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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