where it had become present fact. We were
expected to be able to win a hockey game. There is something almost poignantly sad
about this.

The change in our academic circumstances was a less doubtful blessing. There is a
great charm about walking into a post-major, for instance, and though it often turns out
to be very simple stuff after all, you have at least the satisfaction that the underclassmen
don’t know it.
go THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN





But changing from a major to a post-major is as nothing, when compared to changing
from required to minor English. And we, 1911, were the last class to get the full benefit
of that change. To be sure there is still a critic’s course in college, but it has serious
limitations, chief among these being that it is a course in critics. In our day it was not
a course at all, it was a state of mind. Nowadays, in the course in Nineteenth Century
Critics,—one reads Carlyle, Ruskin, Huxley, and even Matthew Arnold. Whereas we!
Oh, we read Goethe’s Faust in the original, and the book of Job, and the Little
Flowers of St. Francis, and the Songs Before Sunrise, to say nothing of a dramatic reading
of the Atalanta in class, with Charlotte for the chorus. We also dipped into the
Divine Comedy, emphasising the Paradiso, into Chaucer, into the works of Augustine,
and of Origen, and into the Oedipus Tyrannus, and the poetry of Blake and Arnold. Really,
that course was probably the only one in college that lived up to the underclassmen’s
idea of what a third year course should be. On the very first day, when we were told,
apropos of goodness knows what, that Milton represented the sectarian spirit, and was
therefore to be closely connected, not to say identified, with Lucifer, I knew I was getting
what I wanted. And indeed, the only lapse into comprehensibility in the course of the year,
to us who were soulless, was in the three lectures by Mr. Johnson.

About then, too, the class was undergoing a tremendous upheaval in its social group
system. I don’t think we ever were very clannish as a class, but it was not till Junior year
that the little hall cliques into which mere circumstance threw us Freshman year, really
began to break up and merge into the big, comprehensive congenial yet highly individualistic
group that was the 1911 of Senior year. The fall of 1909 found all that remained of Radnor,
after the exodus to Denbigh the year before, established among the only part of 1911
that had a sense of humour—i. e., Rock. Hellie and Roz were left in undisputed possession
of Merion. Amy and Delano were welcomed into what later became the High Church
Crowd of the Pembrokes, and May became a further factor in that part of the class. As
for Virginia and me, owing to the kindness of Delano, who drew for us while we were
playing in a basket-ball match, and were helpless to prevent her, we found ourselves, still
together, but cut off from all else that was familiar, in Denbigh. This circumstance
affected us so strongly that for several weeks we were often seen together, to the conster-
nation of our friends. She is not a person one grows sentimental over, but I really got
very fond of Virginia during that time, and I think she began to realise what an appealing
little thing I was. The enforced companionship did not last long enough to hurt us,
however, for Denbigh was very cordial, and we had brought our little “God Bless our


THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 9!



Home” sign with us, which made us feel more cheerful and contented, and it was not long
before going into Denbigh seemed fairly natural, though never, till Commencement Day
1911, did we get to the point of walking right down the middle of the corridor, on the rug,
instead of slinking along next the wall.

There is a further change in a class as it turns into a Junior class, and then into a Senior
class, than can be told in exact words. Of course, we thought it was really a joke that we
should pretend to be Juniors, and we knew we must look too young and too inexperienced
to be taken seriously in that réle. But somehow we did manage to look like it, for a
member of 1913 said to me this summer, in heavy seriousness: “Those poor benighted
Freshmen! To think that they are going to think we are perfectly good, grown-up
Juniors next year, as you were when we first knew you. Why we won’t really be Juniors
at all.”

But of course they will.
Marion Sturees Scort.


92 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN

































(CotLeGEe Breakrast, 1911)

T occurs to me that my title is perhaps a trifle ambiguous. For the benefit of those
Alumne who have not heard of this most painful of recent deprivations, let me explain
that I do not mean that milk-lunch is passed; I mean that it has passed! Yes, during
the last years a sad catastrophe has occurred. It originated in a conspiracy of the professors.
Statistics showed that the eleven o’clock milk-lunch was affecting the choice of courses and
even of groups. That is, the students, in increasing numbers, were arranging their groups
in reference to milk-lunch, leaving the eleven o’clock hour free for the uninterrupted negotia-
tion of this feast. Or, in other cases, the students were coming in late to their eleven
o’clock lectures. (I may say with a pardonable pride that two members of the Class of
1911 were leaders of this latter group.) The situation in this case was a trying one, particu-
larly as the students seemed to see, in bursting into a class at 11.15 or 11.20, a sort of gay
humour, indistinguishable, for some strange reason, to the professorial eye. So the
professors conspired, and milk-lunch ceased, and the students languished, pale and wan.

Various plans for its restoration were suggested—to meet the lack of funds which the
wardens held out as an excuse for the change. For instance, many desired a communal
cow, to be milked by the officers of the Self-Government Association. Or else milking
might be registered as exercise and a whole flock—I mean herd—of cows employed. How


THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 93





pleasant and pastoral they would look on the campus basking under the Ygdrasil Tree,
nibbling the vines in the cloister, or playfully biting Dr. Schniz as he dashed to one of his
classes at fourteen minutes past the hour! They would add a new element of adventure
and romance to an erstwhile prosaic afternoon of study in Senior Row! Only one reason
was urged against the acquisition of these cows, and that was—1913. Unlike most of us,
cows do not have a predilection for the colour red. And now, when we look around and
see the wonderful red classes that have returned for this Commencement, we are glad that
we did not employ cows to imperil their existence.

But I cannot in justice pass over the brighter side of the question. When they
threatened to abandon milk-lunch even during exams, we protested vehemently; the

Undergraduate Association determined to petition. In the words of my poetical classmate,
Miss Scott:

“Oh, East is East, and West is West, and the difference is great,
And Radnor’s and Rock’s and Denbigh’s flocks are wholly separate;
But there is neither East nor West, nor clique, nor crowd, nor bunch,
When the college stands, and as one demands its own long-lost Milk-Lunch.”

So they petitioned. The secretary of the Undergraduate Association had the task
assigned to her of composing that petition. She had always longed to write one! So she
secured copies of the Magna Charta (1214). The Petition of Right (1628), and the
Declaration of Independence (1776). (You see, my history tabs still stay by me.) Thus
armed, she bent to her task, and in time produced a miracle of rhetoric. There were no
less than siz whereas’es, and all sorts of touching and poignant phrases about the need
of the undergraduate brain (in common with the brains of the rest of the human species)
for nourishment at a time of great stress, etc., etc., etc. Miss Thomas read, and compre-
hended, and that milk-lunch (I have never quite seen why it was not called milk-supper)
was restored to us.

What would life be without this rare feast! A feast for the intellect, as well as for the
body; and as for the esthetic sense—well, it is simply sated! One arrives at 9.15, into the
midst of a Babel of voices; but every voice in that Babel is saying the same thing: ‘‘ What
do you know about that dreadful ?” (Here insert the name of any course in the
catalogue.) And the answer to that question is always, always the same: “I don’t know
a thing! I’m at February 15 (or October 15, as the case may be). I can’t understand,”
etc., etc. Sometimes I long to vary the reply, just from sheer weariness of its


94 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN





monotony, but four long years have not given me the courage to do so. Sometimes I
hear the voices asking: “‘What do you know about the ‘marginal differential concept’?”’
And the reply comes back: ‘“‘Oh, she won’t ask that!”

My own experience in regard to the “gastronomic side” of milk-lunch (as Daddy
Warren would say) has always been singularly blighting and tragic. Either I arrived too
late, and find that all the doughnuts are gone, or I arrive punctually at 9.15, only to find that
there are cow-crackers. A cow-cracker may be defined as a compound of blotting paper and
talcum-powder, preserved for long ages in dry, subterranean vaults. Long ago, when the
world’s supply of cow-crackers was cut off—fortunately for the world!—they were all
cornered by Bryn Mawr College. And I am happy to be able to announce that that
supply bids fair to last for two or three centuries, as the decrease in quantity each lyear
is scarcely perceptible. As for the appellation of cow! I have never been able to explain
it. It is simply too insul ting to the cow, to suppose that she would touch these strange
confections!

And now, having depicted the beauties of milk-lunch as it appears during twenty
days of the year, I want to make a plea to the Alumnez for its complete revival. If I may
boldly make a suggestion, could it not be paid for out of that fund known as the “Potato
Endowment”? Not that I mean to decry the Potato Endowment! I know that it is a
rare and splendid thing to be able to have, at one meal, sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes,
and baked potatoes—not to mention potato soup and potato salad. It must give the
potatoes such a nice, cosy family feeling to be sitting there, all together, on the same
plate. But, I repeat, could not at least a part of this fund be diverted in the direction of
milk? If, as the hymn tells us, “Jerusalem the Golden” was “with milk and honey blest,”
may not Bryn Mawr, at least, be blest with milk?

CATHERINE LyMaN DELANO.

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THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 95








C bu)

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BSN oc Ws A; .

Ney. si pons reat» /
ee Pr









EFORE proceeding to the award of the Fellowships and Scholarships, I wish to make

a few announcements. On behalf of the Faculty of the College, I have been asked

to state the decree—and I am sure the students will all agree with me that it is a wise

decree—the rule—the decree—that May-Day shall be abandoned. Professor Leuba,

of the department of Psychology, has been conducting experiments in his laboratory—
and his results, according to statistics, are as follows:

Students capable of learning the sequence of lines in the May-pole song—twenty-
five per cent.

Students capable of learning the sequence of lines in the May-pole song, and of
singing the same—three per cent.

Students capable of learning the sequence of lines in the May-pole song, but incapable
of singing the same—twenty-two per cent.

Students incapable of learning the sequence of lines in the May-pole song—seventy
five per cent.

These conclusions have been obtained from May-Daly observation; and since, of
the three per cent. above named, all are now married with no paid occupation, evidence
for the abolition of May-Day has been considered overwhelming. In view of the fact that
so few requirements are made of the Freshmen, the president of the Athletic Association ©
has asked me to announce that practice for Pallas Athene will begin during the first
week after entrance, to be continued until Lantern Night, Sophomore year. The
discipline, endurance, and indifference to exposure thus acquired, are expected to go far
THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN







re a enn ae oe



toward making the Bryn Mawr teams the best of all. I should now like to say a few words
concerning the song record of the Class of 1911. It could scarcely be called a Victor record,
in spite of poor Miss Russell's efforts to make it successful. Unlike 1909, you know, which
“sang its way through college,” 1911 distinguished itself for the most part by that silence
which, according to the best manuscript authorities (see Doctor Brown, “Early English
Proverbs,” American Journal of Philology, Volume MDCLIII, Book I, chapter 4, paragraph
5, column 7, pages 1785-5946), is golden. Yet, though we've swept the east and swept
the west, 1911 was the most remarkable singing class that ever came to Bryn Mawr. It
may be thought by 1912 and others that such a sweeping statement requires proof. We
all know of the great composer who wrote the Song without Words; think of the genius
required to sing such a song! And that was 1911's forte—I might almost say their fortissimo
—for they sang practically all their songs without words. The echo of their gleeful “tra-
la-las’’ will long remain to the glory of Bryn Mawr; while the pure, rippling sweetness of Miss
Margery Smith’s “dum-da-dum” rivalled the soft twitter of the birds themselves as
evening called them to their shelters. Some members of 1911 even went so far as to
attempt the songs with original notes; but this exalted effort in the cause of musical progress
was hastily suppressed by the more conventional members of the class. It is therefore a
logical necessity that we shall in future seek for our great musical geniuses among the
independent—I am proud to say—majority, of mutes. The reason why no mute has hitherto
been known to compose symphonies is on account of the tramps, who have made it unsafe
for mutes to walk alone on the seashore in the moonlight. The president of the Under-




THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 97









HERE can be no doubt about it,—1911 was a great and glorious class,—else why
did the editors give us subjects about which there was so little to be said, unless they
were afraid of being swamped with material? Hoby, for instance, wrote all summer
long, and when she wasn’t writing, Scottie was. I got lots of MSS. from both of them.
There is so much to be said about 1911, but as for table emotions, I had only three, and
everybody who ever lived with me in Merion or Denbigh, knows that I had only three,—
one for breakfast, one for lunch, and one for dinner. My emotional state at breakfast
had something of the Stoic and Spartan about it, with a reminiscence of the early martyrs;
it consisted in complete unconsciousness of things external by elimination of all pure per-
ceptions, except taste,—and even that after a week or so. Most people called it a “heavenly
grouch,” but “Platonic contemplation” is exactly the same thing and sounds better. Any-
how my contemplation or grouch, whichever you choose to call it, was the reason Roz and
I never could get along. She would tell funny stories at the breakfast table, which once in
a while penetrated my consciousness, and then, because of my lack of appreciation, she
accused me of not having that kind of a mind, and, as Roz joked on every conceivable
subject at the breakfast table, by the process of elimination, she soon had me reduced to
a detached spinal cord.

I confess I felt like it at lunch. Even the people who were supposed to have brains,
like Cranie and Charlotte, not to mention Helen Tredway, generally lost their minds
before lunch was over. Esther was the only one who was ever able to keep up four con-
versations at once, and she did it only by standing up on her chair and shouting to the
98 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN





third and fourth to wait a minute until she caught up. It always was bad enough but
last year I was so busy coming down from the heights of Miss King’s Victorian Poets,
that I did not even have time to tell Kate who did what when.

Dinner in Denbigh was a much more leisurely affair. We had plenty of time to eat,
and plenty of time to think,—but we didn’t, we made up songs; every one concentrated on
a line and we had the maids trained not to take away the soup before seven o’clock. As
Pembroke never could train its maids, it had to make up its songs before dinner, and out
of spite it made the seven o’clock cheering rule, because after that time there was no one
to cheer. That was all right for Pembroke, but in Denbigh when we got the song made
up we couldn’t sing it, because Cranie was always exchanging to Pembroke.

There may be lots more to say about 1911, but that is the extent of my emotions,
because a spinal cord has only one response for the same stimulus, and having once formed
a habit, can never change. Virernia Custer CANAN.





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THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 99





a
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BANNER
NIGHTS

























UR first banner night is a bright memory. All the beginnings of Freshman year are

a sort of confusedly bright memory. In my mind Love’s Labour's Lost was one
glittering spectacle, culminating, or coming to a focus, in Pat’s smile, which was so
dazzling it blinded one; and Box and Cor was a series of repartee which fairly carried
me away. But most beautiful, most sparkling, most perfect of all, was Patience. How
they ever did it I cannot conceive, except that they were 1909, which explains much.
It was like the White Queen in Through the Looking Glass, they were making up in
advance for all the songs 1911 and 1913 were going to sing off the key in the next five years.
Carlie, bewitching little Carlie, whose native Southern accent enhanced all the remarks

of the simple English maiden; delightful, posing Mary Rand; Pleasaunce, with her airs and
graces, and her magic lightness of foot; and then that wonderful chorus of maidens, and that
wonderful chorus of soldiers, wonderfully mingling their perfect strains, the sweet, tuneful,
melancholy one, with the nice, choppy, military one—well, I am not writing a review of
Patience, but they had all of us at the very crest of the wave by the time the serious
moment came. The moment when Amy and I were gripping each other on the front row,
100 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN





hardly conscious of what we were doing, while Pleasaunce was speaking to us over our own
banner. And then, to express our feelings, we sang that idiotic song (but all our songs were
idiotic) about keeping it nice and clean, like 1909. That was the same evening, moreover,
that we had sung the heavy and solemn song to 1907, calling ourselves a glorious class—a
song composed, I may add, by M. Scott, my first effort, and possibly not my worst. How-
ever, “though our words were certainly poor enow,” 1909 must have known how we felt
about them. Had we not just assured ourselves for fear they mightn’t, that they us would
not desert, after having thanked them awf’ly? That, however, was mere luck, we narrowly
escaped from thanking them “muchly.”

Whatever may be said, we were not sentimental, and we let the even classes witness our |
most affectionate moments. Of two of the banner nights that occurred during my time,
I can say little. All I know of 1910’s Miss Hobbes, and 1912’s Vaudeville is that each was
just the sort of thing at which that class excelled. The part that made them really banner
nights was too sacred for our odd eyes. We had to give parties of our own in Pembroke
West on those occasions, where good cheer abounded and stunts were supposed to. When,
I wonder, will this dreadful stunt habit be given up? It was one thing while Myra was
yet in college, but really now that there is no amateur talent whatever, it is almost painful.

One really good thing happened on one of those touching séances behind closed doors.
This is literal fact. 1912 is remunerative, the spot light man was appreciative. He chose
the most solemn moment to show his gratitude. Dear man! He did better than he knew,
and far better than they knew, or at least appreciated. Just while the light was full on the
outspread banner he arranged his coloured lights, chosen with skill and discrimination, and
the Freshmen were shocked on being presented with a banner that was first red and then
green, a banner which, in fact, vascillated rapidly and uncertainly between being red and
being green, but which never for a moment condescended to be any shade of blue. Oh, it’s
side by side!

As our banner night happened to come in May day year, our high dramatic ambitions
were thwarted. Many a heart beating high with the hope of playing a tragic lover was
hidden within a polar bear. Myself, I was in such a nervous flutter at having to be first
“myself when I’m at home,” in the garb of a two-year old, and then that gay, naughty
Paris, and get killed, that I could hardly see what was going on. Also I was too busy
explaining to a 1909 friend about how few rehearsals we had had and what rot it all was
anyway to notice anything, except when Elsie Moore was a crowd going into an English
quiz and Margaret Doolittle was the same crowd coming out of the quiz. Perhaps it was
THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 101

SS

my over-excited state quickening my perceptions, for that was Rock humour and I caught
it, right between the eyes, and it cheered me up not a little. I had been terribly upset
about our original Helen of Troy—Cranie went off to a Self-Gov. conference, but Hellie
filled the part toa T. Then there was my flock, the collecting of which had made me pretty
nervous and no wonder. There were Jeanne Kerr’s very best canton flannel donkey and
elephant (with saddle) and Blinkie, the rich china dog, thrown into immediate contact with
common sprawly Teddy bears and carpet rabbits. At any minute I expected a fight. There
were other things to wound my sensitive feelings, such as being made to shake a rattle.

The Freshmen were utterly bewildered. If the evening was a success, which I like to
think it was, it was due to the kind appreciation from the classes on the running track.
But 1913 contributed a good deal with their We love, we love, we love our red, but, Oh, your
green; which just shows how Freshmen have advanced since our day.

Oh, well, now 1913 are singing about how their Juniors stood firm by them. Ever
solicitous about securing compliments to ourselves we left them that to sing, and perhaps
the dear things more or less mean it. Personally I’m not just sure what “standing firm”
consists in. If it involves turning out in large numbers to cheer them through match games,
we did better by them than by ourselves. But that is another story.



Marion Sturaes Scort. »
102 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN



















































AM honoured with this subject, gentle reader, not because I know anything about it,
but because I am good-natured, and the editors know where I am. No B.M. B.A.
could have had less experience in it. I delayed my course in science until Junior

year, in case I might die first—and would have held back still another year had I not
feared collisions between Lab and tutoring in German. My choice of Physics was shame-
fully influenced by the silver lining of no Wednesday Lab. (I did not learn about the
problems until later.) Four hours a week for two semesters—and yet I am to tell 1911
Rock and Denbigh all about Laboratory!

You might infer that I do not care for scientific pursuits. On the contrary, I now
delight in them, and my great regret is that they were not my Majors. But it took this
Junior year of Minor Physics to open my eyes—and then, alas! I had embarked beyond
return upon the broad shallow seas of—well, the Romance languages. I call them that
in the hope some one may be ignorant and hence impressed. When I give French and
Spanish as my Majors I am unfailingly answered with jeers. It is a cross Aggie Murray
and I must bear together.

It was my early training that was at fault. At boarding-school we were so busy
trying to fulfil the B.M. requirements in English and Latin Prose Composition that a
simple subject like science was shoved aside. The class in Physiology at which I assisted
THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 103





—you must excuse me with Mr. Blossom if the English words have their French conno-
tation for me, remembering that I once spent a winter in Paris—this class met once every
two weeks in a little study and chanted, more or less in chorus, one or two chapters of
Martin’s Human Body. We had no laboratory, no apparatus—not even one little vertebra
or skull. At first I tried to look up things on those horrible diagrams in the book. You
know the kind,—a large mass of different shades of black with little, straight lines
running out into the open and little letters at the far ends of these lines. You trace the
line r to its apparent source in the mass, then you search in the list beneath, and find
r, the liver. But often in recitation I found that I had mistaken the true source of line m or r,
and had confused the liver with some other important but dissimilar organ. I used to
feel like the old man in Dickens—“O my lights and limbs, garoo! O, my lungs and
liver, garoo!”’ So I gave up, and took to simple memorising.

At college, happily, science is a different matter. Hand in hand with a timid friend,
I braved my first Physics lecture, expecting to have hurled at my head a set of wild words
such as I had heard biological friends learning. But Dr. Huff leaned against his desk
and struck a ball with his hand, and asked us why the ball moved. He advised us
confidentially, to think it over, and to come to Lab at two. There he set us at measuring
inches and weighing ounces, and discussed the relative merits of farming in Indiana and
Illinois. It was all mild and pleasant and friendly. In fact, Physics Lab offers unsurpassed
opportunities for friendship. You work with some one else (and in my day, if you paid
court to Miss Lowater you could choose your partner). And when together you have
propped weights with sticks that promptly fall down, and have forgotten to write that
fatal second per second in discussing acceleration, or when, after an hour’s calculation,
you have had an error of 63 per cent. and found that you have omitted, also together,
to multiply by that omnipresent 980,—well, it gives you a feeling of having lived and
suffered together that penetrats to the soul—or function of hoping, I believe is the scientific
term for soul.

Physics Lab is conducive as well to a pleasant feeling of superiority. It is, I am told,
unique among Minor Labs in that students do not all do the same thing at the same time.
So one has always a chance—which my co-worker and I never failed to seize—to regard
one’s own experiment as the choice selection of the day’s labour, and to consider its
allotment as a signal mark of true love and esteem—hence to pity all those wrestling with
inferior experiments. Only at the end of the year I discovered that this conviction of

mine was shared by the entire class. :
104 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN







Never to be forgotten was the change in Lab brought by the second semester. We
had been dealing with Mechanics and Heat,—with weights that swayed ponderously, with
rods that expanded noiselessly, with simmering liquids that were slow to boil. Our
supervision had been of the indulgent, lenient consolatory type. But after Midyears,
Electricity flashed before our startled minds. I sauntered into Lab the first of February,
expecting a reposeful afternoon, and stood spell-bound at the threshold. Students crouched
feverishly over their work, influence machines crackled and roared, sparks flew and wires
leapt about, and in the midst of the tumult—«xara xparepyy topivny—darted a violent
flame-coloured creature, who fairly vaulted over tables and chairs shouting: “How |
you gettin’ on? How you gettin’ on? No, no, no, that won’t do at all!” Before I had
time to dodge behind a pillar he bore down upon me: “Well, Miss Egan, this your idea
of gettin’ here on time? Eleven minutes past two!”

Here ends my own direct experience in Lab,—a meagre record. Of course, every
Freshman, directly or indirectly, takes Minor Biology, so all-pervasive is the atmosphere
it creates, so widespread the fame of its Lobster and Rabbit Days. Into the exclusive
precincts of Major Lab I have ventured but once. Louisa Haydock’s elder sister came to
see me and together we climbed Dalton stairs for a glimpse of our budding scientist at
work. She was indeed at work. It was Sheepshead Day this time, and the air was filled
with clamours,—‘“ Louisa, come break my jaw for me!” “Louisa, I can’t get this saw
through my skull alone!’ To and fro darted our muscular darling, her hands steeped in
gore, severing feature from feature of the timid sheep. Not for high vaults alone were
these mighty forearms bestowed!

My only connection with Post-Major Lab was negative—namely a persistent and
unavailing effort to draw another scientific friend from its clutches. It submits to no
vulgar limitations of time. After a prolonged Friday evening discussion over Catharine’s
fruit basket, I would suggest luxuriously, “Breakfast about ten at the tea-house to-morrow,
Mary?”’—only to receive the halting answer, “If my chicken slides have jellied,” or “If
I can wait so late without breakfast—Dalton opens at 7.30 to-morrow, and Daddy said he
would have five frogs ready for me.”

But who am I to dispute the superior claims of frogs? Indocti discant et ament memi-
nisse periti.

May Maraaret Eaan.
THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN

105



















































































(With apologies)

I went into the old Teahouse to get a cup o’ tea,

Miss Christy quick she up an’ sez, ‘“‘No Proctor’s served by me.”

The students at the tables, they laughed and sh-she’d me fit to die,

I outs into the the campus cold and to myself sez I:

O it’s Proctor this, an’ Proctor that, an’ “Proctor, do go home,”

But it’s “Thanks to you, Self Gov’ment,” when the time comes for to bone—
The time comes for to bone, my lass, the time comes for to bone,

O it’s “Thanks to you, Self Gov’ment,”’ when the time comes for to bone.




106

THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN





I went into a neighbour’s room as jolly as could be,

She gave a greasy grind a place, but ’adn’t none for me;

She sent me to my corridor or round the ’owlin’ ’alls,

But when it comes to hushin’, Lord! she’ll shove me where’s the bawls.

It’s Proctor this, an’ Proctor that, an’ “Proctor, quit your scream,”

But it’s ““Do shut up those Freshmen,” when Miss Crandall wants a theme—
When Miss Crandall wants a theme, my lass, when Miss Crandall wants a theme,
It’s “Do shut up those Freshmen,” when Miss Crandall wants a theme.

Yes, makin’ mock o’ library procs that guard you when you sleep,

Is easier far than chasin’ birds off them gilt rafters steep;

And laughin’ at her efforts when she’s guardin’ of the ca’m

Is five times easier business than attendin’ to your cram.

Then it’s Hoby this, an’ Hoby that, an’ ‘‘Hob’s eternal croak,”

But it’s “Where on earth’s the Proctor?” when the library’s peace is broke—
When the library’s peace is broke, my lass, when the library’s peace is broke,
O it’s ‘““Where on earth’s the Proctor?” when the library’s peace is broke.

We aren’t no guardian angels, nor we aren’t no killjoys, too,

But just zpso facto members, most remarkable like you;

An’ if sometimes our conduck isn’t all your fancy paints,

Why, proctors of Self Gov. don’t grow into plaster saints.

While it’s Quiet this, an’ Quiet that, an’ “Quiet sure’s a blight,”’

But it’s “‘Please to hush your cor’dor,” when mid-years heaves in sight—
When mid-years heaves in sight, my lass, when mid-years heaves in sight,
O it’s ‘Please to hush your cor’dor,” when mid-years heaves in sight.

MarGARET JEFFERYS HOBART.




2 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 107









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Ye a's * & 28









F course, Rock objected, it always did, and there was a hot discussion at the lunch
table. Some people left in wrath and said things about the Board which had better
not be repeated. Then most of them went in town or read a “good book,” while

a very few ambled over to the meeting and said little, though some of it was hot. In spite
of all opposition, however, the Association abolished the ring high. As for Rock, it breathed
a sigh of relief that that was over at any rate, and prepared to erase track from its mind
altogether, which it was unable to do, for Parker was elected Captain, and she picked me
out as manager, not from any dawning genius but from an ability “to put the shot.” That
is why I had to write this article and spend all my precious evenings in the Gym.

Now, my “putting the shot’”’ was not of the Houghteling variety. It came about in
this way: Miss Applebee cast her eagle eye about and perceived me cowering behind
Parker. ‘‘ Have you tried this?” she thundered out, and I meekly went over to try.

It was not the standing high of Freshman fame which won so much applause that
Delano retired and refused to grace the track except in an official capacity, but it was one
of those dreadful broads. I made great motions, took two jumps with feet close together
and heels resounding on the floor, and with the last mighty effort came down very hard and
108 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN







never reached the mat at all. I think the mats were placed too far away. Chambers and
I always did think so, but Emerson says not. We do not argue the matter, for she landed
on the floor, too, only it was on the other side of the mat.

My jumping encouraged the Freshmen too much and they became quite cocky, so
sacrificing ambition, I went to put the shot. There I stood at the far end of the Gym, by
the piano, while Houghteling and Canan hurled the shot at it so that I had to keep bobbing
about. However, I got quite expert in putting back the shot, and I warded off the Freshmen
by sending them to Parker to learn how to hurl the thing straight, and hit Miss Gray only
once or twice myself.

Parker was an admirable Captain, always cheerful, even when we considered the
possibility of Mary Minor as anchor on the tug-of-war, or Isabelle Miller as final in the relay,
or when we were forced to take Emerson out of one event (she was registered for all) just for
the looks of the thing.

You all know the rest and the two years of track glory. Yet all the while it has kept
troubling me as to whether putting the shot could be registered as heavy exercise. Do
you think it could? I hope not, for otherwise hundreds of hours of midnight runs with
Esther Cornell have all gone to waste.

IsopEL RocErs.
THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 109

NAY DAY



Troe. Te INSIDE

Osi
ny, i nL

Vie ny I) ime i] )
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|



NCE I thought I could make a funny article out of this. Once I assured Scottie
that she had no idea what quiet humour lay hidden in our little Committee meetings.
“Once, my duckie, and only once,” as Kipling used to say. Scottie, by the way,

said she did have an idea, because she had been dragged to one of those same Committee
meetings, having been previously informed that Mr. King considered her huge, buxom,
and altogether “a handsome woman,” rather than “a dainty slip of a girl” (I quote his
words). Her purpose was to prove him wrong; this she did with the aid of—no, never
mind, this is not a beauty section. At all events, Mr. King gazed at this sylph (whom he
had, apparently, never seen before, save in hockey-clothes), gasped, rubbed his eyes, winked
twice, hard, and said ‘‘Gracious, how did she do it!!!’

(N. B.—Scottie says that the above is a base slander. She says it was all perfectly.
natural—the transformation, I mean.)

Now, to return to where I began, I fear that “the insides” of May Day is but a sad
110 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN





and bitter subject. There is something somewhere in Shakespeare about seeing ““me best
friend slain before me eyes”—well, imagine hearing all your friends slain before your eyes!
Was it pleasant? No. Nor is it pleasant to recall.

I, personally, was somewhat worried over an incident which occurred in early N ovember.
The white boot tops came twinkling after me one dark night, and pretty soon a voice in the
darkness—Mr. King’s—asked “How tall are you? About six feet?” Of course, I
indignantly shouted no, that I was only five nine (and then proceeded to add that I was
really awfully funny, only he mightn’t believe it); still there lurked in my heart the fear
that he might have cast me, together with Georgina, for a May Pole. At that first
memorable meeting I longed to dress in circular stripes (the L. H. J. says that’s the way
for the tall woman to look short) but was, unhappily, not able.

Mr. King looked us up, and he looked us down, as we sat in a row—we eight. Then
he said he was sure he didn’t see why we felt it necessary to appoint a committee for
choosing parts, because of course he had made up his mind about every part, years and years
before. ‘Now, for example, my Venus,” he murmured, ecstatically, “Why, I picked her
out—three years ago” (as Barb was at that time on the Pacific Coast, the statement is
interesting to say the least).

We, the Committee, were respectful, but curious. Later we were pugnacious, as well.
All the people he said were funny, we thought were dull; all the people he thought were
beautiful, we said were hideous. And so on, even to questions of tall and short. He was
sure, for example, that Constance Wilbur was a giantess; and that Keinath Stohr was just
cupid-size. “My twelve cupids must be twelve perfect, little rosebuds,” he explained
tenderly. And so it went.

He turned us loose, with vows of secrecy, to scour the campus for rosebuds, flowers,
comedians, merry men, etc. It was bad enough to have to scan every face; but later, when
Miss Daly taught us to scan every leg, then we really agonised. We used to go in pairs to
gym drills, and, standing on the running track, watch for likely people. But somehow, a
roomful of writhing blues, and reds, and greens, knotted in such contortions as only Miss
Applebee can devise, isn’t a hopeful spectacle from an aesthetic point of view. “Isn’t it
funny,” we would exclaim, “That people’s legs aren’t more like them?”

But you see all this isn’t funny. It is merely the sad, sad truth. It was a little funny
when Mr. King came dashing in one day and said “No, Miss Y. cannot be a Grace. I walked
up from the station behind her to day, and—she waddles!!”, We gasped at the hideous
revelation, and hoped he wouldn’t walk up from the station behind us. He went on to
THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN III







explain that she was wearing goloshes at the time. Now, of course, maybe his own perfect
carriage might be marred by goloshes, so we would summon her—and watch her, unaware.

This he did. He sent for the lady in question, and made her walk up and down the
room, while he followed, with eyes riveted upon her hips. After she had gone, he shook his
head sadly. It was too true. She did waddle. “I wonder,’ mused Mr. King, “if there
is any physical deformity !’——Oh, the innocence of man!

There were other parts, too, which Mr. King had “picked at a glance.” When Jeanne
mysteriously told Leila, after that first meeting, that Mr. King had given her (Leila) a part
which he said no one else in college could do, for three weeks Leila strutted about—and
ignorance was bliss indeed. Finally she was presented with a red calico dressing gown,
which must have cost all of thirty-nine cents, and told that her part would consist in
sitting on a fence for three solid hours, and not saying a word. Still, there were compensa-
tions: certain exquisite lines, such as “Soft, here come the harvesters! Ten to one they sing
a song of mowing,” which helped to keep her “cheery and bright.”

There are many more happenings to tell of: how Barb longed to try Bottom, and
Georgina yearned for Titania; of how Iki volunteered to be the “artificial ass” and brayed
joyfully straight through the play; and Aggie acted one whole performance with her
Titanic arm in a black silk sling. But Leila says this article is getting to be too long, so

with a brief Anassa for May-Day, I shall cease.
CaTHERINE LyMAN DELANO.
112 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN





i








. ite
Let

\
1

\ ES

“Hii ln

ca

ad aN
es RY be

g

S our long-suffering business
manager can assure you, I
find considerable trouble in

writing this article. The subject
of it is May-day. Now, the
thing I remember best about
May-day and the thing that
especially engrossed my atten-
tion was myself! Therefore—
if I may be guilty of inductive
reasoning—I have decided that
this article, to be a complete
success, must be composed of
sketches on each member of the
class; then each person could
read simply the description of
herself and—if I happened to
be feeling good-natured when I
wrote the description, as I
should certainly try to be—
would tell her friends that the
article on May-day was especi-
ally good, so intimate and de-
tailed and brought the whole
picture before your eyes. Well,
that is my ideal; but the great
difficulty is that, as you will
remember, the fact my line of
reasoning is based on which is
that I remember nothing but
myself. So how can I write
such an article?
THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN ay



No one on the committee can possibly appreciate the agony suffered by us lower mortals
when we sat around waiting for the committee meetings to be over, and then sallied forth
to greet the favoured ones, only to be met by a forbidding silence. We concluded sadly that,
even with the higher mortals, at times all does not go well. But finally everything was
settled, for the best or for the worst, and then came the arranging of costumes and the
beginning of rehearsals. As for me,* the former process interested me less than the latter.
My costume was simple, lamentably simple. In fact, the only reason apparent to me for
my being given a costume was that there were certain persons designated to dole out
costumes and there were certain hours that had to be occupied by the said doling. So I
sacrificed myself and joined the line that was being measured and weighed and fitted in
an elaborate manner. But all the time I was thinking that I had a perfectly good brown
bathrobe of my own. However, there were many who openly and shamelessly revelled
in their costumes, and justly too. Perhaps there were moments in which I longed to have
glorious red hair and wear a silky brown costume and be sublimely conscious of the
becomingness of the wreath of silken oranges crowning the aforesaid hair. Or I might
have yearned for a flowing white robe trimmed with silver and loosened yellow hair bound
back by a silver cord. Or, perhaps, my fancy might have been caught by a saucy, short,
gayly flowered dress, trimmed by a glossy brown cow. If so, I smothered my yearnings and
flew home to look for silver linings in the modest brown garment tucked away in my closet.

For me, then, the costuming was a secondary question: But I could wax eloquent on
the subject of rehearsals. My only consolation for what I suffered on Tuesday evenings
was in watching what others suffered on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays. I felt
that I owed that much to my self-respect. I have forgotten what happened to my work
during this time; but someone must have been doing it, perhaps Esther. She got such
thorough enjoyment from the rehearsals that she never felt the need of watching others,
and the more other people watched her, the more she seemed to be enjoying herself. She
swept the gallery with her strong, fearless gaze and fairly revelled. As for me, I could
raise my eyes no higher than the clock. They preferred to remain on the clock anyway.
It was a lesson to any one, it was so hard-working and painstaking. I never saw it shirk
a minute, and every time I looked at it I was filled with a philanthropic yearning to help it
along. I had three speeches, I think, presented to me with the same elaborate ceremony
as my costume, and my whole aim was to avoid at least one of them, which I generally
could do as they were scattered through the play. The play lasted only about three-quarters
of an hour, but for some reason we never reached the end, and weekly ran the risk of a
cheerless night spent on the campus.



* See paragraph 1.
114 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN





Finally the day came, bright and clear. There were gay banners flying from the
towers and everything was very exciting. Early in the morning crowds of people began
wandering about the campus and when you stopped to think that you were one of the things
that they were coming to see, you really got quite thrilled. I was pretty glad that I hadn’t
missed it by having mumps or whooping cough or something of the kind. I met H. P.
during the morning; she was sitting under a tree and she appeared to be thinking. So I
stopped and asked her if I could help her. After a moment she said that she thought, she
really though, that she was going to like May-day. She had intended to give up May-day
and orals as a propitiation to the gods to insure her health on some date the next year,
June 7th I think it was; but she was glad that she hadn’t. A quaint idea, was it not? I’ve
heard before of orals being given up, but hardly as a propitiation.

Immediately after lunch we gathered to form the procession. I was perfectly blissful
with my little donkey and I could hardly wait to get on it. I hopped up gaily and was
feeling pretty important when I happened to hear the owner of the donkey murmur sadly
to the group of sympathetic on-lookers, “Aw, look at his back bend!” I fell off hastily,
assuring him that I wasn’t nearly so heavy as I looked. However, I’m afraid that
circumstantial evidence was against me. He shook his head sadly, perfectly unconvinced,
and I started mournfully on my way, wondering if I could carry the donkey back if worst
came to worst. But I soon cheered up. Being in that procession was the next best thing
to being in a circus parade. And oh, the joy of the remarks of those lined up along the
way! The time came all too quickly for the procession to back up and the May-pole dance
to begin.

The spontaneity of that dance was refreshing. We dashed madly about regardless
of time and tune, our only object being to keep moving. There was one corner of the
green that we all learned to avoid, for when we dragged our weary feet in that direction, we
were sure to be greeted by a voice that bellowed, “‘ Dance,” and off we started again, with
stumbling feet and reeling head. But the audience was most encouraging and enthusiastic,
and assured us that it was a lovely sight. In fact they were a model audience all the
afternoon. I wonder if they realised how much nicer it was to play to them than to a few
critical girls, standing idly about, clad in hockey clothes. At any rate, we tried to show
our gratitude.

And finally it was over. The last play was played, the last dance was danced, and
we were left sitting on the rows of empty seats, looking over the deserted campus in a pardon-
ably complacent state of mind. For May-day was over and it was a success.

Louise S. Russe.t.


THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN IIs







With cerebrum weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A Senior sat at a Library desk
Cramming notes into her head.
Bone! Bone! Bone!
Alas for the fool that she is!
And still with a voice of dolorous tone
She sang the “Song of the Quiz!”

Grind—grind—grind,

Till the brain begins to swim.
Grind—grind—grind,

Till the eyes are heavy and dim.
Psych, and History, and Bi,

Bi, and History, and Psych,
Till over the pages I fall asleep

And turn them as fast as I like!

Tl

yj >5
ie ——— ae
MMA



=

Tab! Tab! Tab!
While the cock is crowing aloof
And tab—tab—tab,
Till the stars shine through the roof!
It’s oh! to be a slave
Along with the barbarous Turk,
Where woman has never a soul to save
Of English is Christian work!

Dig—dig—dig!
Will my toil forever last?

And what are its wages but weariness,
A headache to boot, and—a passed.

A heat intense, and a high-built desk
So you can’t see over the top,

' And a room so still that I feel a thrill

At hearing my spirits drop.
116



THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN





Cram—cram—cram!
From weary chime to chime!
Work—work—work,
As prisoners work for crime!
Bi, and History and Psych,
Psych, and History, and Bi—
Till the heart is sick and the brain benumbed,
And red ink wearies the eye.

O! but to breathe the breath
Of the days and years that are past!
O! to feel able to cut
And not copy the lecture at last!
For only one short hour
To feel as I used to feel,
Before the Quiz demon came into my life,
And poisoned my every meal.

Pole—pole—pole,
In the dull December light!
And pole—pole—pole,
When the weather is warm and bright!
And just outside the door
The reserve room girl sits still,
As if to show me the pure delight
Of a life where quizzes count nil.

QO! but for one short hour
That I for my own may keep!

No blessed leisure for hockey or hack
But only time to sleep!

A little weeping would ease my heart
But I give my eyes a dab;

My tears must stop, for every drop
Blocks the red ink on a tab.

With cerebrum weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A Senior sat at a Library desk
Cramming notes into her head.
Who is so wretched as she?
Alas for the fool that she is!
And still with a voice of minor key—
Would it could reach the powers that be!—
She sang the song of the Quiz.

JESSIE CLIFTON.
THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 117







Athletic Scenes
Bryn Mawr. The center of the hockey-field.

Enter Appelonius, Captensius, and a rabble of Freshmen (dressed in all manner of
blouses or shirt-waists, and all lengths of skirts, and all gingerly carrying hockey-sticks).
poe APPELONIUS:—
Hence! back, you idle creatures, get
you back.
Is this a foot-ball game? What, know
you not,
Having positions all, you ought not
crowd
Upon the center-line, without a thought
Of what you do?—Speak, what place
have you?

First FresHmMan:—Why, sir, a wing.

APPELONIUS :—

Go, find the outskirts of the center line,
thy place.

What, dost thou with that silly snicker
on?—

You, sir, what place have you?

SECOND FRESHMAN :—Truly, sir, in respect
of a new player, I am but, as you would say,
a Jack-of-all-trades.

AppEeLonius:—But what place hast thou?
Answer me directly.

Seconp FresHmMan:—A place, that, yes-
terday, was part full-back, part goal, that
the day before was half-back.

APpPrELONIUS:—What place to-day, thou ass, thou silly ass, what place?

Sreconp FresHmMan:—Why, sir, I was not put down in any place to-day; but, sir,
I am very desirous to play, sir; and having had my physical examination only three days
ago, sir, I thought——














118 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN





AppeLontus:—You thought, indeed. What right have you to think? Captensius,
where is your team? Put your team in order, forsooth, or they shall not play.

Caprensius:—I am trying, sir.

Apprtontus:—Trying! And how many hours do you intend to keep trying? It is
indeed most condescending of you to keep 1908 waiting—they will enjoy even more
watching you hit each other in the nose, and stand still and admire yourselves! You
have no wits at all. Come forth from the’ , , a a
rabble, those of you who were told to play the
first half. Ye others, sit down on the bank
where ye will find the green grass most inviting.

Tuirp FresHMAN:—But, Captensius, I’m
the third full-back here.

APpPELONIUS:—Silence, red-head! to the
bank, ye rabble! to your positions, team!
And let’s watch the Freshmen try to make
a goal!



Scene II

Arbright room. At the front, a pulpit. Near
the front, members of the Senior class, some
in evening clothes, some in jumpers (with
no strings in them!) covered by capes.
Freshman, Carenus, enter later.



First Senior:—Thrice has our team
broke its nose.
Seconp SENIoR:—Thrice each minute we
have fouled.
Tuirp Senior:—Umpire cries: ’tis low, ’tis vile.
First Senror:—Round about the scrap-heap go.
In, the pois’nous rules now throw.—
Snatching balls, that breedeth fights,
Overguarding— gainst our rights,
Interference, fierce and deep
Dump I in the horrid heap.






THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN



119



Auu:—Double, double toil and trouble
Scrap-heap burn, and ashes bubble.

Enter Freshman.
FREsHMAN:—Q, well done, I commend your pains,
And every-one will share i’ the gains.
And now about the scrap-heap sing,
Like elves and witches in a ring,
Enchanting all that you put in.

Music and a Song, “Black Critics.”
Freshman retires.
Seconp Senrior:—By the pricking of my thumbs,
Something fiercely this way comes.
Open locks
Whoever knocks.

Enter Carenus.
CarENus:—How now, you secret, black 1911? What is ’t you do?
Auu:—A deed without a name.
CareNvus:—I conjure you, by that which you’re “professed,”
Howe’er you come to know it, answer me;
Though you out-step all bounds, and seek to make
A game which all the colleges accept,
Though you make rules which prep-schools gladly play,
E’en till destruction threaten, answer me
To what I ask you.
First Senror:—Speak.
SEeconD SENIOR:—Demand.
Turrp Senior:—We'll answer.
First Sentor:—Say, if thou ‘dst rather hear it from our mouths
Or from our masters.
CARENUS:—Call ’em; let me see ’em.
A.Lt:—Come, high, or low;
Thyself and office deftly show.
120 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN



Taylor Bell. First Apparition, a white line.

CarEenus:—Tell me, thou unknown power,—
First Srnior:—He knows thy thought;

Hear his speech, but say thou nought.
First APPARITION:—Bryn Mawr, Bryn Mawr, Bryn Mawr, beware the lines.

Beware the fixed cage—Dismiss me—Enough.
CarENvs:—Whate’er thou art, for thy good caution, thanks,:
I see thy argument.—But one word more.—

First Senior:—He will not be commanded, here’s another,

More potent than the first.

Taylor Bell. Second Apparition, a broken nose.

SEcoND APPARITION:—Bryn Mawr! Bryn Mawr! Bryn Mawr!

Carenvus:—’Mid “Just One More” I’d hear thee.

Second ApPARITION:—Be bloody, bold, and resolute; laugh to scorn
The power of fouls, for none in basket-ball
Shall harm Bryn Mawr.

CarENus:—Then, interference, live thee on; what need I fear of thee?

Taylor Bell. Third Apparition. A child, its head bandaged in a banner, with a hockey
stick in his hand.

CarENus:—What is this
That rises like a victor in a field
And wears a banner on its baby brow,
The stainless sign of victory?
Auu:—Listen, but speak not to’t.
Tuirp ApPARITION:—Be sporty-mettled, proud, and take no care,
Who chafes, who frets, or where opponents are.
Bryn Mawr shall never vanquished be until
All-Philadelphia in basket-ball
Shall come against it.
CaRENvus:—That will never be!
HeLten Emerson.




THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 121

= | —vve—

* THE NURS

| mm] A EYEARS REACTIONARY
he BY A PATIENT SENIOR









VEN at first I thought this subject
attracted me. It had such dramatic
possibilities. The brilliant throng

before my mind’s eye was worthy of my
best efforts. I saw myself composing a
masterpiece which should treat first of the
Amazon. Indeed, a literary work which
introduces “the Amazon” takes on an
almost epic grandeur. It becomes vast,
Hellenic, Amazonic.

The scenes through which that great
figure moves are drawn from life. Vainly
—_—— — a the impotent creature struggles against her

fate. Should a tear fall from her eye the
tragic remark (inspiring pity and fear) is made: “I was very successful with insane patients
in Dr. X ’s private sanatarium.” The pill goes down. When you come to think of it,
the pill always does go down when an embodiment of fate (height six feet four or thereabouts)
stands over you while you take it. I once threw a small pill out of the window. I felt
that I was indeed flying in the face of Providence. Although the flight did not send me
out of the window after the pill with a consequent $5.00 fine to pay, I realised that the
only reason it didn’t was because the gods were merciful and let the incident stand as
an exception to the rule that you can’t side-step fate.

This event has universal significance, as in fact any has that is connected with that
heroic character. The fact that I do not at the moment remember her name, and so
cannot record it here is a matter of slight importance. That she stands in my mind simply








































122 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN





as the Amazon shows the universality of her character. Then, too, whatever her name
was, she soon changed it by joining her fortunes to those of a horse-doctor. On first con-
sideration, this last event may seem to make an unsatisfactory climax, even an anti-climax
to her story—a lowly end which one would have thought incompatible with her heroic
proportions. In reality, as is plain after a little thought, nothing is further from the truth.
True to the classic demands made on her by her name and character, the Amazon was
fulfilling her high professional destiny. In her husband’s patients she must have felt
that she would have a wider area for her ministrations. Moreover, an Amazon must
necessarily be more at home with steeds than with ladies.

After our Freshman year Bryn Mawr knew this classic heroine no more, and with her
successors who were built on the ordinary scale, moral suasion took the place of brawn in
leading the ailing student back to health, My memories of the Amazon are vivid and
personal. Her pills were for all. My associations with her successors were for two years
mostly spectacular, except when (on rare occasions) connected with the administering of
gargles or mild doses of sticking plaster. I admired chiefly Miss Hartwig’s decorative
aspect—she would have made a lovely Gibson girl. I knew only from hearsay of her
artistic work in the bandage line. Among other nurses, I recall Miss Rhodes, who laughed
at my jokes and made a brief rest-cure at the Infirmary so happy that I failed to regret
“the quiz I left behind me.”

With Senior year, however, my nursing experience has grown vivid. I was taken
with poison-ivy in the late fall when the earth was bare and no baleful shrubs were visible
without the aid of a microscope. I did not have the microscope which is probably the
reason why I came on the shrub unawares. I have very vague ideas of the nurse in charge
of the ensuing plague because I could not see her. Her voice, however, was low and
soft—unaccompanied by mocking laughter. She and Dr. Branson were the only people
who did not laugh at my appearance.

On the principle of climax, I place my scarlet-fever nurse last. She was with me, not
through four years like 1911, but through five weeks, which is quite different and much
longer. With apologies to Delano for plagiarising let me “draw the veil, the memory
doth cut.” Only she had hair almost the same shade as Hellie’s, which was a little enlivening.

Rosatinp Mason.


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
124 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN





pleased that outsiders should join us in the recognition of our merits. 1913 rose daily
at six in order to render Pallas several weeks early with unity, clearness and force, and
the undergraduate body as a whole concentrated on the Star Spangled Banner and
Manus Bryn Mawrensium.

Then one of those aggressively executive members of our community asked where all
these renowned visitors were to stay. In West we heard that they were to be lodged on the
other side of the Arch, and we felt sorrier than ever for dwellers in East. Mindful of my
springy window seat, I rushed across to invite an East friend to stay with me during the
Jubilee, but she, through some absurd mistake, had heard that the delegates were to honour
West. In little drops the truth trickled out. Both Pembrokes were to be temporarily
evacuated by the students at an early hour Friday, October twenty-first, to be re-entered
when the delegates should see fit to depart.

After all, it is not an unspeakable calamity to leave one’s room for thirty-six hours.
Some of us do it occasionally of a week-end, and Schmitty even of a week-middle, and
as for Dotty—the whole corridor stays up to celebrate when she spends a night in her
own room. It was being driven out that depressed us, and the necessity of leaving order
behind, and the desperate feeling that we could not return at any moment for things
forgotten. Our friends in other halls were sympathetic and hospitable. I was invited to
stay with Scottie and Virginia, and in great elation went to register that fact on the list
on West: bulletin-board. Opposite the names above mine I noticed ditto marks instead
of room numbers, and idly ran my eye to the head of the column. There, heading seven
pairs of ditto marks, I read “M. Scott 5-9 Denbigh.” I dejectedly affixed the eighth.

Well, we all moved out during Chapel Friday, with our hockey skirts and our toy pigs
and pelicans, and the pessimists brought their Sunday hats, convinced that the delegates
would be too charmed to leave promptly. We stole back guiltily to a stand-up supper,
and greeted Alumnz, and watched Lantern Night, hoping that the delegates would be
capable of feeling its beauty as we did. Other people afterwards did a great many other
things, but every drop of my energy was spent in getting the varsity hockey team to bed
—which was a bit difficult, as they had no beds. They accomplished the feat however—
a vain sacrifice on their part, since the next morning we awoke to a downpour unequaled
since the Flood. The opposing hockey team had the insight to telephone from
West Philadelphia that it would stay where it was until the cloud-burst had ceased and
then go home.

That excitement over, we assembled in large numbers beneath Pembroke Arch, which


THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 125













afforded an amusing spectacle: delegates peering wistfully out from within the halls,
wondering where the rightful owners of their rooms had hidden their umbrellas, and
students peering wistfully in, and even stealing through the doors to beg Emma or
Margaret in sepulchral whispers, please to slip into number 9 and bring out that brown
rubber coat. As rainproof as possible, most of us went to the Chapel, where the chief
interest was in watching how the various renowned debaters took the ringing of the little
bell which caught them at the end of five minutes. Some felt it coming and hurried
nervously until their speeches soundedjustlikethis; others discreetly finished within the
allotted time and sat down with a smile of triumph; a few marked the sound with a
haughty lift of the brows and deliberately finished what they wished to say; while the
truly sporting spirits spoke unconcernedly and stopped dead at the signal.

There was a slight delay on this famous Saturday afternoon about forming the great
procession, which, instead of sweeping majestically into the cloisters, was doomed to squeeze
through the scant opening allowed in the over-crowded gymnasium. Miss Maddison, it
seemed, had said that we should form the line in Taylor; Doctor Warren had issued a
proclamation that all should gather beside the swimming pool, and it took an hour to
unite the resulting divisions, each scornful of the other’s stupidity. Finally we were all
safely packed into folding chairs, and we burst into song, eager to see how the guests
would respond to our rendering, “And this is our motta,”’ instead of the antiquated form
“And this is our mot-to-oe.”” That over, we listened eagerly to the speeches in order
to be able to criticise them intelligently afterwards (faithful products that we are of our
required English training). In the intervals of attention Pembroke Marshals tried to
spot the people using their rooms. Miss Laws had assured me that my delegate would
be very distinguished, so I tried to memorise all the distinguished ones with the idea of
recognising him in retrospect from her description. I failed. We had a cruel disappoint-
ment in not being allowed to sing Laetissimae Puellae to Doctor Shorey and others,
but speakers were eloquent and time pressed.

“Max and Morris I grow sick
When I think on your last trick.”

It must have been some one like them who hid President Lowell’s simple black umbrella,
the frantic search for which made the ensuing twenty minutes a dreadful blur in my mind.
I remember regaining an upright posture, after extracting an umbrella by the inverse
process from one of those wretched stands, to find myself glaring fiercely across it at Julia
126 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN





Haines—a fellow seeker—who was grasping it with equal firmness by its distended ribs.
Then our eyes sought the umbrella, now in the light, and we saw that it was blue.

The festivities at an end, the sun shone graciously, and Amy and I wandered about
the campus, weary outcasts. Soon pleasant rumours drifted our way; Alice Ames had
overheard a delegate ordering roses to be left in his room, Anina had discovered five pounds
of Maron’s best in hers. We could hardly wait to return to our own rooms to see what
delightful surprise awaited us. Finally 4 and 6 were reported empty and we darted in,
a-twitter with pleasurable excitement. My gift was a booklet of services at some church
in Ogontz, with portrait of pastor, and Amy’s was an over-powering odour of stale tobacco,
unquestionably inferior in its first freshness. Hae sunt lacrimae rerum.

May MarGaret EGAN.


THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN

127







parted at the Altar

or

The Sewing Woman's Revenge
A MELODRAMA BY M. SCOTT

CASTE
Rweoiaty, DUCE OF HIDDENWOULDE: 46.66 6 3. ee ae C. Delano
Tue Countess Diana (his affianced bride). ........ M. Hoffman
Azicta (the viperish sewing woman). . .°... - 6 +5 ss M. Prussing
ANGELICA (her good and beautiful sister). . ....... H. Henderson
PrercivaL (the handsome footman). .......+-+e2+8+8 L. Russell
Tue Guost or tue RIDPENWOULDES. 1660. ek ee eee M. Scott

Scene.—A Medizval Castle


128 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN





Dramatic and literary circles enjoyed a rare treat in this first production of one of the
earliest works of a rising young author. Moreover, every part was well taken, the actors
doing full justice to the beautiful and thrilling lines. The scene first disclosed to an
enthusiastic audience is the old library of Castle Riddenwoulde, an accurate and realistic
portrayal of dim medieval grandeur (we are informed on reliable authority that every
screen used antedated the Renaissance). At a desk sits the Duke, a huge, overbearing man
with dark, fierce eyes and a cruel, resolute jaw. One sees at a glance that he is a man
of iron will and powerful passions; a man who will not brook restraint or curb. He
fumbles among the papers and draws forth a letter. ‘From me sainted father,” he mutters
tensely. First puzzled, then in accents of increasing anguish, he reads aloud words
which are to alter his life, nay, his very destiny. He reads that his father was not the
true Duke of Riddenwoulde, nor yet his grandfather; that his grandfather usurped the
title and had the real claimant ‘“‘foully done to death in his dungeon.” ‘“’S death,” he
murmurs, as he reads the next lines, in which the hideous truth is revealed to him that
the future heir still lives. For a moment all seems lost; then regaining his courage, he
realises that no one need ever know his secret. But suddenly he turns and sees, at his
very elbow, the pale, leering features of Alicia, the viperish sewing-woman. “Not so fast,”
she hisses between her teeth. “Villain, I have thee in me power.”’ It would be impossible
to express the mingled thrill of fear and horror produced by this character, as rendered
by Miss Prussing. As the woman threatens the Duke with exposure, finally bringing him
to buy her silence at any price, the audience trembles with a sense of impending doom.
“T sicken of the sewing machine,” hisses Alicia, angrily snatching the needles from the front
of her dress and hurling them to the ground. Then finally she secures the wretched man’s
permission to invite to the castle her younger sister, Angelica, a good and beautiful maiden,
who is now wearing out her life in a delicatessen shop. After her exit there follows a scene
between the Duke and his affianced bride, the Countess Diana. Diana is a magnificent
woman, but cold and proud. With a great effort, the Duke dissembles his mental anguish.
“Shall we stroll together upon the battlements,” he says, “and talk—of love?” And
hand in hand they disappear.

The next act opens with a soliloquy by the ingenue, Angelica. The part was exquisitely
and charmingly rendered by Miss Henderson, whose bewitching appearance (in a dainty
bodiced frock and coquettish cap set atop her auburn curls) and whose gentle, ingenuous
coyness must needs have captured the heart of every gentleman in the audience. “In
sooth,” she murmurs, “I am but a poor, simple little maiden and know not why I am


THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 129





thus transported to such a scene of luxury and elegance, nor why every one is so kind to me.”
She speaks of the Duke’s kindness; and then in a lower tone, of the attentions of “that
handsome Percival,” who makes her heart go pitty-pat. Percival now enters, the jealous
bearer of a picture postal addressed to Angelica, and signed: “From your stetty und
lofing but lonely Adolf.” “Oh, the silly boy,” the maiden simpers. Then Percival,
stunning and irresistible in his green livery, coaxes from her the admission that she loves—
not Adolf, but himself. Their long embrace is interrupted by the entrance of the Duke,
who does not, however, see them spring apart. He, in turn, makes love to the gentle
Angelica. “Oh, sweetest enchantress,” he murmurs, “Only two short weeks have you been
in my castle, yet in that short time your sweet tenderness and maiden modesty have made
me forget all else. You are mine.” She strives shyly to escape his embraces, and finally
she admits that she loves another: Percival, the footman. ‘“Ho-ho,” laughs Reginald
scornfully. “I have me footman for a r-r-rival. Minion, dost thou know what I shall
do? Ishall take that footman and have him murdered in me dungeon.” A piercing shriek
from Angelica rends the air. “ Murderrred—that footman—by slow torture,” reiterates
the cruel Duke. “I consent,” she murmurs weakly, and he then forces her to take her
solemn oath that she “will marry the Duke of Riddenwoulde.” Diana, entering, sees their
embrace and demands the reason for it. With cruel, disdainful words the Duke confronts
her, and tells her of the transfer of his affections. ‘Gold and a cold beauty like yours
may dazzle men’s eyes, but they cannot touch men’s hearts as do simple worth and ten-
derness! Begone, and never let me see your fair, false face again.’ At these words, the
overwhelmed Diana is about to withdraw, nor is the audience impervious to a feeling of
pity for the stricken creature. Just then Alicia rushes in and learns the situation. In
spite of the dread oath which her sister has taken, she vows she will prevent the villainy
from going forward.

Seeking the great, cavernous cellars of the castle, she is met by the horrible, siren-like
shrieks of the family ghost. At her summons, the spirit emerges from the shadows—a
huge, spectral figure, with hideous visage. She tells him of her sister’s plight, and entreats
his aid. Together they form a dark compact: if he will haunt the wicked Duke and
prevent him from marrying Angelica, she—Alicia—promises to insure his proper burial in
the family vault. He has apparently grown bored with living in the cellar all these years,
and reminds her of the fact with gentle ghostly humour.

The next act opens with a ghost-scene beside which the greatest of Shakespeare must
seem shallow and meaningless. Reginald is trying to flee the spirit of his ancestors. He
130 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN





dodges it in spirals and figure-lights, all over the huge stage, but everywhere the ghost
(being a better runner than Reggie any day) pursues him. At last they cease and parley.
“You married the woman you loved,” says the Duke sentimentally. “All happiness is
yours.” ‘Yes, all happiness,” retorts the ghost, snappily. “‘Nice, steam-heated apart-
ments, electric curling-irons, hot and cold baths, all the modern conveniences; charming,
I assure you.” And even after the entrance of Angelica, the spirit forces his caustic wit
upon a love scene, causing the Duke much embarrassment. Suddenly Lady Diana rushes
in, a dagger in her outstretched hand. She is prepared to kill the man who has jilted her so
cruelly. But, close to him, her strength fails, she totters backward, murmuring, “But no,
I cannot; I love thee too much.” Poor, fond, woman—how keenly do we feel her sorrow!

Angelica is now brought in, prepared for the wedding—a lace curtain drapes her auburn
locks. Again, with anguish, Alicia protests. ‘‘Cease,’’ roars the duke. “Know ye that
Angelica has promised, on her sacred honour, to marry the Duke of Riddenwoulde.” A
sudden movement behind, then a divinely handsome creature springs forward. It is
Percival. ‘And I am the Duke of Riddenwoulde,” he declares, taking his love in his arms.

And with this glorious climax, the curtain falls, leaving us glad in the triumph of the
rightful heir over the cruel usurper.

CATHERINE LyMAN DELANO










THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN

- AN EXPLODED
| SUPERSTITION
—, i a

















LTHOUGH I am a firm believer that the Senior oral is nothing more than a glorified
A private reading examination, as Grace Branham, sophisticated by a year in the great
world, wrote me, I must say that my wait in the chapel during the last great ordeal
before what was then only a hypothetical hoop rolling, makes it impossible for me to treat
the oral fear as flippantly as I once thought I could.

As the rising sun made the May morning so long crammed for, an actuality, Prussie,
who had started above me in Minor French marks, was still left to persuade the Faculty,
who have always been so much denser than 1911, that she knew how to render enigmatical
French into flowing English, but as I sat down at nine to a tasteless egg, the word was brought
that she had succeeded, and sedate Pembroke dining room yelled aloud for joy and would
have cheered except for the “Bryn Mawr Students’ Association for Self-Government.”
Elsie Funkhauser was also through. As I have indicated, the Faculty always leaves the
linguists to make a fine showing at the end. Every one was through French. The French
oral superstition had exploded.
132 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN





My appetite returned, and I ate my egg, and went over to see the German oral turned
inside out. Miss Jeffers made gold out of that oral but we were looking for the silver lining.
But, O 1911, that was an awful wait in the chapel, wasn’t it? John whispered to me it
was hell, but though I assured her it was only purgatory with release in sight, I wasn’t so
sure. However, I am at enough distance now to pick out the bright spots even in that terrific
occasion. “Humanity needs vistas,” as we have heard.

You all remember 1913’s delicate attention to the orallers, red strawberries on green
plates.

Did you hear Schmidt’s classic remark as she bounded gayly into the chapel, “ Well,
I read like a breeze. I hope it wasn’t an ill wind’’?

By the time I had found out that every one taking the fourth oral knew from four to
twenty times as much as any one had known who passed the first, I had raced Elsie Funk-
hauser around the chapel with half minute time by the clock, and we had sung hymns and
Pinkie had played on the organ, we—well, you know what happened. What? Yes, we got
through. Whoop! 1911 Senior orals had joined the “Never Come Back Club.”

I wish I could describe the kodak snapshot I have. Perhaps a good many of you have
seen it. It shows Schmidt in the center of the field of vision. She holds a hoop. Can’t
you see her saying, “ Yes, I passed, by Hek!”’

Rosauinp Fay Mason.


THE BOOK OF, THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 133

OS. . =.”
6














(SENioR CLAss SUPPER)

°*M really awfully sorry about this speech. You see, I went to town this afternoon to
get some teeth to speak through, and it took so long that when I came out again, I
discovered I hadn’t anything to speak through my teeth.

I went to only one President’s reception. I tell you this so you may understand what
a remarkable impression I must have made to have been picked out for this peculiar honour.
I started out with the idea of making myself charming. H. P. had given me some pointers,
and I was feeling pretty sure of myself. To be sure, so far I hadn’t had much to do with the
powers that be except on one occasion when I went down to Low Buildings to try to prevail
upon Miss King to sign my course book at the last minute, and inadvertently walked upstairs
—with the fatal idea that it was all on the principle of a flat—and found myself in her private
apartments before I knew it. She was kind enough to confide in me all the most intimate
details of her family arrangements there, and how I must never dare come up without being
preceded byacard ON A TRAY! Then I left—with my course book still unsigned.

Well, to return to what I was saying,—I hadn’t had much social intercourse with the
faculty and I determined to show Miss Thomas and Miss Garrett what very bright little
lights are sometimes concealed under bushels. So I chatted vivaciously all the way over to
the Deanery to get myself in trim. My nerve was somewhat shaken at the door, I will
admit, when Henry, cautiously admitting us in single file, clicked us off as mere numerical
units—on some sort of a little machine he had in his hand. But the conversation in the
dressing-room brought me back to my normal level. It was, as I remember, qualified to make
134 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN





anybody feel at home. I can’t quite remember what it was about, but I know it was Schmit
and Delano talking. When I had divested myself of my polo coat, I sailed gracefully into the
hall. I think I must have been quite late, because there were thousands of people there, all
standing in a circle, smirking in the silliest way you can imagine. I spied Pinkie lurking
behind a chair over by the fireplace, giggling hysterically, so after having shaken hands with
Miss Thomas and told her my name—not like Ruth Gaylor, who murmured bashfully when
Miss Thomas inquired her name—, the one tender syllable “Ruth”—I made for Pinkie’s
corner. I gathered that Miss Thomas had been only waiting for me to begin proceedings,
for as soon as I had come in, she sat down and remarked, ‘“‘Now, suppose we have some
general conversation.”

Do you remember college breakfast, when we were Sophomores? There was a joke.
It was a very good joke, as jokes go, and it had a particular significance coming from the
lips of Marjorie Young—and Kate Rotan—and Anna Platt—and—well, it was the one,
you know, about women being generally speaking. Well, I may say that being generally
speaking isn’t at all synonymous with being speaking generally—as Miss Thomas under-
stands it.

My idea was, in the beginning, that we should talk about intellectual and spiritual
uplift, and what we could do to improve the college and the race. I could have risen to
wonderful heights there—my brain was positively teeming with uplift. But Miss Thomas
and I hadn’t at all the same idea. We discussed our favourite authors. A great deal of
light was thrown on the quality and scope of our outside reading. Hannah Dodd pro-
fessed herself particularly fond of Dickenson, but she was perfectly amenable, and quite
willing to amend her preference at the instigation of Mary Minor. Myself, as I have
reason to remember, sweetly smiled my commendation of “‘Miss Austen.” That finished
me. By the time we had got to the poets, I had lost all control of my ideas. But Cranie
and H. P. both said Keats, and I thought that was safer than Iddo’s Longfellow. My
last craving for intellectual ascendency was gone. After that my one idea was to get to the
dining-room. Ginny felt the same way, though there wasn’t any baulked ambition mingling
with the pangs of hunger in her case. Every time Henry came to the door we half rose
from our seats, and once we were half-way across the room when he gravely waved us back.
But we did get there at last.

My one regret was that I missed the only spicy conversation of the evening, with Amy
waving Miss Thomas encouragement from the arm of May’s chair—afraid she’d stop before

she got to the really exciting part.


THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 135



Roz says in her speech that the good old cramming days are over for us. Well, they
aren’t—not yet. When Delano couldn’t eat any more, she began putting marrons down
her blouse, and tucking cakes away in little corners where she could find them before leaving.
That was what Miss Garrett meant when she said, “‘Carey—this student says she knows
where three are.”’ But she couldn’t find them afterwards.

There was a story told about a fur coat—but I haven’t time. And only Schmit knows
the truth of it—and where those marrons went—and she refuses to tell.

Then we went home, I strong in the conviction that, even though my intellectual
wings weren’t yet quite thickly feathered enough to flutter, I had at least been with Leila,

charmingly wholesome.
Heven H. L. Henperson.

a





136 ITHE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN











Q_ Sect

(Senror Cass Supper).

T is proverbial that a woman never could keep a secret;
here at Bryn Mawr, however, we have lots of oppor-
tunities for disproving the old saying. Think of our
plays—a great many people expected us to give Arms and
the Man for Sophomore Play, and didn’t we fool them, and
give it Senior year instead! Then there is the annual thrill of
the European fellowship—the midnight visit, the trusty friend
—and though the whole college may have its well-founded suspicion, the secret is faithfully
kept in the letter. Then again, how many, many secrets must have burdened the souls
of Amy, as class-president, and of Craney, as president of Self-Gov!
But for my personal experience in the matter, college plays and other college secrets
are not hard to keep, compared with the secret of an engagement. Of course, when I
came back to college in the fall, wearing a ring on the third finger of my left hand; and
pink roses and Whitman’s candy began to arrive at regular intervals; and every day’s
mail brought a letter; and telegrams ceased to be matters of alarm—of course no one
suspected, and it was easy enough to convince my friends of the tale of the “old friend
of the family,” and of the ring given me by my Aunt for a birthday present. But in time






THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 137



the deception began to weigh heavily on my conscience, so I went to Amy and asked her
to announce at a Senior Class Tea something which I felt would be entirely a surprise to
every one.

And right now I would like to advise anyone else here to-night, whose mind is
likewise burdened, to do the same. You have no idea what a great relief it is, both to
yourself and to your poor friends who have probably worn themselves out fibbing for
you. Afterwards, I was so very glad that my secret was not kept, because every one was
so sweet and kind and interested. Contrary to what I’ve always heard people say that
“they couldn’t bear to be engaged in college,” my experience is that it is the very nicest
place in the world in which to be engaged. I may have gone idly day-dreaming in
lectures, which of course no un-engaged girl has ever done! But think of the joy of receiving
one’s fiancé in the show-case, or aquarium, while one’s friends stand outside, with their
little faces pressed to the window-panes! Or, of leading him surreptitiously from the
Arch to the dim recesses of the cloisters!

ok ae * a bs 8 * * * *

But seriously, I want to say what a joy it has been, to spend this, the happiest year
of my life, here where everyone has been so interested, and kind and considerate. And
so I want to thank you all, and tell you how much I appreciate the way in which you have
shared my secret.

Marauerite H. Layton.

Ne




138 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN

i eT

F course people’s sense of humour differs, but for my part J don’t see anything funny
about Chinese poetry. But then I suppose there is something about it that is hidden
from me alone. Every time I forgot to attend a lecture on a dead language—which

I love of course—because I was investigating Chiah Chih and Tu Fu down in the hollow,
my friends laughed; and educated people do not laugh without a reason. I have not yet
decided whether I am an object of amusement because of China, or whether China is
indebted for its present doubtful fame to me—deriving a sort of reflected ridiculousness,
like reflected glory and that sort of thing. The trouble is, 1911 got the notion that China
was mixed up somehow with my—well, lack of enthusiasm for athletics, and indifference
about a few little local names in the papers, like President Taft and John D. Rockefeller.
Now, to tell the truth, even if I could have put through a delightful scheme for setting Li
Po’s lyrics to hockey tunes—I never did care much for hockey tunes, but honestly, that
wasn’t why I missed some of those thrilling games—or better still, if we could have im-
ported real Chinese chants with epigrams from Confucius, I really and truly don’t believe
I should have become violently athletic. Furthermore, if we could have managed to get
the newspapers to fill the second column of the first page with little chats about Chinese
emotions there would still have been that first column of murder cases to discourage me,
and you know, murders are so much less interesting than suicides

Some people who sat at my table—they know me better than the rest and so they real-
ised which would be the unkindest cut of all—came to me before chapel one day and asked
me about some man in Washington connected with Virginia Canan—her father or something
—and of course I didn’t know. One can’t know about everything, and then just to be spite-
ful, and show how versatile they were they broke out with a little verse from one of those
sweet old Chinamen. I couldn’t believe they felt it very deeply, though it brought tears






THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 139



to my eyes. I was almost angry, though there are only three things that make me really
angry. One is hearing Hoby say things about Keats, and another is having my friends
flip water from a spoon at the table—if my curls were natural and not so liable to come out
perhaps I should be a little less nervous—and the third is being asked to give up meditation
on China, to sit in the cold and wet on the side lines at a hockey game. I feel then as I
almost felt when those dear friends that I had trusted recited me that touching little verse
—without the least emotion or sense of the sublime.

It is very generous of me to lay my soul open in this way, but naturally, I haven’t touched
on everything, for when one has had fame, even of this shady kind, for four years, there are
profundities that can’t be brought up in just a few minutes. Pieces of my soul that have
been handed about as bric-a-brac for months I haven’t even mentioned. There is
advantage in having such a self-consistent nature that the least logical of our number needs
to hear me say no more than “Oh”’ or “‘Isn’t” to exclaim ecstatically that it is “absolutely
in character!” For I seriously believe that if, some day, I should give up green as a dis-
tinguishing colour, and throw Chinese sensations in the fire, and declare basket-ball to
be nobler than a walk at dawn, and promise never, never, never to be thrilled about any-
thing again, the same dear friend, with rare perspicacity into the subtle workings of true
consistency, or sure she had tracked me down at last in the first glow of a new emotion,
would touchingly cry: “How H. P.-ish!”

HeLen Huss Parkuurst.


140 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN

















~\ ‘ )
=~) G O a t > ¢ 4 fect GE (\\)
(| Mit O 14 ? A du lid Pts i

ll uy St vi My OME GE Fae Jecy

jO7

jiitty



MEW

Apologia pro Vita Wea

GOAT, a caper ordinarius, is a sprightly animal that must be divided from sheep
because it makes its pasturage off tin cans. This definition can do no more than serve
as a foundation for a classification of class goats. Once in Bi, Daddy asked a Fresh-

man to what species a frog belonged.

“Why,” she answered glibly, “he is an ambiguous animal.”

Had the question but dealt with my subject, she would have hit her H. C. on the head,
for the very essence of class-goatliness is contradiction. The virtues in the creature’s
character are elusive and puzzling. Goatliness is a quality as subtle and indefinable as
wholesomeness or estheticism, an inborn tray as it were. The athlete is born an athlete;
the esthete, an esthete; and the goat, a goat. It is a quality, moreover, mixed as an ingre-
dient in an infinite variety of characters. We have athletic goats and esthetic goats, goats
on the first ten and goats in the last, English Club goats and Henglish Club goats, mute
goats and musical goats, classical goats, scientific goats, historical goats.

It is a high honour to be a goat,—a goat is always in the public eye,—but it is an honour
for which one has to pay a heavy price, namely one’s peace of mind. The goat is a target
for the barbed arrows of the college wits, a butt for the rude jests of the owners of a sense of
humour. Nothing that the goat does is treated seriously. Its palpitating heart, bared to
a circle of confidential friends, is received with a shout of derision. Therefore the goat
must be sprightly, and content with the tin cans of comfort thrown to it by its friends.








THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 141





The goat must be full of rebound. When tarred and feathered and rolled down hill, it must
pick itself up and blithely leap to the top rejoicing in the fact that since it is a goat it can
scale heights unattainable by its friends and thence look down upon their folly. For the
goat has this fundamental trait, its feelings are adamantine, as invulnerable as Achilles minus
the heel.

The uses of the goat are innumerable. The goats are the manufacturers of collegiate
cheerfulness, the inspiration of Dulci writers, the boon and the terror of hostesses. At table
the goat mingles her tears with her tea, but her companions mingle their shouts with the
proctorial hush. At class meetings, if the goat rises to speak, she invariably loses her
motion. But what matter? She has dispelled the gloom and leaves the hilarious class as
putty in the hands of the chairman. In lectures and in lab she keeps the eyes of the class
off the clock. At tea and President’s Receptions her fox paws lift the pall of conventionality
from the scene; in the swimming-pool and on the hockey fields her feats offer rare diversion
to the bystanders; and in the gym her gyrations, in the wonder of their spontaneity and
individuality, charm the attention of the entire class away from the platform. In short,
the goat is a continuous performance.

For this reason a student who possesses a single peculiar habit is not necessarily a goat.
Ruth Wells, for example, possesses a peculiar habit. Her speech is modeled on Webster’s
Unabridged. Once, at lunch, when offered cold ham, she haughtily thrust it away and
asked “for the alternative,” and the maid, being unlettered, responded, “Der ain’t no
alternative. Der am ragout.” But Ruth is not a goat. Goatliness is an attitude of mind.

Now I do not wish to be too personal. I do not wish to wound again the already
lacerated goats. Yet my monograph can not be completed without concrete instances.
Therefore I will give my own autobiography. I am encouraged in the performance of this
delicate task by the fact that H. P. and Roz have each written an Apologia pro vita sua,
—Roz, in point of fact, has written several. If the reader will peruse these articles in con-
nection with my remarks, she will have ample data, furnished by three of 1911’s chief goats.

In the first place, as the old ballad runs,

**T killed Cock Robin.”

I wrote——
(—let me bear the brunt of the charge, let me shield my two pure-minded colleagues whose
careers have not been tragic* as mine—)



*Please note Greek pun. A proof of my classical goatliness.
142 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN





I Wrote the Freshman Show.

The achievement of Everyfreshman was the triumph of the goat in me. Then came the
necessity of living down my notoriety. Did I simply hide beneath my sins and turn to
unobtrusive deeds? Not at all. I decided to consort with bishops. Now I am not the
only ecclesiastical goat, there is our dear Pope with her eyes cast heavenward who proudly
boasts the honour of enrollment in our society. But I am episcopal goat par excellence,
the folder of bishops’ sleeves, the recipient of such queries as this one from a Sunday night
preacher:

“Am I to wear my academic robes, or my episcopal vestments, or my natural trousers ei

This, to regain my reputation. Besides, there was penance for the crime, there were
the angry divinities of the Eddas to appease. You all know the result. I have been con-
demned by the college as an Anglo-Maniac and made to serve a life sentence in the library.

Yet it is sweet to be a goat, passing sweet. I never realised how highly the honour
was prized until, when at a meeting of the Class-Book Board I suggested writing this article
the editors raised their voice as one man, crying,

“T am the Goat.”
MARGARET JEFFERYS HOBART.






THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 143





















As SEEN BY THE UNSOPHISTICATED

NE of the most pleasant and popular ceremonies of our college life is the fire drill.

A shrill clang rends the sacred self-government quiet; then, after a five-minute
interval, during which the possibilities of concealment under the bed or in the closet

are thoroughly investigated, a motley array wends its way to the fatal spot. It is beauti-
fully logical that wherever the fire is, thither we are marched. [If it is on the first floor we
assemble as near as possible to its roaring heat, and stand nonchalantly—an everlasting
monument to the triumph of mind over matter. When we are all well accustomed to the
heat we are marched slowly and with dignity to the second story, to a point as nearly as
possible above the leaping flames. Then the roll is called, because it is felt that those
who have thus far survived the ordeal now deserve the privilege of at least attempting
an escape from the half-ruined building. We behave in a similar way if the fire is in the
144 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN





second story, our aim being in every case to rise above it. What an uplifting thought is
this! Can one indeed imagine a more inspiring and heroic scene than one of our classic
halls vanishing in huge flames, while in its midst two neat rows of students calmly stand
their ground, waiting for the roll to be called or “draughts and warnings” to be completed.
Nay, would not this move the poetess herself to alter her immortal lines, so that they

might read—

“They called them, but they would not go
Because they loved their captains so!”

CATHERINE Lyman DELANO,
Le1taA HovuGHre ina.




THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 145





CTMater yolo

N the very height of the track season Dottie Coffin came over to see us on a water polo
question. Pem. and Denbigh were in the swim. Wouldn’t we join? Join! Hadn't
we just risked our lives getting authorised? ‘However we relented sufficiently to see
the contest and the games. There were Dottie and Egan tossing the ball with Leila and
Schmidtie splashing on behind, and Julia saving the goal. The walls re-echoed with the
mighty din. My throat felt parched; I could not see a thing.

“Do you think,” whispered a weak voice in my ear, “that we can get out? Itis so cool
in here.”

I turned with a glare at the unpatriotic person, prepared to discourse, when I found
to my dismay that the game was done and the team going home.

IsopeL RoGeErs.
a3. 9



146 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN



Songs of 1911

HY Scottie asked me to discuss
the subject of songs for the class
book was less clear to me at the

moment than it has since become. I now

see that I was the only person qualified
to celebrate our songs with impartiality,

because I was the only member of 1911

MW who had never written one. And yet, as

H I look back into the dimness of Sopho-

more year, I remember that I once did

write a class song. I recall nothing of it

except the tune, which I didn’t know.

Helen Emerson wrote one at the same

time, and the class, confronted by a

dilemma, saved itself from derision by

refitting Amy’s words to a new tune.

The tune itself was refitted to our use

by an eminent musician (the same who

now delights Dr. Ross’s congregation by
playing “Traumerei” during the collection). It was doubtless this episode which gave us
our faith in the principle “any tune to any words”—a principle brilliantly exemplified
the other day in connection with a play song to 1912. Catherine’s words, stretched to
cover the desired “Chocolate Soldier” music, disclosed yawning gaps,—but what of that?

1911 is not the class to let itself be discouraged. “Let those who can whistle, fill in

with whistling, and those who can’t, make believe to.” Which was done.

Ingenious always, 1911 has shown its ingenuity, not only in rendition,—by introducing
such decorative adjuncts as whistling, sniffing, etc..—but in composition also. What
other class ever approached the subtlety of “Not just twelve, but all are sisters,’ or, better
still, “Can you tell me whether?” History, astrology, general psychology,—I am in a
position to state with authority that it was at least a year before the full significance of that
song dawned on the dullest member of the class. Yet, “as always in truly great writing”


THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 147





(I don’t remember where I saw that phrase, but it is a beauty, and, not having had a chance
to try it on Miss Donnelly, I must get it in here), ingenuity, in our songs, goes hand-in-hand
with simplicity. For an example of a song reduced to its lowest terms,—all superfluity
eliminated, only the necessary facts stated in the briefest language,—I refer you to “1909's
sure to shine, How can they help it when they’re all so fine?”’ There are only two service-
able rhymes to nine,—and there they are. The same occurrence of the “inevitable
word” meets us in an earlier jewel,—‘‘We’ve enjoyed your acting, Juniors, It’s been
simply fine.” But in this connection the palm must be awarded to “Oh, we’ve come to
bid you welcome, And we’re glad that you’re all here, And we hope to have you with us
at B. M. C. next year.” Never was the most ordinary of conjunctions used with such
masterly effect.

Any treatment of our songs would be incomplete which did not add its tribute to
Catherine’s “‘myth-making power.” Her fancy toys deftly with Prussian Royalty, and,
even dethrones at will that more imperial body, the Bryn Mawr Faculty. Why was it
not until Senior year that we solved the problem of song-supply by simply throwing all
the burden of invention upon her? This, of course, without prejudice to H. P.’s title as
Laureate Extraordinary. “In matters of high sentiment” (it is time I quoted Arnold),
H. P. alone is qualified to speak for us, and to put our cruder feelings in the “dim religious
light”” made imperative for B. M. poetry by 1913 and 1914.

To go further would be to trench on deeper problems of Poetics,—as, for instance,
why college sentiment becomes vocal only at sundown, when “the evening swiftly gathers,”
or why entrance on Freshman year, so lightly taken in the days of “Come classmates all
and raise your song,” has become—witness our present classes—a matter of such tender
solemnity as moves almost to tears. But such high debate is only for Miss King’s specialists,
—the “dauntless Three” who were in at the death of Longinus.

CHARLOTTE ISABEL CLAFLIN.
148 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN











HERE is note-taking and note-taking. I donot make this statement rashly, or for the

sake of making a remark, but carefully, and with a full realisation of what I am saying.

If any one disagrees with me, I have only to call her attention to the following samples
taken at random from the note-books of different people.

Example 1. (From the Minor History notes of C. I. Claflin, and thoroughly typical.)

“The Spanish Inquisition, established by Ferdinand and Isabella, and directed in its
initial steps by the justly celebrated Torquemada, is generally, and doubtless in the main
correctly, considered primarily as a political weapon. Owing to its isolated position, Spain
had less foreign danger to apprehend than most nations and therefore less incentive to
solid unity. In building up a national state the two sovereigns therefore turned to religious
zeal as their political cement, as indicated by the previous history of Spain. As patriotism
was the religion of the Romans, so religion was the patriotism of the Spanish.” But oh!
I hate to stop anywhere. There are three solid books like that for each semester.

Next a selection from the Minor Psychology Laboratory book of Miss Delano—(I should
like to quote Miss Crane’s, but that is in shorthand.)

Example 2. ‘‘Hering’s ta. of con-gt-i.e. sim. ind. wd not expl. Ebb’s phen. If phen.
were mere ass. filling in no a.-i.” But why proceed? It is all equally interesting and
valuable. A further example of the same thing is in Virginia Canan’s note book on Idealism
and Realism. I have not the volume here, so cannot quote, but she had a way of using R.
to stand for Royce, realism, rationalism, relations, Russell, reality, and reason—all of which
words occurred frequently in every lecture. Needless to say this proved useful when
examination time came.




THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 149



Example 3. (From the Major Critics notes of a fair writer who shall be nameless.)

“Dec. 9.—Burke, by Jove.

We are to read the vindication.

Dec. 12.—

Dec. 14.—This is all very funny indeed. .

Jan. 13.—We are discussing a speech which I know nothing about. I am so upset
about Jerusalem being in Arabia.

Jan. 17.—I inadvertently cut everything on Wednesday. Speak up, Prussie!”

These, too, could be protracted ad infinitum. But they are,very good. They have a
style of their own, and have the great merit of interesting the reader, and of never holding
his attention too long on one point. Like the bee, they flit from flower to flower.

Did you ever, round midyears, visit a lot of classes with an eye to finding a cinch course?
Here are some fragments from one who did.

Example 4. ‘Major French Literature. Roz: ‘Are we expected to know that
development of languages?’ Dr. Shinz: ‘I deedn’t thought of that, eet’s a good idea!
Marot—his father was a poet and the sec. of Anne de Bretagne, who was wife of somebody
—oh yes—Charles VIII and Louis XII—pretty good. Saw his poetical tendency and, oh
well.—Francis I’s sisters protegent all the esprits of the siecle—no I can’t take this, it would
be wicked to give up Mr. King who is a gift right from Providence and you have to write
your exam. in French. Fut imprudent dans les fagons with wh. he expressed his ideas.
Fait prisonier and got out again but was imprudent again and was thrown in again.
Couldn’t get any appui (prop, stay, support) from the rot. (That is the first word off my
list which has been used—funny, they wouldn’t mention a black garden poppy, or to pug or
roughwall.) His poems are very difficult to lire. Well I have lost track of his career about
here.”

The person in question did not take the course.

Does anyone still insist that I am wrong in distinguishing between note-taking and note-
taking? Because if they do I may have to clinch matters by quoting from my Ethics notes
in verse. Be warned in time!

Marion StTuRGES ScoTtT.
THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN







We’re glad we sang: although our rhyme
The critic would not call sublime.

Alas! to follow Fair Bryn Mawr
Necessity said “guiding star.”

Our muse was wingless: this a crime.

We think we could not earn a dime
Writing librettos. What a time

We had; but though we rhymed on far,
We’re glad we sang.

Our sentiments worked overtime,
*Twas sad to hear the last hour chime
Good-bye. The past with iron bar
Is closed—but though some faults did mar
Our songs—yet in that flowery clime
We're glad we sang.
Rosatinp Fay Mason.






THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN I51









MAaLF AN AD.

(SenrioR Cass SUPPER)

NSTEAD of speaking about one-half an A.B. I should like to talk about A and A.B.
Please remember that I do not intend to make a literary lapse and that there are
A’s and A’s.

The advantages of being A.B. are so familiar to you that I shall mention only a few
of them. Think of being able to slap the English department on the back in “most jolly
Hinglish”’ style; of discussing the merits of nerve tonics with Mr. King, or the latest
methods of proposing with Mr. Turner. Just consider the ignominy of hearing in class
meeting, “I hate to have fines for everything, but if you don’t hand in the list of pictures
you want of the former members of the class, I'll have to fine you!’ At these cruel words
the A’s felt more than ever the disadvantages of their position.

Notwithstanding her arrested development, A has been learning a few things in the
mystic void, “the wide, wide world.” As a result of her observation she has discovered
that there are three ways of regarding college girls: As the fudge eater, the blue stocking,
or the amazing riddle. If they think you are the voracious fudge eater, remember, they
152 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN







also think your conversation is expected to be one loud and long cheer; therefore, leave
the deep bass notes out of your voice, cultivate the high treble and even the feminine
shriek; forget the free swing possible in a hockey skirt; remember your hobble. Hobble,
never keep step with a man; he can’t bear it.

If, however, you are classed with the chilly highbrow, your tactics must be more
subtle. Cultivate in your manner all the intimité of an Italian landscape. Remember
that while the world all forgives, “Gosh, my dear, isn’t Low Buildings a lemon?” it cannot
swallow a sentence like the following: “‘She was Greek; she had run about freely on those
vistas haunted by visions of oreads and hama-dryads! What nympholepsy might have
lingered in her blood!” Need I say more to those of you who “feel” your lantern? Keep
the conversation on a safe and sane level, never rising to the sublimity of Longinus or
sinking to the materialism of Canfield. Be the clinging vine, the unplucked rose, and
remember that a blue stocking too often has a hole in it.

But if you are considered an amazing enigma here lies your great opportunity. Since
“fin the presence of an enigma one’s mental processes become somewhat enigmatical,”—
I quote again from my handbook of English literature,—these people are absolutely in your
power, therefore do not beguile them with false notions of our cloistered existence. Do
not proudly count the number of times you have “made breakfast,” or you may be invited
on a camping trip to be the cook of the party; do not “feel” your Keats or the map of
Italy too much as an old hag “feels the weather” in her bones. Do not speak of tubbing or
cutting or doing Mr. King or missing out, or you spread abroad a most unwholesome
impression of college. And when at tea with your mother’s friends do not pass them a
“chaste sandwich,” or a “pure cup,” or speak of an “immoral friend” who would not
come. You who would mold public opinion, here is your chance to make your influence
felt. Finally, I would ask you most urgently to remember in your first flush of triumph
on Thursday morning, that after all the only essential difference between us is, that we
A’s stop marrying at thirty, while you A.B’s keep right on marrying until you die!

Exvizaseta Wiis TAYuor.










THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 153





»F

- a
Sti









Mn the Right Track

(Sentor CLass SuPPER)

. N your mark! Get set! Go!” And 1911 did go and win. This is what 1911 has
done for the last two years since we started on the right track. Somehow before
that we got side-tracked and to avoid a collision we were forced to see our upper

classmen thunder past on the inside track, while we stopped at “Overbrook, Ardmore,

Bryn Mawr and all way stations.” But for the last two years we have had that inside

track, and have in our turn dashed past, waving our hands to the locals.

Track is essentially a class sport. That may sound like a very peculiar statement,
but I venture to assert that more of the class has been more earnestly and more often
urged to participate in it than in any other of our numerous pastimes. And the class
always participated in one body. In fact, the unity of the class on nights of track practice
was remarkable. In most events, as one woman 1911 came to the gym to practise, and
as one woman carried off all the honours in the meets.
154 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN





But why quibble about quantity when we have qu ality, and when there was need of
numbers 1911 could assemble a crowd that could out-shoot all others, and another that
could far out-step the rest. As for swiftness, who does not remember how, in one race,
1911 finished before the other team had started; and how, in another, such obstructions
as hurdles were carelessly kicked aside in order to be the first to turn a backward somersault
over the rope that guarded the gym wall from injury from our speed?

Then, our piece de resistance the tug-of-war. To add weight to their statements,
the smallest and the weakest of our number have only to point at our team and say with
pride, “They are in 1911. They are my sister classmates.” Unfortunately this year
we had no real tug-of-war, we merely had a tuglette. As the opposing team did not realise
this and the odds were not with us, the results were a bit disastrous. Regardless, however,
of this slight mishap, we went on our way to victory, true to our slogan, “making things
hum, for we are 1911,’ and now that we are on the right track, may we never
be side-tracked again.

ALPINE B. PARKER.




THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 155





Sentor Wear Bramatics

(Sentiork CLass SUPPER)

Dear Cuiasse,—As M. Katherine Jackson would say—lI believe it is customary to
tell you that I don’t know why I was asked to make this speech and that it is mainly
impromptu any way. But as a matter of fact, I have worked on it for days, and I know
perfectly why I am making it. I cornered Delano one morning at 8:45 during finals, when
she was worrying that Dr. Leuba wouldn’t give her 9814 in Post Major Psychology, and
when she had retired—now this is just the sort of a girl she is—to the Christian Associa-
tion library to take one last squint at the behaviour of the bee and other mammals, in the
helpful atmosphere of those religious books.

I told her I was going to make a speech at class supper, and please to have me put on the
programs. Catherine was in mortal terror that Margaret Doolittle or Leila Houghteling
might come in at any moment and never think the same of her afterward; and I was bellow-
ing to drown out the bird in the reading-room upstairs—but still she hesitated. She said
a lot of things about how hard it was to make a speech and all that; but I said that if Treddy
had brains enough to—and I had heard her make several—I could do one also. So poor
Delano, hearing Catherine Arthurs approach slowly down the hall, shrieked: ‘‘ Well, speak
on dramatics; no one else wants to, durn ye,” and dived under one of the desks, where she
sat crouched and trembling until Taylor rang.

Now that you understand, I will proceed to our Freshman Show. I can’t say much
on that subject because, as Modjeska once said to me about her unhappy first marriage,—
“that is a part of my life to which I never allude”—and besides Leila is going to be
156 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN





extremely funny on that subject in the Class Book, and Scottie made me promise not
to ask her for any witticisms to putin here. But I want to say right here, with Hoby—who
shares with me the cardinal virtue of modesty—that that was a very good show in many
ways. Why just look at the classical remarks it evoked from President Thomas and what
valuable material it has furnished for almost every song in 1911’s song book. Had that
performance been less low, less not-vulgar-but, much that is with us now could never have
been said or sung.

It was when President Thomas asked Amy whether Mr. King thought he could get a
cast for any play out of our class that I realised fully her abyssmal lack of confidence—yes,
downright distrust—of our dramatic ability. She saw all the preparations for that play,
however; she saw the cast taking its nerve tonic in Miss Maddison’s office before each
rehearsal; she caught their merry revelry up and down the hall outside her office; and she
heard every word of the monologues Mr. King delivered during the entire length of every
rehearsal. ‘When I was playing with "Enry Hirving, he would say to me: ‘Why aren’t
you two inches taller? You could play Hamlet as it should be played, or Macbeth to Miss
Terry’s Lady if you were only two inches taller’,” etc. As I say, we kept nothing from Presi-
dent Thomas, and when she saw those Turks in their;harem skirts and heard the refined
jokes of that play she had to admit that we were one great step up the scale of evolution from
our low beginnings. 1911 was no longer vulgar, but sweetly delicate. And every play
we have had since has led higher and higher. I think that was caused by what Bernhardt
or the younger Coquelin—a great friend of mine—said to me: “ You notice that I always act
in plays of strong moral tendencies. Always chose tojgive nice plays, Il faut que les jeunes
filles jouent toujours les saintes et les anges.”” Why, by the time we gave His Excellency,
Schmidty positively insisted on explaining that “this garment, though white, is a tea-
gown.” As for Press Cuttings, I expurgated whole hunks without being urged to more
than six or seven times by Charlotte, and being finally ordered to by the Seniors in the cast,
who had grown so squeamish that they declined to stay in the same play with some of
the questionable remarks. The triumph of our tribute to Mrs. Grundy came with the
presentation of our latest and last. Could any thing have been cuter, or more modest, than
that nightie of Hoffie’s, or Pinkie’s blue braces, so intensely admired by 1912, or the
obvious way in which I hugged Eggie?

Oh, 1911, if we have felt as we carted furniture, made the noises without, acted,
applauded and paid the bills, that plays are as integral a part of our life here as athletics




} way.
All a ee ee have done as dent ed

stopping now, but when we go I wish that we may all say as did Eve on




158 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN











OR

Tatlor-made and Taplor-matd

VERY year with unfailing regularity the English Department challenges the Fresh-
man with the question: What did you come to college for? and every year with unfailing
regularity the Freshman in the travail of her soul covers a sheet with an effusion which

is branded as sentimental, superficial or pedantic. Had the English Department a heart or
the Freshman a head this cruel mockery would have ceased long since. The answer is
simple; it is summed up in a single word, and woe to the student who does not learn it!
Nevertheless—a fact which the English Department fully realises—a Freshman driven to
death cannot discover this all-important truth until after the wave of receptions and
re-adjustments has subsided. In point of fact, we come to college for lectures. As someone
wisely remarked, the essential necessity of a college is its faculty. A college could
conceivably exist without students, without office, without library, without campus or
clubs or classes.. But a college without a faculty would be a hockey game without a team.
Now a faculty pre-supposes lectures.

So we find lectures the pivot on which the college turns. The office exists for the
purpose of superintending, the students for the purpose of attending, lectures; the campus
for the purpose of providing lecture-room, the library for the purpose of providing lecture
material. The day is divided, not into hours, but into periods; the week, not into days,
but into the portion of the toiler and week-ends; time itself is marked, not by years, but


THE BOOK OF THEfCLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 159



by semesters. Athletics awake only when lectures sleep. Meals and class-meetings are
shoved into lectureless moments. Nelson himself was born for the sole purpose of ringing
the knell of the passing lecture."

Lectures are of two sorts, voluntary and involuntary. Involuntaries are of an
inferior order. They are heterogeneous, frequently heterodox. They occur gratis at
spasmodic intervals. When not forcibly crowded out, as many as five may come in a
single week-end. They are provided by the various presidents, 7. e., of the college and
of the various clubs, and not even the depths of the stack-room or the swimming-pool
can protect the student from the rapacious clutch of the harpies despatched by the
presiding officer of the association under whose auspices, etc.

The voluntary lectures are of superior quality. In the absence of a cut rule they
may be easily omitted; that is, if you do not care about having your course book signed.
Voluntaries cannot exceed the time limit, unless in self-defence against undergrad meetings
and water polo you select a benighted post major that meets at Low Buildings. Voluntaries
are the life and the ornament of the college. They are planned, cut out and trimmed,
not by a single department, but by the whole faculty sitting in august council about the
Crimson Velvet Chair. They are embellished and embroidered by the advice of the Senior
Class and the Students’ Council. They are passed upon by the
office and sketched in the program. In short, they are Tailor-
made.

For eightfsemesters the docile maiden is provided with this
carefully prepared product. At the beginning of each day she
seats herselfZat the feet! of an instructor with a blank note-book
and a receptive mind, and every evening by the light of her
midnight electricity she tabs her notes and underlines with
pains and red ink all the jokes found on the neatly written page.
At the end of each semester, examinations purge her of all dross.
Finally she is tried once, twice, thrice, in some cases even four
times, in the oral fires, a method of refinement peculiar to this
particular factory, and warranted to produce a type of goods of
a quality elsewhere unattainable. If she survives she is pro-
nounced sterling and stamped with the mark and seal of perfec-
tion—T aylor-maid.



Marcaret Jerrerys HosBarr.
160

THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN







































CP yt
VES 7 |











March 1911






THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINTEEEN-ELEVEN ‘8 BY 161

{2 R-Revence!

(With apologies to Kipling.)



When the scarlet-fever i is over
And we’re boiled in formaldehyde,
When the oldest bacteria’s vanquished,
And the smallest germlet has died,
We'll come back (and we hope you ‘ll have missed us),
And we'll give you some work to do;
We'll lend you plenty of matches,
And maybe a bomb or two;
And each shall have joy in the working,
And each shall be glad and free—
For the work that we give you to work at
Is to burn the Infirmary!
RosaLinp Fay Mason


162 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN





Twenty Wears Water

‘TN a Highly Elastic frame of mind, I stroll through Pembroke Arch, and the sight of the
old buildings makes me feel Most Jolly Hinglish. On Taylor steps sits one of Music’s
Adoring Followers, who, with a Madly Screaming Syren surely Makes Harmony Hopeless.

My Merry Sallies on the subject are replied to by A Managing Woman, who says: “It

can be improved by this High Hellenic Priestess who Averts Fracas by Looking Heaven-

ward!” I answer: ‘‘No, thank you! Bring me this Easily Scared Creature who, in her

Prettily Romantic way, Makes Acting Perfect.’ At this, up strides a Kindly Executive

Captain who, with Ready Wit says: ‘Call in this Auburn Locked Maiden, who Leads the

Singing Roughhouse. Although she is Very Crushingly Cross, and Dotes on Cats, still she

Is Beautiful and a Joyful Chorister.”’ Before I can answer, there Flies Past a Cross Country

Walker who is not Especially Young, but Just Wonderfully Clever. Say I: “She looks so

Marvelously Demure that you would not guess that she Ever Earns Credits!” ‘Not only

that,” replies my friend, “but she is History’s Supreme Shark. Moreover, she Captures

Insects Cleverly, and Mournfully Advocates Whiting!’ “Well,” I exclaim, “Give me a girl

who puts Athletics Before Ph.D.’s, and who, when she jumps, Hits the Top.” As we talk, a

Languidly Indolent Mortal wanders by, and asks: “Why do these girls sing so badly?”

My first informant replies: “It is because one of them is a Repeatedly Fumigated Martyr,

who is Always Exuberant; another is Everlastingly Reading a Clergy’s Limitless Directory,

or else Reads Heavy Greek; a third is an Ever Friendly, Mardi Gras Jobber, who Hauls Much
for Dramatics. Being Fearfully Keen on Classics, she offends a Hopelessly Happy-go-Lucky

Humorist, who Charitably Laughs at Jokes. She, in turn, cannot get on with this Muddle

of Mixed Enthusiasms, whom East Loves Fearfully, because of her Room-mate’s Roses.”
Just then, from the Library, we hear a noise which sounds like a Mathematical Mind

Working Terribly, but which turns out to be an Eternal Everlasting Physicist, in conflict

with an Enthusiastic Language Reader. The latter, although she Murmurs D.’s Carefully,

is A Caustic Debater, and Has Fine Mentality. Meeting a friend who Adores Polecon Work,
and Works on the Bible Actively, she approaches the steps. ‘‘ Courage,” she cries; *“*Every-
one of you Has Marrying Relations! If you will only Eat Minutely and keep your Ankles

Superb, likewise Indefatigably Manage Riches, I am sure that there will be more than one

among you who will be Most Eligible for Hops and Marry a Handsome Lover!”?

Leta HouGute.ine,
CATHERINE Lyman DELANO.




THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 162a





















3 aL
TD). Sayan ase \>
: ng





























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!”
162b THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN









well aware that the sound of your voice is imparting a thrill of horror. The wrong voice!
But they are up against it now, and a head is stuck through a chink of the doorway, backed
by other heads—there, supposedly, to give it courage, but really out of curiosity. “Is
Miss Canan at home?” Miss Canan is not at home, but you don’t want to miss anything,
so you urge them to come in, and assure them without being asked that so far as you know
she has no dinner engagement for that evening. You try not to be a dragon, but you know
you are one. The heads are withdrawn, accompanied by giggles, unpunctuated with one
coherent remark. Then you rush in to tell the girl next door that some Freshmen you
never saw before are going to take Virginia on a picnic. It is all highly inane, but never-
theless it is all interesting to anyone who has been there herself—outside the door, I mean,
You would like to watch them start, as they are, if that be possible, more ridiculously
silly about that than about the invitation, but you are tactful, and go to the Tea House with
a classmate, deciding that you will encourage a Freshman yourself when your satire paper
isin. (Note, it was in June 7, 1911.) Then you go and sing on Senior steps and watch the
combinations that come home together.

That is the joy of it—the combinations. Two Freshmen who are intimate friends,
perhaps room-mates, decide to have a picnic, to which each will invite a Senior. One invites
you, the other picks out the girl in your own class whom you know least (and whom you
come as near disliking as you could anyone in 1911) or else the girl with whom you have
fought wildly all through class meeting that day, owing to complete disagreement on all
points under discussion and several others, but none of this may show before another class :
so you two come back, holding hands and vaguely wondering whether Plattie and Skyntie
were as intimate friends as you had always taken it for granted they were, and about other
little combinations you had effected in the days of your own youth.

All picnics are not sentimental, of course. There are all grades, the cramming picnic,
the casual friendly Dutch treat picnic, the Freshman-Junior picnic, the faculty picnice—
gettng warm, that last. There is a look about a person who is just going to take Miss
Donnelly or Miss Crandall on a picnic that can not be mistaken.

There have been times when I did not think much of picnics, such as the night after
I had been to a breakfast picnic, a luncheon picnic, two tea picnics, and a supper picnic all
on the same day, by which time the sight of a pitcher of lemonade gave me all the sensations
of drowning. But, generally speaking, picnics are a good thing and a delightful thing, and
among them one finds represented all phases of college life, all seeming rosy and sweet,
under the safe haze of spring sentiment.

Marion Sturces Scorr.


THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 163





=











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AV



ANA



POLECON |

NNN NNN Gi Zn



ZU

MEK

















MAGINE yourself lost in the dark, very much in the dark, in an impenetrable and
impassable wilderness (emphasis on the impassable); imagine also that you are suffering
pangs of acutest hunger and thirst (hunger for food, thirst for knowledge) and that you

are surrounded on all sides by ravenous wild animals (in particular, hyenas). Paint this
parenthetic picture as blackly as you can, and you will understand to a small degree our
position in Major Polecon.

It wasn’t that Major Polecon itself was at fault; in fact, Major Polecon is a very superior
subject and something that no student should be without; but we were hapless victims of
unfortunate circumstances:—first, in that we met daily; second, in that the hour was from
12 to 1; third, in that we had usually missed out on breakfast; fourth, in that milk lunch was
a thing of the past, and fifth—there were our mental endowments, or rather our lack of them.
I may say if the rising cost of production hadn’t resulted in the cessation of milk lunch we
would have been capable of greater receptivity of knowledge; but when we were all starving
164 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN





for solid increments of food, it was next to impossible to absorb theoretical increments of
Polecon.

Did I say that we were all starving? There were exceptions. Can we ever forget
the lean and hungry Dog-Face gazing with piteous and beseeching eye at Agnes Wood who
was consuming Nabiscos in the back row, and the rotund but also hungry other Dog-Face
whose nose twitched nervously every time Willa sank her teeth into a sand-tart, or Alpine
ate educators? It was a case of unjust distribution, and small wonder that the Hyenas
turned socialist every time they heard them.

You know about the Hyenas—that they were six in number, and sat in a row, that
they were ravenous, and howling, and everything in fact that hyenas should be—even
moth-eaten as to fur (nothing personal, Schmidtie and Esther). When Miss Parris
would set up her game of jackstraws on the board, they would all howl lugubriously, and
the standard howl was:

“Ha! Ha! Ha! Hyena! Hyena! Hyena!”

Nothing could be more horrible than the laugh which distorted the features of the New-
foundland Puppy on these occasions; even Miss Parris thought so the luckless time she
chanced to turn and see it. There was another howl, too, which originated after we had
been in to gaze upon one of the masterpieces of the quiz system. The sight was too much
for most of us and we had slunk out into the hall to smooth our ruffled fur. Last, but not
least, came the Newfoundland Puppy. She had grappled too long with things of which
she knew nothing.

“Bshm Bawerk and the Austrian School of Economists,’ she read,—we eyed the
printed slips dizzily.

“Bum! Bum! Bum! Bad Work!’’—growled the Puppy, pouncing upon the sheet,
and, tearing it to bits, she worried the pieces.

Technically speaking, Miss Parris’ games of jackstraws were diagrams, but she
would draw them out on the board and then select with her pointer a line, just as you in
your childhood selected a jackstraw, and demand of some unsuspecting letter-writer its
significance. My own experience is memorable.

“‘Miss Hoffman—” Marshall’s shears, suspended by a single hair, fell. ‘“‘ What is this?”

“Rent,” suggested a Wise One back of me.




THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 165





“Rent,” I reiterated feebly.

“Yes,” answered Miss Parris, encouragingly, while my breath came and went in windy
gusts. “But what kind of rent?”

Courage is the ability to dare, for a moment I became a hero.

Differential,’ I ventured, using a word as unfamiliar to me as cocoanuts and books
are to the North Pole, and then as I said it the enormity of my hardihood, and the probable
grossness of my error overcame me, and all of me flowed away into the toe of my shoe, and
settled there quivering.

“Differential rent, yes,” said Miss Parris from some distant height and no express
elevator in the flat-iron building rose with half the speed that I did to explain her next
selection.

“And this?” ,

“Is marginal rent,’ I beamed at her, turning the while one triumphant eye on the
Hyenas, who by this time were every one having fits.

The genuine history making event of Major Polecon was, however, the reports. We
began, in the first of the year, by taking the idea quite seriously, especially those of us who
found our subject widely discussed in every floor in the stack and in all its most inaccessible
corners. We have decided that the only possible good in the ill wind that brought the
scarlet fever germ to college was the fact that it afforded us a legimate excuse for postpon-
ing our reports; and postponed they were until the last week and a half of college. The
results of that hectic rush to the library, and the diminished size of the class, were many of
them gems. Do you remember how Schmidtie plead conversationally for a young man
with head and brains, as well as muscle and sinew, who with grit would unite the two
Americans in advantageous trade relations? And Higgie painted the English labour
wars with dramatic fervour, while Leila was briefly cognisant on the Panama question;
Esther, on the other hand gave us a well sustained (for an hour almost) account of French
family life and profit sharing, while I still blush to think how nobly I began with “Egypt
is the Nile, and the Nile is Egypt,” only to end with the information that India is
irrigated by:— :

1 wells,
2 ditches,

and 3 canals.

The climax of the course was, properly enough, the final examination. Words fail
me now, as they failed us then, when I think of it. All I can say is that the 1911 in that

>
166 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN





class were more truly worried about their degrees than any Seniors ever before or ever to
be afterward. We got through by the grace of Miss Parris, but the horrors of those three
hours will return to torment us for many a day. At night I dream of them; and in my
nightmare I float in a gruesome zone of indifference, clinging to a slender margin, while the
differentials rise and fall about me, like so much lightning in a stormy sky.

Marcery HorrMan.





Ait



#6 “HAL AYENA!






THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 167





TRE
HYENA
CLUB



Our &eer fasss dial

OME time ago a great honour was thrust upon me by one of the esteemed editors of
our worthy class book, who wrote asking for a brief account of the forming and of the
life of the Hyena Club. This is a task far more difficult than one would suppose, for

the organisation cannot be dealt with on the grounds of mere concrete facts and inquisitive

statistics. It belongs to the realm of the great intangibles, to be felt rather than described.

To the lay mind it would seem to be an anomaly, for though it deals with the most material

sides of life it is in its essence the acme of spirituality. Like an oasis in the desert of dead

thoughts did this verdant growth spring up from the barren rock of soul-drying fact, spread-

ing its vivifying influence throughout the entire area in which it flourished, viz., Room H,

third floor, Taylor Hall. This rare flower of the spirits (animal rather than vegetable)

blossomed in the early half of the month of April, that season of smiles and tears,—when
the campus cat sheds its winter coat and the College sheds its habits of continued study.

It was in this stirring season that the writer first perceived, and later comprehended, the

germs out of which were to grow the Hyena Club. This important discovery which was to

revolutionise the intellectual life of six human beings, was made in the Major Economics
class in the vicinity of six Seniors, who, in the usual retiring manner of Seniors, had taken
quiet but permanent possession of the front row; ostensibly to be near their dear professor;
168 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN



—



but more probably because those seats afforded easier and more silent means of access to
and egress from that learned company. Thus it was not necessary for these six Seniors,
when late, to crawl over the prostrate and protesting forms of the other students in order
to achieve a seat in the centre back. To this happy fact is doubtless due much of the rapid
and healthy development of the Club. It gave the members more time for thought and less
cause for that agitation so detrimental to perfect mental poise.

For some time there was nothing to be remarked among these six earnest students,
save, perhaps, an unusual devotion to their work, till one spring morning one of these serious-
minded maidens was recognised by another asa Hyena. You ask “why?’’ No one can tell
you, for Hyenas are born not made. It might be courteous to assist in the enlightenment of
the lay reader. Therefore I shall try to describe, as one of the most representative members,
our dear President and tell why she was appointed to this office. It was on account of her
hair, which was a lovely red-gold,—what there was of it,—and on account of her eyes,
greenish eyes with thick, yellow fringes; her nose, too, had something to do with the nomina-
tion, because it was a nose which would have liked to be a pug, but had straightened out for
propriety’s sake, showing a spirit tempered with conservatism. In her bearing the President
showed timidity and reserve. From these few facts I leave you to draw your own conclusions
about the other Hyenas, facts which were noted by the writer on that eventful spring morn-
ing whereat she hastily formed the Club, putting up E. Cornell for President. What else could
she have done? Kismet: it was foreordained and all on account of that hair! As though
by magic, hyena traits developed in the four other Seniors of the front row. You, dear reader,
can decide what these traits were when I tell you that Leila, Higgie, Hoffie, and Amy were
the new-fledged and happy Hyenas. I didn’t count myself among these four, because for
quite a while I had been a “something” and didn’t know what it was until I caught that look
on E. Cornell’s face. It seemed to clear up the whole situation, and from that time forth I
knew we were both Hyenas. At that juncture she had the advantage over me in having
even less hair than I had, so of course the presidency went to her and I got the vice-presi-
dency, a boon for which I was deeply grateful.

We always kept a careful account of the Club attendance for each day. The Log was
written in a note book of M. Smith’s and in these jottings were all sorts of personalities on the
looks, actions, dress, and thoughts of the members,—if Hyenas could ever be convicted of
thinking. All class jokes were registered, and all Club literature carefully preserved. Songs,
dirges and triumphant marches composed for promised cuts. The portraits of the members
were copied in the Log, as were also the “Dog-Faced Darling” notes kept, between Amy
Walker and M, Smith, of their daily greetings and “retorts courteous.”




THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 169







In the course of time the club developed two cheers, used to celebrate each new diagram
drawn on the board for the purpose of perfecting our already crystal-clear concept of the
nature of a “‘ Marginal Differential.’”” These cheers were always given with much ceremony,
the “Ha, Ha, Ha, Hyena, Hyena, Hyena,” being pantomimed by a nod of the head at each
word, together with a brave showing of the front teeth. With constant practice we came
to do this very well.

One day our professor turned around at the critical moment to confront the Club, in
full cry, giving the new diagram a most enthusiastic send-off with heads bobbing and teeth
gleaming. Not being used to intercept these bursts of affectionate enthusiasm on the part
of her students the lady didn’t know just how to take the demonstration, whether to laugh
or to cry, as she afterwards confessed when she had found out that we were crazy but kind.

Soon after this celebration a long paper on scientific management was read aloud in
class. The subject for illustration was a Polac, who handled pig iron, making his trips
by a stop-watch, and had—to quote from the article—‘‘absolutely no intelligence; but was
a perfect ox!’ Of course the entire room was in an uproar and I, labouring under the nick-
name of Schmidt, sank in a confused heap beneath a desk. M. P. knew she was going to
raise a storm and seemed to enjoy the result. I mention this incident as it was the beginning
of our economic names and incidentally of our acquainting our professor with the existence
and nature of the Club. She, I blush to say, had noted and perhaps secretly enjoyed what she
pointedly referred to as our “intelligent attention;” for whenever Marginal Utliity was
mentioned Amy bridled, because she was called our “Marginal Hyena,” being of waferish
build. L. Houghteling had gotten the name of “Rising Cost of Production Hyena”’ and
often looked the part to the pride of the entire Club. As for Higgie, she always beamed in
time of stress, so we called her our “Hedonic Maxima Hyena.”’ Margery Hoffman was
uneconomically “The Seal” throughout the course, while I, O tempora, O mores! was
stuck with the name of “Schmidt the Pig,”’ for which I cursed that hated article until famili-
arity with the soubriquet finally bred contempt. We could not lower the tone of the organi-
sation by referring to Esther Cornell otherwise than as our “ Dear President.”

Time emboldened the Club to invite M. P. to a picnic. Then came the question of who
was to hand her the note written carefully on Club monogram paper, made by Leila and signed
with all our economic names. The President, true to her colours, was too timid; so that
the duty fell to the Vice-President, Schmidt the Pig, to tender the invitation. M. P. accepted
at once; but rain on the appointed day dashed our hopes and the picnic never came off.
This was our one and only social effort, which, like all good things, died young.
170 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN





To educate the reader to a sympathetic understanding of the delightful naiveté of thought
and habit which stamps the Club, I am copying some of the daily jottings and poems taken
from the Log, as written by the various members, hoping thus to make our readers feel that
charming intimité so characteristic of the Club.

Minutes or THE Hyena Cvs.

April 12th—M. Higginson missing—on a still-hunt for a hat. “Uneasy lies the lass
without a lid.” Quotations from W. Shakespeare.

April 13th.—Attendance poor. “Seal” sporting in New York waters. Other members
bowed beneath Lenten penance. No Good Friday cut! The Dog-Face Walker looks
moth-eaten and our President is sad. Weather uncertain.

April 14th.—Leila in Baltimore. “Seal” in New York. Dog-Face missing. Club
depleted. Weather raw, generally mangy.

April 20th.—Full attendance and a few statistics in club weights:

PR oo oc os cueeasecse 130 Ibs
Mc. . . sou ncdea aes 8.
De Be sn os ov ces ce 1c |.
Hig eae 338: *
“€or 135 “
OS ep See a eae 182 “
pr ree 78 6 *

April 21st.—Club all here—scared to death—questions fired at them. Hig and Seal a
credit to the Club. Are too smart. No intelligence allowed. A committee will wait on
them to remonstrate.

April 24th.—R. C. Prod Hyena took these notes—Dog-Face absent, consequent gloom.
Seal again looking intelligent. Something must be done to her. Schmidt the Pig lurking
in the distance. Hig Hyena has caught the “Earnest Student Germ,” very contageous.
Fearful excitement. M. P. swearing and pounding! She is now calling herself a “luxury
good,” in the same class with pianolas. Violent again! Hyenas distinctly nervous. Slam
at dogs. She urges us to save in order to buy a sausage. Hyenas bristling. M. P. says
she won’t be happy in Heaven,—very assuming I should say. M. P. has just broken her
eighth piece of chalk. Economically wasteful!

Here is a sample of one of the more serious pieces of the Hyena literature. It is a dirge
written by L. H. and A. M. W. to the tune of Here We Come, to be sung with a long howl
at the end of each stanza:










THE BOOKiOF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 171

=o ——_—_—_ _ _— — _ LL > > ————_









‘Here we come
We couldn’t make things hum
We're the sick and feeble-minded of
Bryn Mawr.

Memory? No!
Forever cursed we go
We can ne’er be any better than we are.”

“Pathetic but true,”’ says the Dog-Face Walker in a foot-note.
May 4th.—Day set for reports. Club shudders with fright and cold.
“Cold of foot and sad of eye
Miserari: hear us cry!”
May 5th.—Attendance good—only an alien is forcing her way in medias Hyenas.
The R. C. Prod. Hyena has a stiff neck. Weather good.

May 8th.—Schmidt the Pig-iron man gets spoke of from the platform.
Hyena Lullaby inspired by the lecture and written by L. H. and M. S. to commenorate

a joke made at expense of M. S. at table some days previous, when in a lapsus mentis M. S.
is stated to have said that M. P. used her fingers to pick up her notes “just like a hand.”

I.
Sleep, Hyena, Sleep,
While minutes slowly creep.
M. P. she is the shepherdess
And can’t stop talking yet I guess,
So sleep, Hyena, sleep!

Il.
Rest, Hyena, rest,
This state for you is best,
Your little brains can never grasp
The “Pentagons”* M. P. doth clasp,
“Just like a hand!”

* Some kind of an economic diagram the Club couldn't master.


172 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN





May 18th.—Club in throes of the report-reading. Hig Hyena gone—where? Like
spring, no one knows. The dear President sits near, giving courage to the Club to pursue
their quarry and run the reports to earth, let us hope not into the ground! Here R. C, P.
Hyena makes a few remarks which I feel bound to copy, viz., “‘ Vice-President more than
usually untruthful and obnoxious. Should be expelled from Club. M. P. getting limper
every moment. The Club feels for her. F. Leopold is now agitating Pleasure-Pain and
Marginal Utility Theories. Feeling of the Club against such subjects, not fit for young and ~
delicate minds.”

The Seal has gone to sleep—overcome by heat and ennut.

This was the last day of the Hyena Log, and in rewriting some of this foolishness which
it gave the Club such delight to compose I here say, as a true Hyena, that it causes me a
pang of very real regret to know that this little organisation is forever broken up and its
members scattered from coast to coast. However, the fun we managed to get out of the
Hyena Club and the bond it made for us—foolish though it was,— will not soon be forgotten
by any of the six. So, in closing this scientifically detailed history of a matter which may
interest, but few of the class, let me give the latest and best cheer of the Hyena Club for one
of its heroes—Herr “Bohm, Bohm, Bohm Bawerk” of Austria!

Marcery SMITH.














THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 173
——————————————eeeeeeeeeeee—— ee

1912's

JUNIOR-SENIOR
SUPPER

E may have had thrills, as Freshmen, over the coming Sophomore and Junior plays,
but surely they did not compare with the thrills we aged Seniors had over the
last play given us in college. For months we agonised over it; for months we

practised little ruses, such as catching Julia on the steps of East and saying airily, “Oh,
I’ve just found out what it is, and I think you’ll be wonderful!” or stealing up to peep
over the shoulder of Jean, as she sat unguardedly in Chapel. Nevertheless, the secret
was kept well, and when the eventful night came, not many of us suspected, and none of
us were certain. We knew how 1912 could act—we had learned it two years before, in their
fascinating Freshman Show; we knew how they could sing (Oh, those bitter moments
when we, practising in the Gym, paused a moment in our “harmonious madness,” and
heard their voices coming through the wall!)—But we did not guess, until that eventful
evening, to what lengths their talents and their generosity could be carried.

Slowly we filed into the Gymnasium, still unaccustomed to being guests, instead of
hostesses. And then—we saw the table. Could anything have been more attractive
than those dainty figures of the lovers, dotted along and gazing at each other over gray
cardboard walls? And to think that “Terry”’ herself had modeled them in plague week!
We were still murmuring admiration when the music began. The softness and delicacy
of Au claire de la lune was a fitting prelude for Les Romanesques.

The play itself we cannot here attempt to criticise or describe. But 1911 will not
soon forget how they were entranced by its romantic setting, its beautifully studied effects,
and its idyllic charm. How exquisite Jean was! And how impassioned Leo! How
killing, particularly as foils to each other, were Zelda and Anna, and how delightfully
bombastic was D. Wolff.














174 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN





When that play was over, we sat back, satisfied. Of course, we were a little surprised,
and a good deal disappointed, that Julia and Barb and Maisie hadn’t acted; but there
they sat (all but Julia) perfectly well dressed, at table; so what could we think?

When, at the end of three more courses, we suddenly saw Fanny, as a gallant
“Soldier of the Legion,” appear at the stage door, salute, and begin to distribute more
programs, we gasped with sheer excitement. The Man of Destiny proved to us conclu-
sively that you can never have too much Shaw, or—truer still, too much of 1912’s acting.
Of course, Julia was Napoleon; we guessed that as soon as we read the title. She was
“made for the part” with splendid poise, dignity, intenseness, and—last but not least—
an excellent make-up. Maisie was gracious and charming as the Lady, and we cannot
adequately express admiration for her pluck, in seeing the play through after those weeks
of illness. As for Barb, nothing could be more convincing, appealing, or utterly delicious
than her conception of the Lieutenant! Finally we found in Florence Leopold—a new star,
to us—a thoroughly amusing and finished comedian.

And yet, perhaps, the last part was the best part—better even than the plays. Our
songs said what many Junior-Senior Supper songs had said before, but we put into the
singing of them much that cannot now be put into words. Our friendship with 1912 had
been a long one, firm and warm, from the beginning; and it was not easy to say “good-bye.”
But the thought of our good-bye to them will always be a pleasanter one, because it is bound
up with the memory of that wonderful evening, of the Junior-Senior Supper.

CATHERINE LyMAN DELANO.

BG

et




THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 175




The Did Gym and the Mew
(Last Day or Lectures, 1911)

REALISE that I have a double task to-day—to speak not only about the new Gym

but about the old one too, because 1911 is the last class who suffered in the old Gym.

The old Gym was primarily a mistake in itself, because it was red, and while red and
green always go together, red and gray don’t. As you entered the Gym you found
yourself in what you supposed was the vestibule until you discovered that it was the
cloak room and general gathering place. After frantic search you might discover Miss
Applebee’s offices, and way up under the roof two crannies where the doctor hid from
four to six every day. The room where we had drills was not long and was very narrow,
with a small alcove where the apparatus (and weary students) hid. You notice we have
no alcove now. Gym drills in those days were no laughing matter. My young heart
would be torn between pride and pain when a prominent and executing Senior would
lunge with great energy upon my toe. Of course I was honoured to be within lunging
distance of her, but that seemed to be the favourite Senior toe. Although, with my usual
retiring spirit, I have never said this before, nevertheless I have always felt that the new
Gym was partly due to me.I was at a heavy gym drill and Miss Applebee suggested that
we do the traveling rings. I bravely ascended the toboggan slide that one started from,
grasped the first ring, and launched myself into space. But alas, as I reached for the
second ring I lost my grip and fell to the floor and the splinters rose in clouds to the roof.
Now some of you will remember that the splintered floor was one of the chief arguments
for a new Gym.

But now to come to the new gym. You all know its many advantages; let me warn
you of a great danger. I was at a gym drill this winter, and for some unknown reason I was
at the very back of the room, but still I was feeling very much there. The line I was in
had great difficulty in keeping straight, so Miss Applebee murmured gently: “Straighten
out that line!’ and then to the Freshman just in front of me, “Any one behind you,
Dunham?” “No, Miss Applebee,” replied Miss Dunham with great firmness, and my
heart stood still. For a moment I was lost, was I there or wasn’t I? If it had not been for
Miss Applebee’s suspicious nature, I might never have been found.

There are two especially fine points about the Gym which I must mention. In the
176 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN







first place it is a wonderful character builder. To prove this, consider our water polo
team as it dashes forth to battle cheered on by rows of its enthusiastic classmates (Pinky,
Scottie, Hellie and Emy). First comes Dottie, pale and haggard from dragging the team
from its several hiding places, then Potter, Virginia, Schmidt and the others, each one sure
that she is the most unselfish, noble girl in the class. What more inspiring sight could
be imagined!

And finally the Gym is sucha labour-saving device. Each class can have a meeting there
at 1.30 and in half an hour can learn not only its own songs, but the songs of the three
other classes. This arrangement has been very successful this year, especially with the
Freshmen. |

But now I must say good-bye for the class to the Gyms—old and new. We have had
wonderful times here with our own class and with other classes, and saying good-bye here
means indeed good-bye to our undergraduate days.

Leia HovuGHTe ine.




THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 177







Farewell to the Librarp

(Last Day or Lecturgs, 1911)

DON’T know why I have been chosen to speak on these steps unless it is that the class

wished to pay me a tender tribute in recognition of my judicious use of this building,

and wanted me to hand down to the coming classes my secret of preserving the Library
impressions in all their pristine freshness.

Far back in the haze of Sophomore year I heard a learned psychologist who said, “A
pleasure too oft repeated eventually becomes a pain.” I have taken great care to heed the
warning of this law with respect to the frequenting of the Library. For this reason the
impressions of each of the four years do not overlap and obliterate each other. They are
as clear as the numbers one, two, three, four, and I shall always keep them safely in that
corner of the mind from which things don’t slip out.

My first blessed memory was in Freshman fall when I heard my first great sneeze go
thundering about the lofty ceilings. In those days there was no paint and gilt to subdue
a fine echo. It could roll from beam to beam like a wave from the deep, while the sneezer
sat cowering in a terrified heap, waiting for the noise to stop, and wondering how many
earnest Seniors were commending her vocal apparatus to the everlasting limbo.

My second great remembrance was in Sophomore year when I first had the courage
178 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN





to stop walking on tiptoe every time I mounted the stairs. In those days what had been
the slim green worm called 1911 was just putting forth the first few feelers of the caterpillar,
and was beginning to show a really firm faith in the red Phoenix of 1909.

In Junior year 1911 had a still greater interest in the Library. We began to feel a real
responsibility, and under the leadership of M. Hobart we commenced a course in voice
control. Not a sound would escape the mouth of a student for minutes at a time. No
harsh whispering went on, and the rows of students lining the desks could sleep like babes.

All went well till the ventilation question came up, but that has been well aired, so I
won’t probe the matter. They merely said the air came in through the gargoyles, through
the stack, up to the magazine room, through Mr. King’s lecture room where it was refined
and toned down, then ‘up to the reading room. Then people asked why the students went
tosleep. The more vulgar did go so far as to suggest that the windows be opened directly
and the crude outer air let in. One outrage was committed and a window opened. It
naturally closed, being in perfect harmony with the Library regulations. Then some bar-
barian tied an overshoe to the window cord, together with several other articles of apparel.

The next excitement was when Miss Jones’ meditations in the office were disturbed
by the noise in the cloister. She called upon Miss Hobart to proctor the croaking of the
crocuses and the thuds the snowdrops were making. This matter was soon attended to,
for the noisy blooms were stamped down by hordes of students who thronged the cloisters
to glean culture from the gargoyle man. Junior year ended in a grand finale and burst of
patriotic enthusiasm, over which the smile of President Taft shed its benign influence.

Then came the last and best year of all, with the Library steadily inhabited by Seniors.
Some of 1911 took up their permanent abode there, and one student showed great self-
restraint in refraining from putting up the only camp-cot in Bryn Mawr in the far right-
hand corner within easy access of the reserve book room.

Many peaceful Junior naps have been rudely broken by the noisy fall of a shower of
freshly dug up Greek roots from M. Hobart’s encircling arm. Of course, the Library proctor
never meant to make a noise, only there is a limit to the number of books one Senior can
carry at one time.

Now, thanks to the steady use of the Library, 1911 has made its way through orals to the
eve of finals. Soon we will take leave of these walls where we have learned just how vast
is knowledge and how golden is silence, as is attested by the speaker’s voice, which, through
long disuse in the Library, has almost lost the power of speech.

With the few croaks left me, I bid farewell to the Library and its kind authorities in the
name of 1911.

Marcery SmMItu.


THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 179









(SENIOR CLASS SUPPER)

EAR 1911, my last and (we hope) my final orgy of education was Saturday night, or
Sunday morning rather. That lovely dawn that 1911 has been learning so much
about lately was breaking, and I was writing a marriage-poem for Miss King.

I do think that that’s a very pretty climax to a college career which began in Merion
where Iola took but five minutes’ rest over Chaucer while she waited until she could see out
of her eyes, and I did my Sidney reading and paper between ten P. M. and six A. M.

Hellie wrote hers unobtrusively in about half an hour, and received it again with the
inscription, “Shows careful thought.”

Ah, that some one could give me again the fine, free, careless rapture of those Fresh-
man crams! What childish gaiety was in the parties that keyed us up to the mighty effort!
What harmless stimulant in our tea! What a mystery and romance in the great bare corri-
dors through which we roamed hand in hand! With what zest we tucked our papers under
the door of the early girl (there were few of that type in 1911 Merion Freshman year),
with the request that it be put into box B., C. or D., and then how we slept!
180 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN







Even during Freshman Mid-Year our horror was mitigated by thrills of pleasurable
excitement. Could one learn Geology in a single night? One was sure one could, at least
60 per cent. of it and have time between strata for a secondary layer of fudge.

Skilled investigation has shown me that it is not so with a Senior. She studies before
hand. This is the horror of it, or if she does not study before hand, she studies up with keen
determination, crams scientifically and eats strictly hygienic food.

No longer are the corridors alluring paths of romance. The whispered questionings
from door to door are scholastic. The Senior intellect is well organised. An all night cram
in History gives a credit and a pain, not a passed and a pleasure to boast of after one has
slept.

1911, though not many members of the class are younger than I, I feel old. We are
bound with scholasticism and the learning of the schools. Our early romantic tendencies
are crushed. Our cramming days are over, and yet we, too, can have a Renaissance, per-
haps not of learning but at least of spirit, a revival of our early blitheness. We can come back
and slide downhill on tea trays or picnic in the hollow, and we can do it with all the old
gaiety of Freshman year.

Rosatrinp Fay Mason.


THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 181





































E had devoted much time and thought to our preparations for Faculty reception.
Besides the obvious, commonplace arrangements for electric lights and Japanese
lanterns, we had held a special consultation of the almanac, and had discovered

that we should have a glorious moon that night, just short of the full. We expected great
things of that moon. What charm it would give to the Gym roof, transformed already
with rugs and wicker chairs! What an interesting pallour it would lend to those still uneasy
over the exam of the morning! I believe Amy had several anxious souls eagerly asking if
it was etiquette to ask a professor if you had flunked. And then the rumour spread that
Dr. Barnes had said he would tell the Physics class their marks, whereupon the Physics
class, as one man, said that if that were the case, they weren’t going near him, to have their
evening spoiled.

By that time, in fact as soon as we arose on Saturday, we had given up all hope of
our moon, and had made arrangements for a hasty departure to Merion at the last moment,
in case of necessity. But we lugged down chairs and rugs and cushions, at least half of
us did, while the other half squeezed lemons with our Commissary in Ordinary in the West
182 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN







tea-pantry. Somebody claimed to have seen a piece of blue sky as big as a Dutchman’s
breeches, and, of course, if that were so, we need worry no longer. But we did worry,
nevertheless, for the clouds belied the good omen. I think 1913 were puzzled for some
time, at the Olympic games, to know why Higgie and Scarey jumped to their feet like
frightened fawns (turkeys would be more in accordance with the facts of natural history,
but it wouldn’t sound well) at every drop of rain, and spread their arms in a prayerful
attitude. It was not until after dinner, however, that the rain fell, and then there was
great excitement; H. P. had warned Low Buildings in the afternoon, but there was much
telephoning to be done, and many arrangements to be made. Finally, however, we
arrived at Merion, clothed and in our right minds, and “the party began.”

Strangely enough, there isn’t half as much to say about Faculty reception itself as
there is about our preparations and our “hopes and fears.” The general topography of
it has already been so beautifully and graphically described by Delano, in her diagram of
a Philos.—or was it English?—club reception, in the Tip, that any further attempt on my
part would be quite superfluous. And our enjoyment of it was necessarily so individual,
differing so much for each one of us, that it is difficult to describe it. How did my pleasure
in a discussion with Dr. DeLaguna on the relative merits of Lewis Carroll and Edward
Lear, and a description of Dr. Clark’s introduction to the Jumblies, the “‘ Pelican Chorus,
and The Yonghy Bonghy Bo, compare with hearing from Dr. Leuba’s lips the words
that meant that a degree was yours, with nothing except, perhaps, an epithalamion
between you and it? Or with hearing Miss King and Miss Donnelly describe the songs of
lark and nightingale, and advocate their respective charms? But the pleasure that we
all could enjoy alike was the pleasure of witnessing the happiness of others. The little
group down the hall, that lasted until Dr. Schinz fled precipitately,—the tete-a-tete in the
far corner of the sitting room,—and especially the circle that sat around Dr. Barnes, lean-
ing forward in their chairs and drinking in all the lions and Maltese crosses,—or were they
cats?—that fell from his lips, all these the less fortunate, whose conversations did not last
later than half-past ten, enjoyed to their heart’s content as they passed and re-passed the
door. Hoby was consoled for the disappointing fact that Miss Thomas would not allow
her overshoes to be put on for her, and when these last parties broke up, and even Mr.
King had finally emerged and got himself into his overshoes and at least as far as Denbigh
door, we all went home in high spirits.

We cannot say that Faculty reception marks the beginning of our acquaintance with
the Faculty; we cannot say, after many teas, picnics and receptions, that it is the begin-




THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 183





ning of our social intercourse, even with unmarried male members of it,—considering Con-
stance and Betsy. It cannot be the end, with all Commencement week to come. It is the
climax, the point reached by us only once in our college life, the height which, once past,
we may never again attain (even by special pleading before the president of the Senior
Class). We had a jolly good time, and the Faculty, to one trying to view the matter with
an unprejudiced eye, seemed to be enjoying itself fairly well.

Acnes LAWRENCE MuRRAY.






184 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN







Sentor Class Supper

Y last recollections of class meetings centre about that mysterious and feverish dis-
cussion as to whether we should or should not do something with the pictures in
the class book. Presumably I am the only person in the class who never understood

the rights of that question. In those days I came in late—heaven save the mark—and sat
for a miserable twenty minutes on the floor of Pem East sitting-room, struggling with
delayed cerebration. But in one lucid interval we discussed Senior Class Supper, and it
was then that Scottie delivered herself of the text of this piece. “Senior class supper,”
said she, “is not altogether a humorous affair.” It is my conviction that all class book
articles should be more rather than less replete with witticisms. But to-night—a whole
week later than the last possible date of going to press of that same class book—as I look
back upon Senior class supper, I remember none of the jokes perpetrated thereat, unless
it be that one of Scottie’s about the returned alumnz. I do remember quite plainly how
beautiful and how hopefully young we were, and how completely, in spite of “absent mem-
bers,”’ we filled the big hollow square of tables in Pembroke dining room. Like our own good
selves—the connotation of my subject calls for good words, if I say them as shouldn’t—we
were not too serious. There were jokes, as my forgetfulness bears witness. Moreover,
Macbeth and Macduff “laid on,” most appropriately accompanied by the good old bagpipe
bass of Iddo Rogers, and all the mutes were allowed one final fling at tunes remotely modeled
on the songs of 1911, like Frankenstein on the human frame. We were not wearing our hearts
on our sleeves, so to speak, but beneath all our gayety there was a deep common understand-
ing of one another, a shared affection stronger than the strength of individual differences.
It was the spirit of the class perfected for the moment, the class which never could learn to
co-operate around a May pole. It was the gathered fruit of four years life together; mutual
respect and forbearance, with the comradeship which is offspring of these, generous admiration
which asks no return, discerning sympathy, friendships over which chance and change can
have no power. At the instant when we had locked arms for auld lang syne, each one of us
must have been happy in her place in that gallant circle, so soon to be irrevocably broken.

Perhaps it was as well that our procession to the class tree should have been undertaken
in a steady downpour of rain. Certainly it was characteristic of our inevitable irregularities
that we should appear under the Arch in motley,—hockey skirts, jumpers, raincoats, slickers,
—calculated to destroy all superficial seriousness. Our toast mistress, lately presiding with


THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 185



so great beauty and dignity over us, the very incarnation of all our best of grave and gay,
appeared in a short peculiar costume, topped off by an old straw hat tied down, and Rock
came back last, just to remind us of the eternal verities. All possible incipient outbreaks of
a painfully frank sentimentalism were forever extinguished long before the first notes of
Pallas brought silence upon our variegated company. We made pilgrimage to the little tree
hard by the Deanery, the inconspicuous infant which Mr. Foley had for many weeks con-
cealed so elaborately from the prying undergraduate eye. And there, in the wet darkness,
with no romantic natural assistance, and with a broken whisper of sympathy for the slum-
berers in the Deanery, we did real honour to a good custom. Once more we were reminded
of that sad finality which is the inevitable forerunner of new beginnings, and pledged loyalty
to the memory of our beautiful youth together at Bryn Mawr.

Marion D. CRANE.


186 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN

— —————==
































© ae TREASCIRER'S
ee EPORT
1. Pe OH
WN WE
TTT WE
} /} | Ne
j \\\ hi ee as _(Senrtor Ciass SupPEr)



ERE I thought was an escape from my executive duties. Fortified by the others’
jokes, I might forget the woes of adding 7 and 9, but not at all. I found that I had
to afflict myself and you. :

To begin with, we have in our favour 98.76 per cent. of the faculty, Daddy being the last
won over, because on second trial we didn’t immediately snatch the one diploma out of Miss
Maddison’s hand. That 1.14 per cent. is a sad case of loss, and reminds me that I have an
announcement to make: |

Lost, on Saturday last, one Dr. Barnes, medium size; was either locked out of Yarrow
orin Merion. A liberal reward is offered for the return of the same to Yarrow West or Johns
Hopkins University. ,

That accounts for the lost per cent.

To continue, we are two track meets and the hockey championship to the good, to say
nothing of the Gym contest, and four and one-half plays, for I still maintain that that
_ derided Freshman Show was not half bad. On the other side there is an expenditure of 1911’s
breaks. Isn’tthatenough? The balance I defer until Thursday, for it comes only by degrees.

IsopeL Rogers.




THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 187

ACADEMI

(Senior Crass Supper)





EAR CLASSMATES, it is with a sense of deepest gratitude to our esteemed toast-
mistress, that I rise this evening to speak to you on the subject which lies nearest
my heart, earnest study. Ah, classmates, the thoughtless call it grinding, but we

of the finer sensibilities call it bliss.

What is more truly inspiring than to study from nine in the morning until ten at night?
One can feel the great engine of the intellect go forging along the paths of thought to the goal
of knowledge. Ah, definite knowledge, extending from a complete concept of the circula-
tion of the earth worm that squirms beneath the foot on a wet path, up to the highest hyena
learning. What more invigorating pleasure than a whole week of unbroken study in the
basement of the stack! Could any of our number find an equal pleasure in a Saturday
afternoon at the theatre? No, as one man we all shout our denial. Gosh, no, as my
friend Roz has it.

Before I take my seat I must allow myself the delight of calling to mind a few of our
sainted guides along these paths to the peace of intellectual repose. I should most like to
mention dear Mees King in this connection, for she it is who has most put our senioral minds
at rest. Especially did her perfect sense of fact forbid her to pass Miss Higginson on the
campus without a gentle warning of possible failure at finals and a broad hint that she
expected a fine collection of facts from a complete knowledge of Dante, the Bible and all
modern fiction to an intimate acquaintance with all architecture and ancient monuments.
It is no wonder that Mees King is such a mental Hercules. How could she help it, living
the life she does? ‘‘A cold, stinging ecstacy,” instead of a morning tub, and every night a
“slow, warming purification.”” Who under like circumstances would not be forever in the
company of saintly Feegures and blessed Beeshops?
188 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN







But I regret to state that the Dean of our college has fallen far below this high moral
standard. It pains me to mention this, but Miss Reilly came into an examination room
the other day, and upon finding seven classes taking eleven different examinations in the
same room, the woman,—I can no longer profane the name of Dean,—rose to her feet, and
said, “Let part of the psychology class please go to H.”

O, horrors! The souls of Cranie and Leila quivered in Denbigh and Pembroke; but then,
to quote rather a fine passage from H. Parkhurst’s Lantern Story, ‘‘ Martyrs in the cause of
evil are quite as fine as the other kind, you know.” Yes, I agree with Miss Parkhurst. We
can’t all have the “‘heavenly veesion,” and it is to please the unfortunates who have spent
their lives letting athletics and church work interfere with their academic career, that I
extend my heartiest sympathy. That they may not go forth quite unenlightened, I have
asked this boon, which has been so graciously granted to me, to speak of Academia.

MarGery SMITH.


THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 189













(SENIOR CLASS SUPPER)

HEN I brought our banner up to hang on Pembroke I met Miss Patterson in the
hall. ‘‘ Well,” she said, “that banner’s getting pretty dirty; you'll have to
be getting a new one soon.” I started in horror, for I knew how 1911 would feel

if we had to give up our carefully cherished banner, that banner which so rarely has been
allowed to feel the sun’s rays upon it. Like other delicate flowers, it has been kept
within, away from the elements, and I felt it my duty, especially after Miss Patterson’s
remarks, to see that it did not stay out long this time. '
But you know it isn’t very easy to be funny about basket-ball when we were beaten.
We have, however, a great consolation in having been beaten by a class with a spirit like
1913’s. It may be childish to talk or think about “sporting spirit” at our advanced age,
190 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN





but I think that the people who show a good spirit in athletics will show it in everything
e'se, because in games you don’t show all that you may be, but rather, all that you are.

I fear that I am talking too long about basket-ball, for when our respected toast-
mistress asked me to speak, she said, “You needn’t talk about basket-ball; just talk
about anything you want.” I thought for a while of reading my political economy
report on the “Economic Importance of the Panama Canal.” With much stretching
it covered almost twelve cards, and was considered by the author quite a masterpiece.
Miss Parris wasn’t quite as enthusiastic about it as I was, so I decided not to read it.
Then I thought of my themes. I wrote one on Hockey in which I discussed the merits
of the game and some of its drawbacks; among the latter the danger of losing one’s wind.
Miss Ward crushed my budding genius by writing on the margin: “Hockey seems to have
left you enough wind to write five hundred words without stopping for a new paragraph.
Rewrite.” That squelch accounts for the fact that H. P. has not found in me a close
rival in her réle of guide, philosopher, and friend of the English department.

But to return to what a friend of mine calls “that execrated game.” I hope my digres-
sion has satisfied Miss Delano, for I have touched lightly upon economics, reports,
canals, themes, English readers, hockey, and English sharks—practically every side of
college life. I have not mentioned the Infirmary, the Students’ Building, Scientific
Management, nor yet Rush Night, or rather “Parade Night,” as there is a limit to the
capacity of one speech on basket-ball. But now at the end of Senior year, we can be
serious even about basket-ball. In the first place, I don’t feel as if I ought to be making
this speech at all, because Jeannette has really always been captain, and I’ve merely tried
to fill her position, but I never could take her place. Although we have never won a
basket-ball championship, we have had a good time playing, so let’s drink together to
the games we’ve won and the games we've lost.

Letra HovuGHre.ina.


THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 191








a THE So Wie 1
GJRL GRADUATE

(Senror Ciass SUPPER)

F one thing we may be certain, fellow graduates elect, Friday morning the newspapers
of the land will unfailingly announce that Bryn Mawr has sent fifty-nine “sweet girl
graduates” out into the world. Some few relatives and friends will hazily remember

that we did not look sweet. We ourselves will be painfully conscious that we are not sweet,
but the world at large will revel in the picture; fifty-nine lovely young things, in filmy white
frocks, trained to recite glibly some dozen famous poems, to stumble prettily over a few
scientific names and to play hockey and basket-ball with languid grace and unfailing courtesy.
This is what the “frankly sentimental” world believes us to be in spite of Bryn Mawr’s
annual attempt to convince them of the contrary.

The world believes that we are innocent and gay. How can we be when Pol. Econ.
has made of us sharp instruments to cut the Gordian knot of present day abuses? Have
not those specialists, the Hyenas, cultivated a surly manner for this purpose?

The world believes that literature sails over our heads or through our ears. Do they
not know that we, who have not yet been privileged to live, must needs regulate our lives
by literature?
192 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN





Indeed, some of us have won the misnomer of unwholesome in the misguided effort
to preserve some small measure of health for the pursuit of esthetic truth, and those who
preferred the wholesomeness of athletic injuries to the bliss of poetic rapture have courage-
ously sacrificed beauty to strength. Even now some hearty and wholesome girl is concealing
the nose President Thomas lost.

And so we will go forth on Thursday morning, fifty-nine of us, muscular, not sweet;
erudite, not thoughtless; stern, not timid; but, lest we too rudely shatter the world’s ideal,
let us act like “innocent flowers,” although we are the serpents that crawl beneath.

Ruta WELLS.






THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 193



i









Being an effort on the part of an humble member of the class to predict our future. The
said prophet is not a poet by instinct, but she has carefully measured up the feet, the metre, and
inches of her lines to correspond with a poem called “In Tuscuny”, which is by a real poet;
with this authority she begins.

Pinkie led so well our singing,

And had a voice so sweetly ringing,
That now she leads the songs sonorous
Of the Metropolitan Opera chorus.

Janney, with her vast array of knowledge
Of Italian learned at college,

Entrapped a gay Venetian count,

And writes her married bliss is paramount.
THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN





**A dean, a dean!”’ Miss Thomas cried,
And sent for Marion Crane.

“Come live with us,’ Miss Garret plied,
‘And help us to maintain

An atmosphere

Of joy and cheer.”

Hoby has realised the ambition of her life
To live in England as a bishop’s wife,

To dispense good spirits, as it were,

To the poor and suffering living there.

Potter, with love of intellect supreme,
Now percolates in the cream

Of Chicago’s most brilliant set;
Cleverest of all, and strong on etiquette.

- John Richardson has better chance to show her wit,

Assistant to Miss Jeffers and has far worse a fit
When those horrid student crooks
Run off, and steal away her books.

Isabelle Miller’s wedding was a great event.
The hour came—the hour went.

The groom was in an awful state
To think his bride could be so late.

Best of athletes—our Emmy;

I had a letter from her semi—

Drowned in ink—which therefore tells

Nothing of how she is, what she does, or where she dwells.

Alpine, with jolly songs and dancing,

Is a Broadway queen entrancing.

She quite out-shines the fair McCoy—to the joy
Of college man, and Haverford boy.






THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 195

lo



Ellen Pottberg too, is acting in a play,
In company with Mrs. Fiske, they say.

Carroll Justice has a school of such fine standing
That she’s landing

Girls in Bryn Mawr every year,

While Emma Forster, so I hear,

Is tutoring there the poor young lasses

In preliminary oral classes.

Hannah Dodd has found in life, naught of greater charm
Than the Simple Life, and living on a farm.

Willa, with her winning grace,
Still goes with smiling face,
Breaking hearts, causing smarts,
Yet careless.

With what slow steps, oh Beulah,
You walk the green;
Yet they tell me you are the fastest maiden to be seen.

Walking, talking,

Smiling, beguiling

All Chattanooga,

Francis Carey leads the social pace

In Baltimore, and leads them such a headlong race
That only Esther can go her better

In worldly wisdom. How we regret her

Change of heart in playing thus a sophist’s part.

Jeanette as a professional rider
Achieves a fame almost wider
Than Betty Taylor pleading law
With arguments that have no flaw.


196

THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN





Schmidtie, domestic, stay-at-home,
Says that she will never roam
Even for the briefest space

From her conjugal fire-place.

Another devotee of married life

Is Henrietta, and makes a charming wife,
Marguerite and Florence set this fashion
Of succumbing to the grandest passion.

To marry? to eat three meals a day with one poor stupid man!
H. P. swore firmly: “That I never can!”

Yet how “infinitely satisfying” this may be

She writes in old-time joy of ecstasy.

Charlotte Claflin, with classic steps and graceful glides,
With Isadora Duncan dances, and thus hides

Her literary light

Beneath a chiffon white.

Alice Eichberg has a kindergarten neat

With Ethels, Methels, and Teddy bears replete.
Margaret Friend amounts to much,

Does civic improvements, factory work, and such.

Hilpa has found her mission

In a library position.

Dr. Williamson urged her to it
And she says she'll never rue it.

Ruth Gaylor’s beauty, proud and cold,
Enthralls all men, both young and old.

Elsie Funkhauser, a maid of honour so many times with such success
Edits now the Journal column, which tells the bride how she should dress.


THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN

197



Agnes Wood has Beatrice Herford skun a mile
With her monologues delivered in her racy style;
While Ruth Roberts and Julia play so well
Their music casts a magic spell.

To Spain our Aggie Murray went,
To follow there her bent,

To learn to speak the tongue
Which at college she’d begun.

Mary Minor, of Southern fame,

Has proved her theory just the same;
The glorious South comes to its own.
Is she the power behind the throne?

Ruth Tanner and Norvelle are on the concert stage
And in the music world are all the rage.

Dottie Thayer’s paintings make a great stir

And set the art world all a-whir.

Emily Caskey, who writes such clever rhymes,

And Constance Wilbur, who speaks such witty lines,
With their joint accomplishments

Edit the comic supplements

Of the Times.

Mollie followed her early bent to nurse
The sick, and to disperse
The dread diseases which make them worse.

Isabel Buchanan has so great a culinary skill
That she was lately asked to fill

The new chair at college

For dispensing domestic knowledge.
198

THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN





Treddie went abroad to grind,
But the best laid plans, you find,
Oft go astray.
Ein Herr Professor said her mission
Was to stay in the position
Of his hausfrau—and Treddie could not
Say him nay.

Elsie Moore and Betsy Ross are on a trip
With Dr. Reeds—to get them all a fellowship.

Where is Scottie, what does she?
They say all swains commend her.
Witty, fair, and wise is she,

And wise enough to stay quite free,
That she may still admired be.

Roz Mason wields that instrument

Mightier than the sword—the pen,
Wherewith she scores the drama of the day,
A critic of essay, novel, and play.

Our looking-heavenward Lily said:

“I'll marry a missionary.” But I have lately read
That she has wed, instead,

A musician.

Kate Chambers lives in far distant places, ,
Dearly beloved of those queer races

Whom she has set about to teach

Of better things within their reach.

Blanche Cole loves to exercise her powers
In making lovely garden beds of flowers.
And Helen Ramsay has gone the way
Of her marrying relatives, so they say.


THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN



199



Emma Yarnall is most awfully swell
And quite the Philadelphia belle.

Can you guess who

But Harriet Couch would keep a zoo?

She’s at the Bronx and has the care \
Of all the little reptiles there.

Margaret Doolittle at Oxford seeks
Ue gf 0B
Her thesis is to be

The slang of early Greeks.

Margaret Dulles makes it her career
In diplomatic circles to appear.

Can you guess whose name on the lighted theatre boards is seen,
Which one of us has become the gayest, brightest Broadway queen?
Who but Hellie Henderson could be our comic opera star,—

The so-called Titian terror, famed afar.

Kate Delano preferred a life of psalms
And lifting up her heart to deeds of alms,
But fate decreed another place

For Katie with her social grace.

An Italian duke sought to win her;

Kate forgot the suffering sinner,

Coyly to his request complied

And became his beauteous, blushing bride.

For the lighter side of life our Ginny did not care,
But took to teaching school with a most grave, judicial air.

Phil and Will would not be parted.
Though both married, they have started
Housekeeping side by each,

Always in sympathetic reach.
THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN







Angela and Arestine went abroad to seek
In foreign universities more of Greek.

When lovely Dottie thought her talents to employ
On drawing houses for her patrons to enjoy

Each man among them swore he could not live
Without her, but Dot was coolly negative.

Anna Stearns has done her best,
In her neatest French expressed,
To alleviate the degradation

Of Nashua’s factory population.

Jessie Clifton’s ease of knowing

The ins and outs of Psych is growing.
You'll find her thoughts and data new
In the Monthly Psych review.

Iddo Rogers, nimble, active,

Makes a coach, most attractive,

Of basket-ball, and hockey too,

And all the gym things that girls do.

At first the stage was Prussie’s aim,

But this she found was all too tame.

She thought she would become a flyer

In atmospheric planes up higher.

An aeronaut is she, in employ of the suffrage party.

She takes her little bombs up there, and drops them down with laughter hearty.

Athletic Egie loved so well
The sports in which she did excel
That she undertook to be
The coach of Bryn Mawr varsity.


THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN



201



Shall I compare thee to Miss Carrie Nation,

Oh Ruthie Wells, with your rabid condemnation
Of alcohol! .

Yet all

You do brings, in the end,

Our gratitude to you, dear friend.

To pass the equal suffrage bill

Was the object of our Amy’s will,

And, of course, at last

The bill was passed.

And they say at next elections

The suffragettes have polled the sections,
Amy is about to be |

The mayor of her dear city.

Higgie has gained a voice sublime;

She sings now most all the time.

Mr. Whiting bids her come along

In his chamber concerts, and raise her song.

And the fair writer, where is she,
Who writes us up so kindly?
Handing out taffy to you and me,
Which we take and swallow blindly.

Each from her pen has a pretty phrase,
But of herself she’s not told you;

So who is there better could write in her praise
Than her own little choc’late soldier?

Maracery Horrman.
THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN _







I'll tell the tale, though I find it hard,
Of your class-mate and friend and Hyena
And the lady who, in the eyes of the bard,
Is nothing but just Raina.

She has not lost her manifold charms,

She’s renowned from Beersheba to Dan;
And the worst of it is, I’m up in Arms,

For she’s found another Man.

Marion Sturces Scort.
THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN







Nore:—We regret the absence of reading matter in this article. In spite of many and faithful efforts to recall some event con-
nected with 1911’s bonfire our memory retains little save the fact that there was a bonfire. Doubtless it was like the above sketches
from the conscientious pen of our artist. For the rest, a call to arm3, transparencies which seemed trite, costumes which—to put it
mildly—seemed lacking in a certain gaiety, then the circus-ring with the ringmaster’s whip urging weary forms to feats of would-be
humour frought for us with nothing but Ortygian* gloom. For one brief moment we remember jak down and shamming dead—Oh,
the irony of it—but were once more roused to keep up the delirious antics. Next morning Alumne came to us and said tenderly, “It
was a good bonfire, the funniest in years.” We only smiled pityingly at them. Even Dr. Barton's lament over our failure to burn the
transparencies, (he intimated that it was not so in his day), roused no shame in our breasts. Whatever the spectators thought, what-
ever we thought, we can at least be sure that in this the last of our stunto-dramatic attempts we are immortal because we died aspiring.

—C, L. D., Ed.
*Hoby put this in. She majored in Classics. ’


204 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN































O do justice to this subject of garden parties one really should have a band playing
T somewhere in the distance by way of suggestion and stimulus. Had I only known
that this honour was to be thrust upon me at the last moment, I should have gone to -
the function in question with a paper and pencil concealed beneath my cape and thus have
_ not only got the benefit of the band but justified the cape as well.
In my opinion the band is entirely responsible for Garden Party. It is true we send out
the invitations and make other elaborate preparations for this event, but in the end if
anything were to intercept the band I believe we would all be as helpless as babes. In
this fearful extremity we really could do nothing but send the guests home. Think of the
hopeless apathy out of which this gaiety emerges. With such material could we create
any excitement at all? Recall the campus during the dull dismal hours from two until
four when everything is hushed in silent dread of the first drop of rain. It is then that
one limply carries out a rug or two after which one sinks down upon a couch in exhaustion.
At four one decides to give up Garden Party for this year, just as one’s next door neighbour,
finding the dreary landscape too fatiguing for words, comes to the same decision; and so
on down the corridor. Think of a situation like this and guests at that very minute on the
road!






THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 205

How wonderful then is the transformation scene which follows! Suddenly a strain
of music falls upon the air. Enchanting, wonderful music, and as one listens, the room
about one grows oppressively small while the campus becomes more enticing every
moment. Oh, to be out with the others! Whereupon a period of increasing torture
ensues, then a hurried preparation and one is out.

At this point oné’s own responsibility is over, for it is my opinion that the band not
only furnishes the occasion, but in addition ensures the most delightful conduct on the
part of everyone. I have seen some of my friends display such elegance of manner at
these times as to make them altogether unrecognisable and I may say of myself that I have
never conducted myself anywhere as I have on these memorable occasions. Only in
dreams have I used such mellifluous words while my manner each year has left nothing
to be desired. With the music always in the distance I have seen myself step up to some
formidable stranger and conduct her to refreshments as though she were the Countess de
Saldar and I myself no less than Lady Joscelyn’s daughter. |

I must confess, however, that in the attainment of the aforementioned refreshments
I frequently lost this delightful identity. Yet even now I am regretting that we can never
again with decency force our way up to the caterer’s table as I used to do then. And I
was always sorry when the end of garden party came, and the campus was deserted, until
the lights heralded the approach of another festivity.

Estuer Stuart CorRNELL.

That, my friends, is what Esther thinks of Garden Party. Myself, I think it’s great.
It is almost too wonderful that anyone should feel that way about the occasion. However,
although the account is both cheering and interesting, it is not, I fear, sufficiently representa-
tive to stand alone. My own views may approach the other extreme, so the average
undergraduate can take her choice.

I can say more about garden parties than most people, largely because I have more
time for reflection during them than others, and also because I have been to four. The
way that happened was as follows: Freshman year the Sophomore play caste stayed over
commencement week to rehearse with Mr. King, and coming out of such a rehearsal in the
library, late one afternoon, we found ourselves at Garden Party. It wasn’t our fault. If
Garden Party would be in one place we could take care to be in another, but Garden Party
is everywhere and we—that is Leila and I, especially Leila—cannot be nowhere, so we were
at Garden Party. She, I have reason to remember, had on a girlish white frock with what









SS eee Sass lll nasieeeneeeesesasencsienesassseespeeeacstansnaaereransasesma a A ade neenete-een a eeeesceenemeeteree




206 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN

the design book would call a pink sprig. As a matter of fact I will tell you confidentially
that there were a number of sprigs. I know, because I riveted my eyes on the sprigs till
they fairly burned into my brain. I was even more simply attired in an almost unbelievably
dirty white linen Peter Thomson, a relic of my childhood. Where Delano and Margaret
Friend and Betty Taylor went I couldn’t say, I only remember clinging to Leila and looking
at the pink sprig as we made our way across the campus, which is a large campus. I have
no doubt 1908 enjoyed showing their guests a little local colour, but we didn’t stop to see.

It wasn’t any worse than the other garden parties, however. The way they affected
me was to impress upon me that I had no friends, in college or out. It wasn’t just that I
had no beaux. Now Esther had beaux and I suspect they were at least as large a factor as
the band in her enjoyment of the occasion. But I had no friends whatever. Everyone
I knew had friends, and was always walking and talking with them, but I was always all
alone. I was so alone I was conspicuous. I couldn't have been more conspicuous if I had
had no clothes on at all, in fact it gave me much the same feeling I have when I dream
I have no clothes on. As a matter of fact I generally had what seemed a very good kind of
clothes on; but it didn’t matter what they were I always took a dislike to them after I had
worn them to a garden party.

Last June, having sent out over a hundred invitations, I finally got a guest to come,
it was my mother. I guess I was pretty proud of having a guest all my own, and as a good
many people spoke to her, even when I was with her, I was feeling reasonably popular for
a while. Finally, however, even she got away from me. The only person who would
speak to me personally was the third assistant librarian, who followed me about quite
flatteringly for some time to tell me that if all eight books were not in by five-thirty I
couldn't get my degree the next day. As it was then five-fifteen, and the books had been
lost for months, I had to borrow enough money to buy all eight of them outright. It was
annoying to think how long I had been paying fines on them, but after all the incident helped
to pass the time, created some excitement, and afforded a little human intercourse.

Sometimes I went down to the Denbigh receiving ground, where I belonged, with the
starved but alluring hope that a surprise might be awaiting me in the shape of a guest,
or even half a guest; and also to show people what flowers I belonged with. But the large
unfriendly looking group who were sitting on Virginia’s and my flowers, or rampaging
through them or pulling them down to see whether or not they grew on that oak tree, always
seemed to regard me as an intruder, and I went meekly away alone, grateful, in my uncom-
plaining Christian little way, that I was carrying my best orchids.


THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 207





The only thing capable of assuaging my feelings at those parties was the food, but
I was always too sensitive about eating alone to get much of that. It looks badly, I think.

It wasn’t that I was exclusive. Junior year I struggled against my fate, I got a large
group of classmates, who swore they knew no one who was coming, to go out with me,
and I determined to cling to them. First up rushes a Senior demanding that Pinkie shall
come and entertain her family. Next six more Seniors, wanting Virginia to play with
their beaux, so they will be sure to stay till evening. Another batch of Seniors insist that
Prussie shall demonstrate to their snobbish aunts that one may be refined though a college
girl. Suitors begin to collect round Treddie, whom she pretends to be much surprised to
see. Esther and Charlotte are suddenly drawn into conversation with leading members
of the faculty. This is one of the moments when I reflect most bitterly that Garden Party
certainly ought to be somewhere, so that I can be somewhere else, instead of being every-
where.

But, then, of course, there is the band. I can always go listen to the band.

Marion Sturaes Scort.
208 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN





Commencement Webearsal
Rainy Morning in Early June
The Gym.

Enter 1911 in indescribably varied clothing, but each with a cap on her head. They sing
“The Star Spangled Banner.” At least four people know the words because they learned them
for the Anniversary.

Pacey (on the platform steps making a motion like a benediction).—Sit!

Dr. Warren leans over and growls in her ear.

Pacry.—Oh, please get up again, so that I can practise having you sit down.

1911 bobs up and sinks down patiently with thrills of unutterable pride that tt is really they
for whom this rehearsal is held. After three years of substituting for other Seniors in this per-

formance, this is an achievement.

1911 (confusedly, excitedly).—Well, to think it’s really us! I can’t
believe it! Four minutes ago I was in bed. You look it, dear! Do
you suppose it’s going to rain for Gar—. Now how do you change it
to the other side? Oh my, how complicated! Mine’s never going to
stay on, never in the world! I wish they’d hurry! I’ve still got to get
my garden-party hat, and a dress for President’s luncheon How many

™ ©: papers does she have to write before Wednesday? Oh, my dear! And
all those alumnz went whooping down the hall, until two this morning.
What point there is in my coming here, when there’s not the remotest
chance of my ever graduating, I don’t just——-well, my dear, you needn’t
talk, I—-—

Pagey rises.

1911 (as one woman).—Sh——————sh!

Dr. Warren and Pagey confer.

1911.—When I get mine, I’m going to beat it off that platform
and hide it——-Mine’s green, and the hat has sweet peas and—

Pagey turns towards 1911.

1911 (unitedly).—Sh—————sh!






THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 209





Dr. Warren.—I shall now read out the names which we shall without doubt in the
future recognise as the great ones of this earth, and as I read the present possessors of them
will please arise, as gracefully as possible, and stand until the whole division has been num-

- bered off. The entire bunch will then ascend the plat-
form (being careful to elevate their garments so as not
to step on them), divide in two and when I utter the
word “Caps,” take ’em off! Wait, wait, now! I have
not yet completed my instructions. The degree which
you may sometimes have despaired of getting, will be
. placed in your hand, when your turn comes. When with |
conscious pride in your achievement you have grasped
the document, step back into line, and wait with what
patience you can summon, until the remainder of your division shall have received its
award. Then amid the thunderous applause of your admiring relatives and friends you
descend the steps, no longer puelle oridinarie but bachelores artium extraordinarie. I will
now read the names of the first group. ‘‘Greek and Latin fy

The rehearsal proceeds.

Dr. WarREN (from time to time).—No, Miss Delano, you needn’t
bow so low. It isn’t worth all that.

Hurry please, Miss Miller, or the candidate behind you may get your
degree.
Now, Miss Gaylor, you must not, positively must not, try to knock 4
down your classmates. Look where you are going when you back into *
line. :

Walk backwards, Miss Doolittle, not sidewards. Step out with an air.

Shorter steps, Miss Parker!

No, Miss Egan, go back! You must not start out with a wild, athletic leap. This is
no meeting of the track, even if it is in the gymnasium.

Don’t put out your hand until you get within hailing distance of the President, Miss
Russell. It looks grasping, and over eager, to start from the extreme end of the line with
outstretched hand.

Miss Claflin, put on a nonchalent air, you look worried.

Don’t genuflect, please, Miss Houghteling.

Etc., ete.







210 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN





The last batch descends, headed by Potter, whom Dr. Warren took for a
Faculty child substituting for one of its Senior friends, and ended by Iddo
\ Rogers. The applause subsides.
yi 1911.—Is that all? Can we go now? Why didn’t he let Treddy
come up on the platform separately? I’ve simply got to catch And
my poor mother waiting all this—I want to go now! I want to go now!
Pagry, I want to go now!

Pacey (in a hounded voice).—Dr. Warren!

1911.—Did you see Dr. Warren stare when he read “Miss Chambers of Turkey?”
He looked around for a veiled, sloe-eyed creature. Did you say,
“Thank you?” I want to gonow! I want to—— Pagey!

Paaey (harassed).—Dr. Warren! May we let the Undergradu-
ates go now?

Dr. WarrEN (who has been refreshing himself with a glance at the
morning papers).—Yes, yes clear ’em out!

1911 stampedes for the door.

Dr. WarrEN (as they leave)—And now for the riper products. Miss ——. Fellow









in :
The Gym doors close behind us. MarGaret Prussinea.

iy





wt

reoN ft S.

mas.


THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 211

COMMENCEMENT
MORNING— & |








.



Sane







(Betnc THE LetTerR or AN Eye WITNESS)

My Dear Emma:—You wanted to hear about the Bryn Mawr Commencement and
how Josie looked, so I will write you what I saw of it. Yes, it was queer. I don’t say
there was anything wrong about it, but it wasn’t what I’ve been used to in the way of gradu-
ation exercises, my daughter having gone through Briarcliffe, and to me there was something
212 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS -OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN







not quite refined about the clothes, and I can’t help saying their fur boas seemed out of
place to me, but of course I am not an authority on highly educated women, being one of
the old-fashioned sort myself and not above being truly feminine.

Yes, there were fur boas—but I didn’t see them at first, as they seemed to be only on the
less prominent girls—probably supposed to dress them up a little. To me there was some-
thing almost pitiful about a lot of girls graduating without a single bunch of flowers among
them, but of course these college girls! And then, as I say, my daughter went through Briar-
cliffe and it makes such a difference.

There were a few girls who seemed to be particularly important—they were carrying
some wooden things which I afterward saw to be decoy diplomas. I fancied at first they
were chosen on the basis of looks, and then of noisiness, but really it was hard to determine.

I can’t tell you much about Josie, because, you see, she was a Senior, and Seniors aren’t
much in evidence at a graduation. The acting president of the Senior class (you know the
real president is Helen Taft, but she wasn’t back this year, but just held it as an honorary
position) was Miss Walker, but I didn’t see much of her, as she promptly turned her back as
soon as anyone looked at her or pointed a camera at her. I didn’t see why at first, for I
didn’t think she was at all bad looking, but someone whispered to me that she did it just
to show her hood. You see, whatever these suffragettes may say, they aren’t above think-
ing of clothes, and I think it’s a good sign, though I will say I think the clothes were very
queer.

I gathered by asking one of the girls with the decoy diplomas, that they were the chief
features in the morning’s celebration. At that moment a piece of faculty, whatever that is,
got loose and began to escape and the girls had to go and coax it back into line. Then all
these important girls were busy playing Alice to the Seniors’ hedgehog. They would try to
get the Seniors arranged, and every time they moved to another group the one they had just
left would come undone again—it really got quite depressing, and I thought the procession
never would start. However, finally, they did, the important girls leading along the Seniors
by means of their decoy diplomas, which the Seniors followed with a hungry and eager look
in their eyes that would have been indecent if it hadn’t been so pitiful. I saw Josie among
them, and, my dear, I will say, I thought she looked quite cultured, and really rather above
the average in looks, though of course—well you see, my daughter went to Briarcliffe and it’s
so different. But Josie, as I say, looked quite cultured, and it really didn’t matter if there
wasn’t much style to her wrap as all the others were just the same.

That was about all I saw, as they all went into a squatty building, and it hardly seemed




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214 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN













The Last Lap of the Course: or Che Exit of 1911

HIS article is not a report of the functions of Commencement Week. That honour
has been divided up among other pens. My aim is to strike deeper and to disclose
the really fundamental activities of the last fortnight the Senior class spends in the

bosom of its Alma Mater. Did it ever occur to you that Commencement is a convention?
That Garden Party is a side show to amuse Alumnae and guests? That Olympic Games and
Bonfire and even Class Supper are but golden apples thrown in the path of the modern
Atlanta? There are far more important things than these for the maiden who wishes to
reach the goal-post by eleven o’clock of the fatal Thursday morning. It is possible to receive
one’s degree in absentia, but never has the A. B. been conferred with the proviso “to go into
effect on the completion of one’s Pol. Econ. report.”” Bonfires may burn and Steps may pass
away, but the Senior cannot make her exit through Pembroke Arch into the Alumnae
Association of Bryn Mawr College until every examination has been passed and the English
Department has been appeased.

Nevertheless Commencement Week functions cannot be ignored. If the class, as is
usually the case, is bound by the icy chains of custom, it undertakes sideshows and hurls
apples in its own path. The sideshows need rehearsal and the apples turn to mountains
which require the force of the whole class to remove from the way. Therefore the funda-
mental activities of which I propose to write must be treated under two heads, faculty-
imposed and student-imposed, to which might be added a third, namely, warden-imposed,
inasmuch as when the panting and exhausted novissimae alumne return to their halls,
grasping with unbelieving fingers their precious sheepskins, they are immediately barricaded
in their rooms by boxes and packing-cases and forced to doff their pussy hoods and
long-sleeved gowns and use the ingenuity acquired by cramming facts into empty heads, in
cramming books and lanterns, tea-kettles and Garden Party hats, into full trunks.






THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 215





On the last day of lectures, when the Seniors have sung good-bye to Pembroke Arch,
they file into the dining-rooms sadly, perhaps tearfully, but never fully realising that the
end has come, that the knell of their college life has rung. Yet it is so, for during exams one
does not live, one merely exists, and during Commencement one does not even exist, at least
consciously. Nothing, except the last Oral, exceeds Senior Finals in horror and irrevocable-
ness. The self-assured shark grows meek and the first ten resign themselves to a degreeless
future. I shall never forget assisting H. P. to write an appeal to the Faculty begging them
to allow her a second exam in Major Latin, and then when the marks were posted that
afternoon leaving her speechless, and hesitating between gratitude and incredulity, as she
gazed on a large M opposite her name, while I sought out Miss Crandall and begged her to
accept said appeal in lieu of one of the arguments that in their unwritten state menaced
my degree.

Just here, please observe, is the rub. Exams were bad. They required night-con-
suming reading, but they were spaced, e. g.—I finished my Major Latin at eleven o'clock
A. M. and then had until two P. M. to prepare for Post Major Greek. But the reports and
essays and poetical flights were all due at once.

Scottie’s situation is a case in point. She was simply worn out. She was burning the
candle at both ends, exams all day and Canfield all night, and West Point over week ends.
It was the Friday before Commencement and she had five reports all due that day, between
her and her degree. ‘That morning she had her last examination, Critics, and after it was
over stepped up to the desk to ask Dr. Upham to defer her report for the seventeenth time,
not observing that Dr. Barton, who had just given her her twenty-second reprieve, was in
the room. Dr. Upham, being philosophical, realised that a report which is supposed to
be the culminating opus of the semester can not be satisfactorily written on the same alter-
noon as a Gothic Architecture essay, and granted Scottie’s request. But Dr. Upham is
also inhumane. As she left the room he caught the twinkle in Dr. Barton’s eye and
muttered: “Impossible little student, that.” The remark naturally stung the poor child’s
sensitive soul. ee f

The writing courses were even more requiring and insistent. Sunday morning, about
six forty-five, I was dressing for early service when Roz knocked at my door to announce that
she had just completed her verse compositions. While I brushed my hair she read me some
blank verse composed between three A. M. and four-thirty A. M., and while I laced my boots
I listened to an Epithalamion written between four-thirty and six forty-five. In return
I read her an epigram dashed off between Olympic Games and Faculty Reception. But
216 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN








a
a





it was two weary days after Rosie’s feat that I stopped at Low Buildings on my way to the
Bonfire to leave a bundle of arguments at Miss Crandall’s door, and as for Cranie—well I
never dared ask her whether she finally wrote that parody. Suffice it to say that we mounted
the platform on Thursday in fear and trembling, knowing that Argumentation had not had
time to go up.

Such duties, you may think, were sufficient to fill our time to overflowing. True enough,
but since they’ were all matters which should have been attended to before, they had to be
relegated to odd moments, witness Rosie. There were speeches to be written—Leila had
seven besides two sermons and an opera,—skits to be worked up, transparencies to be painted,
chairs to be carried, lemonade to be made, quarts and quarts of lemonade stretching in end-
less rows of tin buckets from Pembroke to the Tramp Woods, Japanese lanterns to be hung,
Garden Party hats to be trimmed, songs to be practised, songs to be written, mothers to
amuse, suitors to take for walks, and last but not least Garden Party correspondence to

be dealt with. I can still see Betty Taylor—for such is the lot of AS during Commence-

ment Week,—sitting in Senior Row in the midst of a dreary stretch of white cards, regaling
her Byron-devouring neighbours under the next tree with such choice specimens as this:

“Mr. Pembroke West,
“Dear Sir: ,
“Yours received. Wife and self pleased to accept your invitation to a Garden Party
in honour of Miss Emma Yarnall. Hope it won’t rain.
“Yours respectfully,
Enocu Jones.”

I cannot, however, write with great accuracy of these events. For me, the doings of
Commencement Week are veiled in a cloud of advertisements. You see the combined
weight of class-book and exams bowled Hilpa over. Then John undertook the job. But
the next day she was carried on a stretcher to the Infirmary. (Whether it was the C. B.
or her longing to be joined again to Dotty is an open question. Dotty, you remember, had
betaken herself to the Infirmary as a City of Refuge from Garden Party cards.) At any
rate, the day of my last exam as I was stumbling up Taylor steps, my eyes buried in my notes,
Amy grabbed me.

“Won't you business manage the Class-book?” she gasped. She looked so pleadingly
at me, her hands full of tabs, that I assented, although during the next hour I found my mind


THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 217





wandering from problems of Plautine dialect to question whether or no this were a deep-
laid plot of 1911 to remove me too from the scene of action and cabbage my bishops at the
Garden Party. However, I abide near the top of the strength list and I survived.

Faculty Reception proved a good time to obtain photographs, and Garden Party a
splendid chance to solicit ads, while the time the marshals took to form the Commencement
line was beguiled by the collection of class statistics. Meanwhile Scottie and the other
editors held meetings in the room that had least trunks and mothers in it, and by Thursday
afternoon, after grabbing our A. B.’s and a hasty lunch, we were ready to fly into town
for a séance with Mr. Clarke. Friday we reserved for hunting the faculty with a camera.
The results of interrupted packing and matriculation exams correcting is published in the
back of this book.

So Friday night came at last and 1911 had completed its course. At the end we found
waiting for us one precious, moonlit evening with the campus all to ourselves. We sang on
the Athletic Steps, sang in our own dear, undisciplined way, mute and musical, each raising
a separate song, pitched in a different key. Then we spent the night in a last orgy of
trunks and talk.

Next day, one by one, we passed out of Pembroke Arch, out into the June sunshine.
Night found the class, its course run, its work accomplished, scattered to the four winds of
heaven.

MarGarRet JEFFERYS Hosarrt.


218 THE BOOK:OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN
















our Last ||

CLASS (EET:

XAMINATIONS were over, the

festivities were over, Garden

Party was over; yes, even Com-
mencement was over—and yet, some-
how, we did not and could not realise
it. As we sauntered down to the Gym
on that hot June afternoon, we scarcely
felt that it was to be different from any
other class meeting. So we idled on our way, and half of us were late—just as we had
been late throughout the four years.

The Gymnasium was still arranged as it had been that morning. With a dawning
sense of our own importance,* we went up those steps just as if we, all of us, had been
European fellows, or “the best essayists in our class.” We put Amy in Miss Thomas’s
great red chair, and arranged ourselves in solemn rows down either side. It came over us
that perhaps this was one of the mysterious “rights, dignities and privileges thereunto
appertaining”’ into which we had all been admitted that morning. Then the meeting came
to order. And, instead of to choose or to practise a new song of some sort, lo! the “‘first
business before the meeting” was to decide about reunions. With characteristic expansive-
ness, we voted to have them “on the first, second, third, filth’”—“and every filth year
thereafter.” Hellie insisted that that seemed too far ahead even to conceive of. Then
we fought a little. 1911 has never been dull enough to let a motion go through quite
uncontested. And when it came to deciding what hall we would re-une in—ah, then we
proved anew that the old fighting blood was in us! Tot homines, tot mentes, ought to
have been 1911’s motto, instead of that Greek one about the hoi pollot. But Amy
knew our ways, and after sufficient clamour, she said that we would wait. Finally, after

* Leila and I desire to point out that our sense of our own importance did not dawn here.—M. S. S.






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THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 219





deciding to wear little green Robinhood caps, with peacock feathers, we left the matter
of reunions and passed to the question of the Class Baby.

Hitherto, the question of this individual had not been a burning one in any of our
minds. Now, however, we were informed that limitations must be imposed upon the
infant. Like that of its ““Alma Grand-Mater,” the standard for the Class Baby must
be kept high. With a few suggestions from the chair, we decided that it should be the
“first girl-baby of an Alumna.” But our indefatigable president pushed the matter farther.
She forced us to consider its education. Then Higgie rose magnificently. She moved that
if the parents were unable, the class should educate “the child.”” There was a second.
In vain did I protest shyly from my corner that we were assuming a tremendous expense.
I was silenced by the words “public school’? and the motion went through. Time will
show whether we were right or wrong.

Then we divided the nice peacock cups. And last of all we elected permanent officers,
Amy and Dottie. It gave us a certain sense of stability to do this. We knew that even if
we were Alumnze, we were no less 1911 than we had been before. So we cheered our officers
lustily, and then we cheered ourselves. Under the gymnasium windows, the last of our
Freshmen, faithful to the end, were cheering us. And so we filed out through the doors
that we had so often passed through before, rushing toward Lab., with note-book-laden
arms. Half instinctively, I turned toward the bulletin-board, intending to register exercise;
and found it bare! Slowly we were all of us beginning to realise that it was indeed the
end. But we laughed, and tried not to show how dreary we felt. And as we walked home
across the campus, now deserted by all save ourselves, we knew that we were not going
to lose it. 1911 would be 1911 to its twenty-fifth—yes, until its fiftieth, reunion; and
no other class that had come or would come to college could ever be quite like it.

CATHERINE LyMAN DELANO.

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220 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN





IN MEMORIAM
rh

ELIZABETH SWIFT
ay

SINCE THIS BOOK TELLS THE HISTORY OF THE CLASS OF 1911, IT
SEEMS FITTING THAT A WORD SHOULD BE SPOKEN OF BETTY SWIFT,
WHO, THOUGH NOT A MEMBER OF THE CLASS, WAS WITH US DURING
OUR FOUR YEARS AT COLLEGE. IN MOURNING HER LOSS WE FIND A
CERTAIN HAPPINESS FOR OURSELVES IN THE THOUGHT THAT SHE WAS
WITH US DURING OUR LAST YEAR AT COLLEGE, AND THAT WE SHARED
IN HER JOY AT THE ACCOMPLISHMENT OF THE TASK WHICH SHE HAD
SET FOR HERSELF. THERE HAVE NOT BEEN MANY PEOPLE AT BRYN
MAWR SO WIDELY KNOWN AND SO TRULY LOVED AS BETTY SWIFT, AND
HER LOSS IS KEENLY FELT, NOT ONLY BY THOSE WHO KNEW HER WELL,
BUT BY EVERY ONE WHO WAS IN COLLEGE WITH HER. FOR IN HER WE
FOUND A FRIEND WHO CARED FOR EVERYONE, WHO HAD A FRIENDLY
GREETING ALWAYS, AND WONDERFUL UNSELFISHNESS WHICH BROUGHT
HAPPINESS TO THOSE ABOUT HER. SO IN OUR SORROW AT HER DEATH,
WE ARE GRATEFUL FOR THE INSPIRATION WHICH HER LIFE HAS GIVEN
US, AND WE REJOICE IN THE HAPPY MEMORY WHI-H REMAINS FOR US
WHO KNEW AND LOVED HER.




THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 221

5 Ww’ Envot

The four years are over, with all that
they meant, of interest, companionship,
happiness. The first parting is intolerable,
and we find consolation only when we
begin to realise how wonderful it is to
have behind us four years in which there
is nothing to regret.

We, as a class, may feel that; for we
have cared, 1911, from the very beginning
we have cared earnestly and with all our
hearts, and so we have entered fully into
all the richness of life and of learning
that Bryn Mawr can give. If we wanted a
further reward for our devotion we had it
when just that quality of our class was
emphasised by the person to whom we owe
our ideals. She said, as she bid us good-
bye, that we had supported every standard
and tradition of the College; and if we
have earned such praise, we have, indeed,
nothing to regret.

To her who has held steadily before us
ideals higher than we sometimes knew, an
outlook broader than we quite under-
stood, we pay homage with our hearts as
well as with our minds. Long may Presi-

oi dent Thomas be spared to Bryn Mawr and







































to us.
MARION STURGES SCOTT
























222 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN





Class Addresses

BIRTHDAYS ADDRESSES
Writa Butiitt ALEXANDER............. October r2th..... 617 St. James Street, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
JEANNETTE VALERIE ALLEN............. Mort 96th. os ceca eek “The Connecticut,” Washington, D. C.
ST EIN Se case weak wes Sen ee eee Caetnner 38th: oe eee as es Reno, Nevada
NORVELLE WHALEY BROWNE........... eanvary 13th. se 65 Central Park West, New York City
TSABEL . BUCHAMAM, «i. 5/000 is cecie eneene August 25th.........473 West State Street, Trenton, New Jersey
VIRGINIA CUSTER CANAN............005 November 12th.......; 1803 Third Avenue, Altoona, Pennsylvania
FRANCES KING CAREY..............005- Pane Oth. 5. Sa wt aap en es upg 838 Park Avenue, Baltimore
Mary FRANK CASE PEVEAR..........+-- February 28th..... 1514 Beacon Street, Brookline Massachusetts
Eurny Howa CAsSery.. si 5 ccc ecacs eee PRAY S71. S ees ce ooh ees cows Glenside, Pennsylvania
Kate ETHEL CHAMBERS...............- et Orth. ys sous 5 bs owadde wees ...916 Pine Street, Philadelphia
ALICE CHAMMING..3 5. ORR ee Paey F9th. cei 74 Sparks Street, Cambridge, Massachusetts
Join Carckeeing. 2. 3 esp eee mpecember Othe. 365555. sane das 3213 Clifford Street, Philadelphia
CHARLOTTE ISABEL CLAFLIN............. meeecn a0. os eo ag Broad Exchange Building, Boston
Jessre WILLIAMS CLIFTON............... A 5038 Schuyler Street, Germantown, Philadelphia
Donorey Corret. 2. 5.50e) oa ee pees erovember Ot. oo is caeas es ne be eee eee Winnetka, Illinois
Brances E. Cons... ee arecember 8th. oes ee Chester, Illinois
Exmanern CONRAD, «5-004 ss 6N yeu ee November 15sth..... 3236 East Ninth Street, Kansas City, Missouri
ESTHER STUART CORNELL..............- Dae S2t os oa 1511 Ridge Avenue, Coraopolis, Pennsylvania
Haveret Loep Covuce sci clea vans Re SA ss oe 141 Cumberland Street, Lebanon, Pennsylvania
Manion Detra Craw ie ea BORIC AIS ie i eee, Bryn Mawr School, Baltimore
AMGELA DAREOW! 6) 650200 0S ec aee e moretiber isthe... 503535 ce ek 3911 Poplar Street, Philadelphia
CATHERINE LYMAN DELANO............. mevetaber 20th es Ge aan oot 510 Wellington Avenue, Chicago
CHRISTINE ELLEN DEPEW............... BUY SUR 5 so cagaucugae swede peeeiaes cs Delano, Pennsylvania
HANNAH MARIA DODD...............05. November a6th. 0.3. 00.00. Rehoboth, Sussex County, Delaware
MARGARET DOOLITEGE. 0) cane ces ees PONMALY 30... 6s 1o2 Valentine Street, Mt. Vernon, New York
MARGARET JOSEPHINE DULLES.......... PO ASURs. os Ven ke aut ders 67 South Street, Auburn, New York
May MAnGareT EGAN. 600056555 60060355 pag” Saree 600 East Thirty-sixth Street, Kansas City,
Missouri
Atice Escreeaeee i ae ea DRAIN Cats Coecia 619 Oak Street, Cincinnati, Ohio
HELEN EMERSON, 6606555 il inde deeded May 1sth...:...: 162 Blackstone Block, Providence, Rhode Island
Agisrin’ Fieto i A ek WARE OU ins Giles Vi casive vied coey ba eave ces Gates, New York
EMMA FORSTER iis 6565 (Ace pastas Apel ath.) oi... 2631 Fillmore Street, Bridesburg, Philadelphia

MARGARET ALICE FRIEND............... December 17th... 56s... 657 Astor Street, Milwaukee, Wiscons.n


THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN 223





Class Addresses—Continued

BIRTHDAYS ADDRESSES
E.sre LusH FUNKHAUSER............... April roth...Care E. P. Peck, Esq., 401 South Fortieth Street,
Omaha, Nebraska
Ruta HAMILTON GAYLOR............... October 14th.......105 Fisher Avenue, White Plains, New York
GERTRUDE GIMBEL DANNENBAUM........ November 26th...(Mrs. Edwin Dannenbaum) 1507 Girard Ave-
nue, Philadelphia
HELEN HamitTton LEIPER HENDERSON...March roth..............ccceeceeeeeees Cumberland, Maryland
Mary Hamort HIGGINSON............... May sth... 05. Care Charles H. Strong, Esq., tog West Sixth
Street, Erie, Pennsylvania
MARGARET JEFFERYS HOBART........... December Wet. os so eas 43 Fifth Avenue, New York City
MARGERY ] LIZABETH HOFFMAN.......... August 3oth...... 161 North Twenty-third Street, Portland, Oregon
LALA TIOUGHTELING 0.065565 Cs April 2qts oe oss ccesceanes eee Winnetka, Illinois
CAROLINE LETCHWORTH JUSTICE........ April aGthe 2c ies ce voe ae Narberth, Pennsylvania
MitLDeED: JANE, . oo 65 isa Gee his December et es ss cae eae 4729 Greenwood Avenue, Chicago
VinGnTia: JONES) i cite oink. November 8th..... 259 Western Avenue, Allegheny, Pennsylvania
Mane ExiWhis i seeee a s y September 25th. . 335 West Seventy-eighth Street, New York City
CHARLOTTE STUART KIMBEL............. May Stic io. cess sé + cee ep eee ee Roland Park, Baltimore
MARGUERITE HAMMOND Layton Morris. . May 27th..... (Mrs. Robert Lennox Morris) Monroe, Louisiana
Lois PARTRIDGE LEHMAN............--- April qth. 2s .c.3 oes 54 ee Redlands, California
HENRIETTA FLoyp MAGOFFIN........... TY 840 os cease Mercer, Mercer County, Pennsylvania
RosALIND Fay MASON............---+-- Puget CON cose a cei ay eee ees 673 Lincoln Parkway, Chicago
Laura ISABELLE MILLER..............-. November 16th........ 316 Juneau Street, Milwaukee, Wisconsin
BEULAH MARGARET MITCHELL.......... Masth 16th. ooo isin eke ee Chattanooga, Tennessee
Eecaie MOORE, oi i ei ches’ March ath, oi). cbs Sees seis e «eae Danville, Pennsylvania
EurANA DINKEY Mock DE BOoBULA..... February oth...... (Mrs. Titus de Bobula) Loretta, Pennsylvania
AGNES LAWRENCE MURRAY........-.--- Vuly 2tetiisic codes ss vas 206 Main Street, Binghamton, New York
HELEN MAXWELL OTT.........-0000005- July 26th... 25... 521 East Leverington Avenue, Roxborough,
Pennsylvania
ALPINE BopINE PARKER..........2++:: September 6th........+2-+e+0e0: 1923 St. Paul Street, Ba'timore
HELEN Huss PARKHURST.........-++++: January 3d..... eee e cece cece e eee eeees Englewood, New Jersey
FRANCES PORTER. (666.66. acti oer ee ss October rath i..k cde eee eee cceue ne Hubbard Woods, Illinois
ELLEN ESTHER POTTBERG.........+++++: June sith... sees ces ccs. 2338 North Broad Street, Philadelphla
MARGARET ALICE PRUSSING......++-+++: March a2gth........e+eesesseses 1519 Dearborn Avenue, Chicago

HELEN MARGUERITE RAMSEY.........--- January 27th......-sceeseeeeeereeeeees Rosemont, Pennsylvania
224 THE BOOK OF THE CLASS OF NINETEEN-ELEVEN





Class Addresses—Continued

BIRTHDAYS ADDRESSES

PECTS BIOS i ie slay oa a PAR OL. oan daresay oc 124 Ocean Street, Lynn, Massachusetts
ETHEL LovutsE RICHARDSON............. Mime bth. . inc. is cee 2232 North Thirteenth Street, Philadelphia
MUCH ROBERTG os. s oe nak aoe eae CORRS September 7th........ 919 West William Street, Decatur, Illinois
IsopeL MITCHELL ROGERS.............. | yf: Rae a 48 Highland Avenue, Yonkers, New York
PAMZABETE ROGB. 06s sive scka ae sea February 26th....... 2051 East Ninetieth Street, Cleveland, Ohio
Louise STERNBERG RUSSELL............ Ty OR 4: a 184 West Eighty-second Street, New York City
ANNE RUSSELL SAMPSON..............0. prerpinber QBtho ici. is cae es Pantops, Charlottesville, Virginia
Hira SERENA SCHRAM................. January 17th....... 420 Chestnut Street, Columbia, Pennsylvania
HERMINE RICE SCHAMBERG........ 1 i a September 6th... ... 1841 North Seventeenth Street, Philadelphia
MARION STURGES SCOTT................ SE Or ea Virginia Hotel, Chicago
AMMA STRARNB Oc)... oc detcle een December gth....... 37 Orange Street, Nashua, New Hampshire
ALICE ANITA STEARNS STEVENS.......... Tey RSE. 3h (Mrs. Weld Merrick Stevens) Greenwich, Conn-
necticut
Tota. 'MaEntx SKEDS... .. 06. 3bsis isi detee September 16th..... 607 Upsal Street, Germantown, Philadelphia
MARGERY ‘SMITH. 66005) 2 ce ae CONT FE White House, Balston Spa, New York
ELIZABETH WILLIS TAYLOR.............. December 2oth........ 33 West Ninetieth Street, New York City
Mary Minor WATSON TAYLOR.......... POW PER. os ck ass 2001 Monument Avenue, Richmond, Virginia
RutH FRANCES TANNER............0... November 24th...Care Herbert A. Gill, Esq., 612 Fourteenth
Street, Washington, D. C.
DOROTHY "THAVER, 05505, ca a on op aadlh | UNDA DOSE FEEDaE Fomine aan gi Er ouat ia New Canaan, Connecticut
Berar: TREDWAG. | icici euieseeocuaus 1 RN SR IVA AES I 43 Fenelon Place, Dubuque, Iowa
OLIVE OSTRANDER VAN Horw...........May 3oth........... 150 Dan Street, Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania
RutH Perkins Vickery Ho.mes........ December 2d..... (Mrs. Bradford Buttrick Holmes) 452 Sixteenth
Street, Bellingham, Washington
Amy Moreweap WALKER............... PO SED ie ea ued 1128 La Salle Avenue, Chicago
Rote WHUS occ eicc tea MTOR SOU, Seis ac Peas eg Hanover, New Hampshire
CONSTANCE CAROLINE WILBUR.......... February tst....... 711 Grand Avenue, Asbury Park, New Jersey
Mary ALMIRA WILLIAMS................ We OO cs ces 1005 Meridian Street, Indianapolis, Indiana
AGNES PENMAN WOOD.............0000: October toth.......... 234 Walnut Avenue, Wayne, Pennsylvania
FLORENCE Woop WINSHIP.............. August 31st...... (Mrs. Herring Winship) 37 Bank Street, Prince-
ton, New Jersey
FLORENCE JULIEN WYMAN TRIPP........ PN HR id airy Susie dle a (Mrs. R. C. Tripp) Rye, New York

TOMMEA, (NV ABMAN Es cei uGu uaa uaa September sth...... 217 Cricket Avenue, Ardmore, Pennsylvania







IN MEMORIAM

kK

JOSEPH EDMUND WRIGHT

t

ey

ROSE CHAMBERLAIN
































































































iam













Photo by T lias Goldensky,























































































Photo by Elias Goldensk)




































































































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ESTABLISHED 1865

~~

Peabody, Houghteling & Go.

105 SOUTH LA SALLE STREET
CHICAGO

~*~

Investment Bankers

NY
Dealers in Railroad, Public Cor-

poration and Industrial Bonds and
Chicago City Mortgages, consti-

tuting a most conservative class of

SECURITIES














PHILADELPHIA NEW YORK

HAGEDORN MODEL SHOP

IMPORTED AND DOMESTIC

GOWNS AND WAISTS

AT REASONABLE PRICES

113 SOUTH 13TH STREET PHILADELPHIA





RICH AND EXCLUSIVE MILLINERY

The modes in feminine headwear displayed by



this house—both imported and our own design
—are unsurpassed in Philadelphia. Correct
designs for street, motor and formal wear.

BLAYLOCK & BLYNN, Inc.
1528 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia









ANTHONY BOCH

Wigs and Hair Goods

Perruquier to all the leading College Dram-
atics in this vicinity

Res” NOTE NEW .ADDRESS “24

129 South Thirteenth Street |

JOHN J. CONNELLY
bed .
Firrece Floris —

Lancaster Avenue

Rosemont, Pa.
Telephone 252 A









H. .D; REESE
Dealer in the Finest Quality of
Beef, Veal, Mutton, Lamb
AND SMOKED MEATS

Bell Phone, Filbert 29-49 1203 FILBERT STREET
Keystone Phone, Race 253 PHILADELPHIA



SAUTTER’S
Confectionery of the Best Quality



LADIES’ LUNCH ROOM

1227 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia





JOHN J. McDEVITT
Printing

Programs Tickets Announcements

Bill Heads Letter Heads Booklets, etc.

915 LANCASTER AVENUE

Bryn Mawr, Pa.
Next to the Public School









F. W. Crook LAdies TAILOR

Maker of SUITS, COATS
AND RIDING HABITS



All kinds of Repair Work, Cleaning and Pressing
Suits Remodeled

908 LANCASTER AVE. BRYN MAWAR,, PA.






EMBLEMS
NOVELTIES

For Students and Alumnae of

Bryn Mawr College

With the Bryn Mawr Seal
applied as a decoration

~

Official Seal Pin
with patent safety clasp
14-kt. gold and enamel - $3.50
Silver-gilt andenamel - - 4.50
Bar Pin
14-kt. gold and enamel - $7.00
Silver-gilt or sterling silver - 22

Charm for Fob

14-kt. gold - - . = $9.50
Silver-gilt - - - 3.00

Sterling Silver Spoon

Gilt bowl, as illustrated; actual
length, 4;); inches . - $1.25

Wall Plaque

Seal in bronze and enamel,
mounted on oak - - $3.50

Suggestions and estimates for other
Nobelties sent on request,
Without charge



Design Patented

BAILEY, BANKS & BIDDLE Co.

1218-20-22 Chestnut Street
PHILADELPHIA



OUR MOTTO—*Careful Handling and Quality”

Che Wilson
Laundry





BRYN MAWR, PENNSYLVANIA

We make a specialty of ladies’ fine work. Special
rates to students







Do Not Buy

New Clothes
New Carpets
New Rugs

New Draperies
New Curtains
Silks Satins
Velvets Velours

Linen Cottons



Almost All of
Your Clothes

Can be PROPERLY cl leansed or
Dyed and refi nishec i to take the
place of new (not half cleansed s





the spots rear pr ar) Carpets,
Draperies, etc., can Haag ayes t
che — the wl color &cheme o
a room. Velour Cc urtains can be
dyed He st any ce it
and Axn 1ins ter , Ru igs an rd Carpets
dyed dark colors. Just send ar
old soiled suit to be cleanse
Clothes kept clean wear 25 ner
cent. longer,

LEWANDOS

Americas Greatest Cleansers and Dyers

1633 Chestnut Street

GOODS CALLED FOR AND DELIVERED

Telephone

=Spruce 46-79










P, N.. DEGERBERG

LADIES’ TAILOR

we

1612 CHESTNUT STEREST





PHILADELPHIA















Apron Skirts Habits Auto Coats











JE CALDWELL & €O GROUND FLOOR GALLERY
Iewelers and Silversmiths
Class Rings and Insignia MARCEAU

HE originality of our designs and Ph t h C
bre exceptional quality of workman- O O g a r
ship combine to give our school

emblems and rings preeminence, and this
is attested by the number of commissions













placed with us for execution during the 1609 Chestnut Street
past season.

@, Among the important orders of the PHILADELPHIA, PA.

year we would mention the BRYN :

MAWR CLASS RINGS FOR 1912, EPeeh nnn S0PS

. Committees are requested to write us NEW YORK STUDIO BOSTON STUDIO
for suggestions, prices and designs. 258 Fifth Ave. 160 Tremont St,

902 CHESTNUT STREET
PHILADELPHIA SPECIAL RATES TO STUDENTS




























BRINTON BROS.



Fancy and Staple Groceries

Orders called for and delivered







Lancaster and Merion Aves. BRYN MAWR

CHAS. W. GLOCKER, Jr.

All kinds of Fine Cakes and A full line Whitman's Con-
Fancy Ice Cream 1 fections and Chocolates

Deliveries to Wayne and St. Davids
Wednesdays, Sundays and Holidays

Telephone Connection

Bryn Mawr Avenue, near Station, Bryn Mawr, Pa.
Philadelphia Store, 134 South Fifteenth Street





All the
NEW BOOKS
as issued

Choice Books in Fine Bindings

CAMPION & COMPANY
1316 Walnut Street, Philadelphia

About Prescriptions

Prescriptions compounded by Graduates in
Pharmacy only, at all hours, and absolute
accuracy guaranteed,

Night Bell promptly answered. Prescriptions
delivered promptly by railroad or messenger.

FRANK W. PRICKITT, Graduate in Pharmacy

ROSEMONT)
BRYN MAWR({ PENNA.





HARRY GANE GEO. G. SNYDER

GANE & SNYDER

Dealers in

Fancy Groceries, Meats and

BUTTER, EGGS Pp wee FISH AND
and POULTRY TrovVvi1s1i0ns OYSTERS

822-824 LANCASTER AVENUE
BRYN MAWR, PA.

Phone Connection

GA

Hansbury Studio of Photography

914 Chestnut Street
PHILADELPHIA

Special Rates to Bryn Mawr Students







THE MISSES SHIPLEY’S SCHOOL
BRYN MAWR, PENNA.
Preparatory to Bryn Mawr College

BUILDING—Specially designed Colonial building, with every Improved
appointment. SITUATION—Educational and social opportunities of situation,
opposite Bryn Mawr College. INSTRUCTION—Diploma in College Pre-
paratory and Academic Courses. Certificate admits to Vassar, Smith, and
Wellesley. Two resident French teachers. Specialists in all departments,
ATHLETICS—Resident athletic director. YOUNGER PUPILS receive

ial ion,
“Ree Ceekied ddatudiies THE SACRETARY,





JOFI N FISH gether peas

Practical Jeweler

and dealer in

Watches, Clocks, Jewelry, Etc.

Repairing a Specialty
LANCASTER PIKE. BRYN MAWR, PA.






The LACE Sh0r

IMPORTERS OF



Laces, Embroideries, Trimmings
Nets, Chiffons, Etc.
Handkerchiefs, Neckwear

Waists and Dresses



M. SESSLER

1228 Chestnut St. Philadelphia

GEORGE ALLEN

INCORPORATED

1214 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia

Importer and Creator
French Millinery

Imported Millinery Trimmings
Laces, Tunics, Garnitures,

Lingerie, Waists, etc.

The Recognized Exclusive Philadelphia

Store for women to shop

Your patronage requested







p ef Shaw Candie

THE WORLD-FAMOUS CANDY
THE CANDY OF EXCELLENCE

HYGIENICALLY SERVED

101 South Thirteenth Street
Philadelphia, Pa.

wd
(aK
oa

GEorGE E. TEBBETS







SCENERY FLAGS & BUNTING

D. C. Humphrys Co.
DECORATIONS

913 Arch Street Philadelphia





The John C. Winston Co.





PRINTERS AND
PUBLISHERS







Specialists in Distinctive
and Artistic |

PRINTING











1006-1016 Arch St., Philadelphia








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Nae ee ee a at tae ihe ie ae i he a ae a a ae ae oe a eee)

JOSEPH’ C. FISCHER & SON

Manufacturing Theatrical Costumers



COSTUMES 5. onc ann
TO HIRE AND FOR SALE







161 WEST 49TH STREET 225 SOUTH NINTH STREET
NEW YORK PHILADELPHIA

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PM ss eres ts Ea ee OAC ee ee shy 44 boa bib beib we diee ene wah ob 6.00.05 baw o.46 466.55 tae be Sis 51) hele me eee eee Oe Oe eae Oe
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Philadelphia’s
Favorite

Chocolates

y Pancoast
1730 Chestnut Street



The Exclusive Styles in Millinery

1316 CHESTNUT STREET Moderate Prices












McClees Galleries





1507 Walnut Street
Philadelphia

PICTURES 4° FRAMES




KRYPTOK






4

NO LINE








43 YEARS MAKING GLASSES

Established 1868

We are one of the oldest optical houses
in Philadelphia, and our long experience
plus new ideas place us in the front rank
of prescription opticians. Your oculist
knows when we make the glasses they are
right. OUR PRICES ARE RIGHT, TOO.

AUTO GOGGLES—LORGNETTES~-OPERA GLASSES
J. L. BORSCH & CO.
OPTICIANS

1324 Walnut Street
HOME OF THE KRYPTOK BIFOCAL





M. M. GAFFNEY

LADIES’ AND

Gents Furnishings

DRY GOODS anp NOTIONS
Post Office Block













BRYN MAWR, PA.



KRDMON D

Hairdresser
1431 WALNUT STREBT
PHILADBRLPHIA

Out of town appointments
81 per hour and expenses

Phone, Looust 1610







J. KISTERBOCK & SON

Manufacturers of

Heaters, Ranges, Stoves and Grates

Dealers in

Mantels, Tiles and Fire-Place Goods
JOBBING PROMPTLY AND CAREFULLY ATTENDED TO

2002-04 Market Street, Philadelphia, Pa.
Factory: Nos. 4, 6, 8, South 20th St. T. J. LEARY, Mgr.





Henry R. Hallowell & Son

HOT-HOUSE

wrétien Fancy Fruits

The Real Estate Trust Co. Building
Broad and Chestnut Streets
Philadelphia























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