DAUGHTERS OF THE GODS

Now the dust has been brushed from the corners in the Union, and spread evenly over the floor. Now the face of the bust of Caesar or Michael Angelo has been washed to a candid white, and on the book-racks copies of the Black Cat and the Advocate have been hidden from sight. Now the awning is out and the carpet is down.

They will assemble, those proud Juniors, when the shades of night are fallen and the rates of taxis are raised. He who cannot appropriate the family Ford will borrow his room-mate's motorcycle, and come tearing down Quincy street like a modern Lochinvar bringing his fair one to the revel instead of rushing her away to lands unknown. But whether they ride on gallant steeds or whether they ride on gallant steeds or whether they walk, not one member of the class faithful to the goddess of music and light will be missing when the orchestra starts on the first one-step.

The moose-heads on the wall may take on a sardonic grin, the face of our noted graduate may scowl from the canvas, the dowagers may fall asleep, and the tenderest member of the class become inebriated on the lemonade punch, but the music will not cease, nor the rhythmic footsteps falter. It is a great life. We may become leaders of the world in after years, but only once may we be Juniors at the dance. In later times we shall tell our children and our children's children of the glories of that magnificent ball, when the daughters of the gods descended from the heights to delight mortals for one evening.