There is a certain High School event, looked back upon by one's parents with a tear of sentiment and a smile of nostalgia. This event is looked forward to by our younger brothers and sisters with a dreamy and romantic look on their faces. But to me, it is a horrible monster bearing down, ever closer to this poor trembling senior. That event is the prom.
     I know now that all the girls have had their dates picked out since they were in 3B, but, fool that I am, I have left this minor detail for the very last minute. As I survey the field, my heart drops to my toes. Anyone who might have measured up to my high standards, the one requirement of which is that the date be male, has been snatched up, and has practically rented his tuxedo by now. True, there are a few left whom I could ask. There's that redheaded Egbert. Of course he is a little short, 4 feet 2, and he isn't too bright, he's 20 and only starting high school, but maybe, if I wore flat heeled shoes and . . . no! There's also Pete - we must not over­look one possibility. Peter is rather precocious. He's fourteen and graduating this term. He plans to go to Harvard next semester. We might have a good time if I could persuade him to leave his slingshot home. No! It's much too difficult to separate a fourteen year old from his slingshot. Of course there is always my father, or if he declines, my grandfather, or horrors, if he declines, my kid brother.
     It all seems pretty' hopeless to me. The only answer is just to sit back and wait. Maybe my fairy godmother is watching over me and will drop a dream man right into my living room, at just the right moment, to escort me to the prom.

Patricia Senese



     A few days ago in the cafeteria, a lower classman observing my senior button asked "How does it feel to be a senior?'' I, without thinking, replied; "Great," as my only interest at that time was to fill the hollow gap commonly known as the stomach. However, lunch eaten and forgotten about, the question remained in my mind. Most lower termers long with enthusiasm for the day that they become seniors and may partake in the dances, "Senior Day," and the various activities associated with the eighth term. However, one seldom realizes, until he has reached the stage, exactly what thoughts, problems, and dilemmas lie behind the big gaily-painted buttons. Those eagerly-anticipated buttons are more than symbolic of the completion of seven terms of hard work; they are indicative of one who is about to embark into the ways of the world, one who is on the threshold of success or failure, and is often puzzled and undecided as to which is the correct path to select.
     The state of being a senior is far more perplexing than one might realize. Constant is the underlying thought of eventual success. Every action is directed towards qualifying ourselves for our desired position in life. Whether or not we obtain this position is unpredictable because life with its joys and sorrows seldom informs us about the future. This is what takes the greatest toll on my mind as a senior. However, whether I succeed or fail, the satisfaction of knowing that my efforts were sincere is success in itself.  I feel that, as the years go by and I shall turn again to these pages and recall the gaiety of my senior days, whether I have reached my goal or not, I want to feel honestly that I have exerted diligence, thought, and initiative to the best of my ability. The rest I leave to Providence.

Millicent Henry

JUNE 1953                                                                                                                                                     17