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STUDENTS' PUBLICATION
OF STETSON UNIVERSITY.
Vol. xx.
DeLand, Fla., Thursday, October 24, 1907.
No. 2
GLIMPSES OF STUDENT LIFE
A TYPICAL FRIDAY AT STETSON
OH, HAPPY DAY.
Friday, the last and best of all
the week!! How we all long for
thy approach, and how glad we are
to greet thee, fairest of all days!
Friday surely does, in our memory,
stand out from all others. There is
a significance, an importance about
the day that we feel but can not
define. It's in the air, in the bright
ness and freshness of the earth—all
around us.
It begins at the breakfast table.
Even the cook is impressed with it,
and sends in an "extra fine" steak.
"Every little bit helps" you know.
Some such remarks as these go
around the table, as a reflection of
the sunshine within: "Oh, aren't
you glad it is Friday?" "Say,
what shall we do tomorrow?" "Picnics?" "What are you going to
wear tonight?"
So it goes all along. Lessons go
off better, students are more interested, more enthusiastic in their
work—just because it is Friday.
Oh, the magic charm of that word!
In the afternoon after three
o'clock the campus bubbles o'er
with happy, fun loving boys and
girls. Tennis courts, ball grounds,
Chaudoin piazza, are all in constant use. Not an unusual scene?
Yes, but there's a difference in th$
atmosphere, due to the influence of
the day itself. Books and worries
are forgotten; fudge, spreads and of
course social hour, loom up in the
near future.
At five thirty p.m. when the bell
rings, down trip the pretty maidens,
with their dainty dresses, happy,
smiling faces, proclaiming to the
FRIDAY NIGHT AT CHAUDOIN.
SOCIAL HOUR.
(With Apologies to "The Spectator")
Reporters have to learn to look
about them, and it happens, fortunately for him, that this particular reporter loves nothing so well as
as to look at his fellows and think
about them in his slow way: so last
Friday evening when he slipped
into Chandoin for Social Hour he
was enjoying himself immensely.
"It takes a lot of people and a lot of
things to make life," he mused,
"and here are a lot of people, and
certainly they are doing a lot of
different things to judge by the
sounds: so here I ought to find a
picture of life—and better still, of
Stetson life.
The Reporter is not yet bowed
down with years himself, but he is
old enough to love young things,
and happy things, so he just drew
a big breath of pleasure when he
got well started on his journey
through the parlors and porches,
for everybody was young, and, as
is always the way with healthy
young things, everyone was helping
everyone else to have a good time.
Why even the new carpet helped,
and the Reporter caught more than
one person secretly rubbing the soft
mat with her slipper and smiling
over its sturdy feel.
The Reporter had alwavs thought
that those present could be
divided into two classes—those
who play at being grown and those
who play at being children, and so
they can, in a general way, but
there are many shades of difference
in both the classes, and, by watch-
emphasized rather than overshadowed by the class.
During the evening, while there
was music at the piano and the
ranks of those who play at being
children were well marked by their
excellent representation of a child's
tea party, where all the little girls
group themselves together and giggle in a shame-faced way, and all
the little boys dare each other to be
man enough to start the real play—
while this pantomime was being
enacted, the Reporter turned his
thoughts to the grown-up play.
There in one corner a serious boy
and girl were seriously discussing—
the weather; here a jolly pair were
excitedly wrangling over an imaginary bone of contention, clearly
gotten up for the occasion; here a
flushed face and hands crushing the
freshness out of a handkerchief
showed that this grown-up play had
had, to some, all the delights of
novelty; down there under the
lights two old friends were really
talking to one another and quite
unconscious of the wondering admiration their ease excited in the
heart of the novice.
But the real child play was beginning in the parlor, and the Reporter hurried in to be given his
place in "Chaudoin," and numbered 23! What did he care! The
game was started now, and the
laughing was as irresponsibly happy as real children's fun always is:
so here he ran and caught and was
caughtl got hot and rumpled and
almost forgot he was a reporter
except when he caught sight of the
line of onlookers, who, afraid to
