MY bureau drawers,—I wonder what their contents could tell! Whenever I go through them with the firm resolve to clear out everything that I do not actually use, I always end by saving some things just for the sake of the memories connected with them.
Take that pink satin hair ribbon, for instance. I wore it for the first time with a new pink dress at a party in California. It brings back all the thought of California as I first saw it in nineteen twenty, memories of stately and haughty poinsettias, of date palms from which one could pick and eat fresh dates, of a dancing ocean with its myriads of lovely sea creatures, and its gaily-colored beach equipment, of an amusement park with the roller coaster on which I nearly had heart failure.
Then, in another corner, lies a string of green beads. What could better recall to my mind the night of my graduation from the grade school? The recollection makes me want to be in grade school once more. I well remember how one of my classmates forgot to bring the music to the class song which was to have been one of the attractions of the program. Disaster marked that evening farther when a tall Danish boy, looking the picture of selfconsciousness and misery, arose to give the farewell address. As nearly as I can remember, it ran thus:
“Ladies and gentlemen, on the evening of our graduation ve vish to tank de teachers and also de principal for de vork”—a long awkward pause—“ve vish to tank de teachers and also de principal for de vork”—a still longer pause, interspersed with rising giggles from the graduating class—“Ladies and gentlemen, ve vish to tank de teachers and also de principal for de vork vich they have done in getting us trough.”
Then, there at the back of the drawer, is a black satin sash. It brings to my mind an entirely different kind of memory. It is one thing that I have left from the dress I wore at my grandfather’s funeral. I remember all the tragedy of the occasion, lightened by one spot of comedy, my grandmother’s losing her petticoat.
I dare say that some day I shall throw away these things that others consider rubbish, but I shall never part with the memories for which they stand.
Polly Sweet.
IT was early in the morning when Nancy Nelson awoke. She got up and put on her wrapper and one slipper, as she couldn’t get the other one on, though she tried hard. “Ah,” she said, “there must be something in my slipper.” So Nancy felt in her slipper and then pulled out her hand. Why, there was a little package! “Who put it in there, I wonder,” she said, quite surprised. Nancy asked everybody in the house. Then her mother said, “Nancy, did you forget that it is your birthday?” Then she opened the little package and found a small silver thimble, with the name “Nancy Nelson” on it.
Anne Morrison, Form IV.
IT was a clear, warm day in late spring and a ship was leaving the harbor, its departure accompanied by a merry clanking of chains as the anchor was drawn up. The lusty cheers of the sailors floated back in echoes. The shore was crowded with the wives and sweethearts of these two hundred sailors, their brightly colored gowns and fluttering handkerchiefs making a lovely picture against the background of the green cliffs. On board the men were singing lustily as they performed their tasks and the last echo of their happiness floated back clearly to the little group on the shore as the ship dropped below the hill and out of sight. The women had already settled down to their period of watchful waiting and were trusting the safety of their loved ones to God, who had always protected them and brought them home safely before.
It was a clear, crisp night in late October and the moon was sending its silvery beams out over the quiet waters. Everything was pervaded by an air of mystery. Slowly, from far out at sea, a great ship came slinking into the harbor. As it drew nearer, it glowed with crimson lights. Then, suddenly every light went out and again the great mysterious hulk was swallowed up in the darkness. Not a sound was heard. Could this be the same ship that had sailed away so gayly three years ago? No one awaited its coming, for it had been long given up for lost. It came nearer and nearer, and a breeze, which had suddenly come up, whistled through its thin sails and moved the spars, making a sound like the rattling of dry bones. Then, as if in response to the command of a ghostly captain, the great, black hulk sank into the darkness under the water, leaving only a whirlpool to mark its existence. It sank as it had sailed in; slowly and mysteriously.
Martha Jean Maughan, ’28.
I love to hear upon the walkThe rain that comes on nights in spring,So warm and soft and patteringIt seems to fairly talk.It tells me of arbutus shy,That hides in moss beside a tree,Of crocus and anemoneThat peek out at the sky.It fills with earthly scent the night,And glistens on the new green leaves;It drips and drips from shining eavesAnd sparkles in the light.
I love to hear upon the walkThe rain that comes on nights in spring,So warm and soft and patteringIt seems to fairly talk.
It tells me of arbutus shy,That hides in moss beside a tree,Of crocus and anemoneThat peek out at the sky.
It fills with earthly scent the night,And glistens on the new green leaves;It drips and drips from shining eavesAnd sparkles in the light.
Mary Brackett, ’26.
MARY had been assured that “Dolly” was absolutely dependable, would not shy, had a kind and gentle disposition, and was easy to manage; but now she was actually gazing upon this amiable annihilator, the courage oozed out of her suddenly pounding heart and her eyes widened with fright and suspicion. She wished now she hadn’t been so desirous of tempting fate on such a seemingly ferocious and unnatural brute.
“Dolly,” on the other hand, happily unaware of his savageness and unnatural spirit, drooped his homely, ungainly head in a dejected manner. To him, Mary was only one more burden, one more wriggling, gasping infliction, to be jogged slowly about for her first ride. He snorted in disdain. Mary jumped. Why didn’t she use her own feet? “Dolly” didn’t want to be bothered. Finally he rolled an eye back to survey his passenger.
The groom was gradually coaxing Mary on—onto something terrible. She just knew it! “Dolly” seemed to assume supernatural proportions as Mary reached out a hand to grasp the reins which were handed to her. Someone boosted her on. Goodness! She was going right over on the other side! But no! She found herself sitting up on the broad back of “Dolly”; it was a very precarious position. How did one keep one’s balance? She just knew she couldn’t stay on. There was nothing to hang onto, and her....
“Help!” she shrieked, as her steed casually stamped a clumsy foot, in the endeavor to rid himself of a persistent fly.
The groom, now mounted, led her horse out into the ring. Mary hoped he’d hang onto the reins. If he didn’t.... Mary pictured herself a mangled, shapeless mass. She shuddered. She’d seen those movie actors dart gaily about and had thought it would be lovely to learn to dart. But now—she wondered if they had been tied on!
Oh! they were jogging. Mary didn’t seem to understand the nature of the jog. She was out of breath. Grasping the pommel, she looked miserably at the long neck swaying in front of her. Two long ears fascinated her. Up and down, up and down. Ah! why didn’t he stop? She attempted to shriek, but only succeeded in emitting faint gasps as “Dolly” swerved to avoid a small hole. Inside she seemed to be jolted to pieces. Her heart shook her chest, and a giddy feeling overpowered her. Her vision blurred, and her breath came in short gasps.
“Dolly” had now slowed down to a walk, but to Mary this was the wildest of gaits. Every minute she fully expected to die on the spot. She couldn’t stand it another second. She couldn’t—she couldn’t!
“Time is up, Miss,” announced a cheery voice. “Do you wish to dismount?”
Mary came up from the depths of agony, and hope lit her face.
“Oh-h-h!” she moaned. “Yes, I—Yes! Yes!”
She was lifted, or rather dragged, off, she didn’t know which, didn’t care as long as she was off. The ground seemed to come up to meet her. Why didn’t things stand still? Even the unsuspicious “Dolly” appeared to be performing grotesque antics. Mary took a step, just one. It was not necessary for her to take more to realize that she was very stiff. “Heavens!” She slowly gathered up her coat and hat, and limped painfully out of the Academy. Now she could realize that an amateur, in riding anyway, had her troubles in walking!
Virginia Leffingwell, ’26.
Teresa is my aunt’s black cat;She plays with this, she plays with that—A tassel green, a string to tug,A fleck of light upon the rugGive her imagination fire.And then she sleeps all in a ballBeside the hearth out in the hall.She loves to warm herself this way,And dreams, this time, about her play—While cuddled up she purrs and purrs.When tea time comes, she’s always there,Beside my aunt’s old walnut chair;Her big green eyes are bright with glee,Her chin sinks in a creamy sea,And her ecstasy is complete.
Teresa is my aunt’s black cat;She plays with this, she plays with that—A tassel green, a string to tug,A fleck of light upon the rugGive her imagination fire.
And then she sleeps all in a ballBeside the hearth out in the hall.She loves to warm herself this way,And dreams, this time, about her play—While cuddled up she purrs and purrs.
When tea time comes, she’s always there,Beside my aunt’s old walnut chair;Her big green eyes are bright with glee,Her chin sinks in a creamy sea,And her ecstasy is complete.
Mary Brackett, ’26.
IT is last period on a long, sleepy, particularly humdrum day at school. Shirley sits trying to concentrate on a history text-book, but her mind will wander, despite her really noble efforts to distinguish the Valerian Laws from the Licinian Laws.
“What an idiotic law to have to make!” she mutters resentfully. “But I’m sure I shouldn’t be so dumb in History if I had an interesting text-book. It seems as though someone could write it, even if we aren’t all Van Loons and H. G. Wellses. I bet I could myself—at least I’d make it a fascinating book if not a strictly exact one (‘Yes you would,’ says her Subconscious, but she pays no attention)! When I think of the generations of defenseless students to be subjected to these text-books, my heart aches for them!... The Valerian Law was....”
The scene changes from this lethargic one to a fireside on a winter evening. She drops the book in her lap, the yells of the savages are fainter. She shakes the salt spray from her chair and tries to adjust herself once more to the prosaic of a land-lubber.
“To write a book like that is my only desire on earth,” she murmurs, as she reaches for a volume of Jane Austen.
Now, completely involved in the career ofEmma, she says, “Oh, for that gift of the gods Jane Austen had! Her speech—a rippling stream of perfect and delicious English, the King’s English indeed! Each phrase is as delicately constructed as a watch, and all her watches tick together as one.”
Thus the incorrigible child goes on, unaware how many fascinating books she has longed to have written. FromNicholas NicklebytoThunder on the Left, fromWalter H. Pageto theConstant Nymph, and fromChaucertoEdna St. Vincent Millay! A veritable gourmande, she is.
But forgive her. Who has not felt that he might improve a text-book? Who has not longed, in reading a glorious book, for similar brilliance? What lover of books is unmoved to an occasional effort at emulation, even if he afterwards destroy it? You who do these things, sympathize with Shirley, who, by her own hand we do confess, is bitterly disillusioned every time she tries to write a theme.
Shirley Woodward, ’27.
THREE Indians padded softly along through the tall dark pines. Their errand seemed peaceful, since their number was so small and they came so openly. Soon the path widened out, and finally led to a small glade in which stood a rough cabin. The Indians stopped to observe cautiously before making themselves known. What they saw filled them with curiosity and awe, for standing before the cabin was a white man praying, his deep voice echoing through the wild stillness of the forest. Beside him stood a younger man, whose attention, while respectful, was not undivided, for he had spied the Indians and waited restlessly for the “father” to finish his devotions. These done, he called his superior’s attention to the savages lurking on the outskirts of the glade and beckoned to them to come forward. Both white men were eager to learn what the Indians might tell them, and the elder, who spoke the Indian tongue, talked glibly with the redskins. They, in turn, were curious about several things. First, the strange contrivance that hung from Father Hennepin’s belt. He explained that it was to help him find his way through the uncharted country. Save for the compass he would quickly be lost.
“Hugh,” grunted one of the braves, “that no good. I lead you,” surprising the Jesuit by his use of English.
“Good,” answered the priest. The two white men went into the cabin, gathered their scanty baggage, and reappeared at the door. By this time the other Indians had disappeared down the path by which they had come. In the opposite direction, without a backward glance, the party of three men, the Jesuit, his companion, and the Indian guide, set out to find new thoroughfares.
Now from morning to night traffic rolls along the same trail. The narrow path that once found its way through the forest with many turnings and twistings is now a wide, paved avenue. Over it go street cars carrying busy people, trucks laden with gravel or coal, the ever-present automobiles of people bent on pleasure. The street is lined on either side with tall buildings: stores, offices, houses, churches, museums. As we go down the avenue, we come to what was once a clearing in the forest. Instead of the simple cabin, there are now a variety of buildings: a small store whose owner, a French Canadian, carries on a thriving business; opposite, a restaurant owned by two yellow Chinese, who specialize in chow-mein; next door, the establishment of a husky Yankee, who plies his trade by greasing automobiles and supplying gasoline to motorists demanding that necessity.
A thriving community now, what will this one time forest clearing be two hundred years hence?
Janet Morison, ’27.
At dinner Daddy told us he had seen a prince. I asked him what prince it was.
Then Mother said, “Didn’t you read the paper, Ella Sturgis?”
“No,” I replied.
“It was the Prince of Greece,” said Daddy, “and he wore a monocle.”
Chucky said, “What is a monocle?”
“It is a glass people wear in one eye and squint a little to keep it in,” said Mother.
Then she asked Daddy where he had seen the prince.
“At the club,” he replied. “I was invited to have lunch with him, but I could not accept the invitation because I had promised Ella Sturgis to do something for her dog, and Ashes is more important than the Prince.”
Ella Sturgis Pillsbury, Form VI.
IN about 1855 Mr. W. H. Grimshaw came to live in Minneapolis where the Plaza Hotel now stands. Then Loring Park and the vicinity was farm land, and an Indian named Keg-o-ma-go-shieg had his wigwam at the corner of Oak Grove and Fifteenth streets. Mr. Grimshaw learned from him that Indians had lived on this spot for generations, but that since the land had come under government control, most of the Indians had gone. Keg-o-ma-go-shieg, because he loved so much the spot where he was born, returned every summer to fish in the lakes and hunt in the woods of his beloved birthplace. There is no tablet or monument to this last Indian in Loring Park, but there is one to Ole Bull facing Harmon Place. Would it not be more fitting to have a statue of Sitting Bull?
Also there used to be an old, well-traveled Indian trail through the Park, of which there is no trace now, although some people have searched carefully for it. According to Mr. Grimshaw there used to be countless passenger pigeons, which in the migratory season roosted in the trees of Loring Park. At noon the sky would be darkened by a cloud of these birds, the air would be filled with the sound of their wings, and they would alight on the branches of the trees, nearly breaking them down by their great weight.
Then there was the old brook that flowed out of Loring Park lake, across Harmon Place, under the present automobile buildings, and emptied into Basset’s Creek. The old military road from Minnehaha Falls to Fort Ridgley ran through this section, roughly along Hennepin Avenue.
West of Hennepin Avenue was Ruber’s pasture, where cows and horses used to graze, and where the Parade Grounds, the Armory, the Cathedral, and Northrop School now are. Mr. J. S. Johnson was the first white settler in this part of Minneapolis. In 1856 he bought one hundred and sixty acres, of which a part is now Loring Park, for one dollar and twenty-five cents per acre.
Eugenia Bovey, ’08.
“Now if you will be quiet I will tell you a story,” said Miss Smith.
“All right,” said Tom, “but you must tell us a story about a pirate.”
“No!” cried Betty, “tell us a story about a fairy.”
“Be quiet or I will not tell you any story,” exclaimed Miss Smith.
“Please tell us a ’tory bout ’ittle baby,” pleaded baby Ruth.
“All right, the story will be about a little baby. You two older children ought to know better than to shout,” sighed Miss Smith.
“Oh dear, we never get anything now that Ruthie is old enough to let you know what she wants,” groaned Tom.
“Once upon a time,” began Miss Smith, “there was a ...”
“Pirate,” interrupted Tom.
“No, no,” said Miss Smith as she went on with the story. “Once upon a time there was a ...”
“Fairy,” interrupted Betty.
“No, a little baby,” cried Ruth.
Janet Bulkley, Form VI.
Nine photographs of students enjoying leisure activities
Spring is coming with the sun;The birds are coming too.Summer’s coming with the grass,The flowers with the dew.
Spring is coming with the sun;The birds are coming too.Summer’s coming with the grass,The flowers with the dew.
Susan Wheelock, Form IV.
IF you would enjoy a glance at the home of one of the winds, readAt the Back of the North Wind, by George MacDonald. Young Diamond, a little boy, the North Wind, Diamond’s father and mother, and Old Diamond, which is a great and good horse,—these are the characters you will hear the most about in this story. The story narrates a series of adventures, in dream form, of Young Diamond and an uncanny creature who calls herself the North Wind. An unusual part of the story is the trip to the sea where the North Wind will destroy a ship. Diamond does not want to perceive this, so North Wind drops him in a great cathedral, where he wakes to see the moon-lit windows showing the saints in beautiful garments. If you like fairy tales, I would suggest that you read this incredible book.
Geraldine Hudson, Form V.
My dear friend:
I do so hope you will like the bookDandelion Cottage. It is an interesting story of four little girls named Betty Tucker, Jeanie Mapes, Mabel Bennett, and Marjorie Vale, who pay rent for a cottage by pulling dandelions. They have such interesting adventures and act so business-like that you ought to love it. I did when I read it. Carroll Watson Rankin certainly knows what girls like, for she has innumerable objects in that cottage that I know you would love to have in your room. It is very clean in the cottage, with not an atom of dirt anywhere. The part I like best in the story is where Laura Milligan, a disdainful little girl, moves into the neighborhood. She makes life miserable for the cottagers. When you read the story, be sure you look very carefully for the things Laura does, for they are very interesting. I know you prefer to read the book yourselves, so I will close now.
Sincerely yours,Barbara Anson, Form V.
YOU would be very much interested in the story ofKrag and Johnny Bear, by Ernest Thomson Seton. The names are very cute. There are Nubbins, his mother, White Nose, and his mother. This part of the story tells about Krag, an extraordinary little sheep, who has many fascinating adventures. Little White Nose is very lazy, obstinate, and wary. Every morning Nubbins gets up and tries to wake up White Nose. When Krag grows up, he has beautiful big horns, and the hunters try to catch him so they can mount them. At the end of the story he is caught and his horns are mounted and kept in the king’s palace. I know you would like to read this book if you are fond of animal stories. Another interesting story is about Randy, an extraordinary sparrow who is brought up with some canaries and learns to sing. One day the cage Randy was in fell over with an astounding crash and he escaped. He built a nest of sticks, which was the only kind he knew, and was very disconsolate when his mate, who was an ordinary sparrow, threw them away and brought hay and straw instead. Randy’s mate is finally killed and Randy is caught and put back in his cage. I think you will like this book if you like animal stories.
Jane Arnold and Louise Walker, Form V.
IT was a cold and frosty morning at Mr. Brown’s farm. The pumpkins were huddled together, and their frosty coats glistened in the morning sunshine.
“I heard Mr. Brown talking about Thanksgiving,” said a little pumpkin. “I wonder what Thanksgiving is?”
“Long ago,” began a big pumpkin, “when the first white people came to this country, it was in early winter, and these settlers could raise no food. Many of them died of hunger and cold. But the next year the settlers planted many crops, and they grew wonderfully. So they had a day to thank God for the crops they had. The day they celebrated is called Thanksgiving.”
“Oh, I see,” said the little pumpkin. “I am sure Teddy was thankful he had such a nice big pumpkin to make his Jack o’ lantern out of on Hallowe’en.”
“I think the cattle are thankful that they have us to eat in winter,” said a middle-sized pumpkin, trying very hard to look wise, but the November air was so delightfully chilly and crisp he had to laugh.
“I’m sure Farmer Brown and his family are thankful to have such a nice pumpkin pie every Thanksgiving,” said a big pumpkin.
“I never knew pumpkins were so useful,” sighed the little pumpkin sleepily. Then he turned over and went to sleep.
Harriot Olivia Carpenter, Form IV.
The senior class; we just squeezed through
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Cadillac logo
Millions of boys and girls of today are eager partisans of the Cadillac—anxious to grow up and have a Cadillac of their own, like Father and Mother.
With thousands, the ownership of a Cadillac is a family tradition dating back to the days when Grandfather bought his first Cadillac, a quarter of a century ago.
All through these 25 years Cadillac has consistently stood in the forefront of all the world’s motor cars.
Eleven years ago Cadillac produced the first eight-cylinder engine—the basic foundation of Cadillac success in marketing more than 200,000 eight-cylinder Cadillac cars.
Today the new 90-degree, eight-cylinder Cadillac is the ultra modern version of the motor car. Its luxury, comfort, performance and value reach heights of perfection beyond anything ever attained.
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THE STORE of SPECIALIZATIONSPrescribes for Youth and Summer HolidaysThe Girls’ Store—suggests to the fortunate years between 6 and 14, that Wash Frocks have all the style charm, this season, of silks or crepes; that handmade Voiles are cool and always dainty; that white Middy Blouses are jauntier with matching Skirt; that Cricket Sweaters are “Sportsiest.”The Sub-Deb Shop—understudies the “Deb” in outfitting the “Sub!” Are your years between 13 and 16—here are Sports Frocks; decorative Georgettes; bright cool Prints for a summer morning; pastel Chiffons or buoyant Taffetas for the evening party. And in Coats—there’s the slim “wrappy”, the Cape-back.When Youth Steps Out—if it’s young youth, it chooses for smartness and comfort, a “Felice” Pump—in patent or tan calf, with matching buckles. If it’s more sophisticated youth—there’s the sophisticated Shoe; the Shoe of high, “Spiked” heel and daringly contrasted leathers—dainty, frivolous, charming!The Hat Shop Says—pretty much what you will this Summer! From small Hats of crocheted straw or silk, to pictorial Milans—for the Sub-Deb. From demure “Pokes” or off-the-face Beret-Tams to wide-brimmed, streamer-gay Straws—for the Junior. Here’s latitude for choice—and a Hat for every type!The Dayton CompanyMINNEAPOLIS
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Lovely women appreciate the daintiness and perfection of Gainsborough Powder Puffs.
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A woman dressed for golfOf flannel and broadcloth in all the smart plain shades, also novel checks and plaids. Made with either roll sport or notched collar and hip bands of either knit wool or self material.
Nothing Like a
POLAR OVERJAC
playing around outdoors
There’s nothing like it for looks or for utility either. The jaunty lines, the natty materials, the exuberant colors—that will all appeal to you, and besides you’ll like the easy feel of it on you—the comfortable fit—the way it “gives” to your movements.
Whatever your plans for this summer vacation you’ll want a Polar Overjac. It’s the handiest thing imaginable to slip into—and just the right weight to give the little extra warmth needed cooler days and evenings. For driving, golf, for “roughing it” and all the rest. Well made, expertly tailored—that accounts for a lot of its good looks.
At Your Neighborhood Store
Made exclusively by
Wyman, Partridge and Co.
MINNEAPOLIS
The bank buildingFIRST NATIONAL BANKMinneapolis, Minnesota
The bank building
FIRST NATIONAL BANK
Minneapolis, Minnesota
Compliments ofDAVISandMICHELATTORNEYS-AT-LAW419 METROPOLITAN BANK BUILDING
Compliments of
DAVISandMICHEL
ATTORNEYS-AT-LAW
419 METROPOLITAN BANK BUILDING
Since 1870A SAFE PLACE FORSAVINGS ACCOUNTSHENNEPIN COUNTYSAVINGS BANK511 MARQUETTEThe Oldest Savings Bank in Minnesota
Since 1870
A SAFE PLACE FORSAVINGS ACCOUNTS
HENNEPIN COUNTYSAVINGS BANK
511 MARQUETTE
The Oldest Savings Bank in Minnesota
The following names represent purchasers of advertising space in the Tatler, who have given the space back to us for our own purposes. We are especially grateful to them for this two-fold gift, and wish hereby to acknowledge their contribution.Mr. C. R. WilliamsMr. B. H. WoodworthMr. P. A. BrooksMr. V. H. Van SlykeMr. R. A. GambleMr. W. A. ReinhartMr. C. M. Case
The following names represent purchasers of advertising space in the Tatler, who have given the space back to us for our own purposes. We are especially grateful to them for this two-fold gift, and wish hereby to acknowledge their contribution.
From the Press of the Augsburg Publishing House
Transcriber's NoteObvious typographic errors (incorrect punctuation, omitted or transposed letters) have been repaired. Otherwise, however, variable spelling (including proper names, where there was no way to establish which spelling was correct) and hyphenation has been left as printed, due to the number of different contributors.Page 19 includes the phrase "if the snow smelts." This is probably a typographic error, but as it was impossible to be certain, it has been left as printed.
Transcriber's Note
Obvious typographic errors (incorrect punctuation, omitted or transposed letters) have been repaired. Otherwise, however, variable spelling (including proper names, where there was no way to establish which spelling was correct) and hyphenation has been left as printed, due to the number of different contributors.
Page 19 includes the phrase "if the snow smelts." This is probably a typographic error, but as it was impossible to be certain, it has been left as printed.