Stetson Weekly Collegiate

c mT&mwuMfcsui&m 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