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
