daily living are sacrificed to the more pushing
claims of study and athletics, in college. It is true that the
unmodulated voice, the mushy enunciation, the unrestrained attitude,
the slouchy clothes, too often go unrebuked in classroom and
dormitory, where it seems to be nobody's business to rebuke them;
but it is also usually true that, before they ever came to college,
that voice, that attitude, those clothes, went unrebuked and even
unheeded, at home or in the girls' camp, where it emphatically was
somebody's business to heed and rebuke.

But it is the public which sees the worst of it, especially on
trains, where groups of young voices or extreme fashions in dress
become quite unintentionally conspicuous. Experienced from within,
the life, despite its many little roughnesses, its small lapses in
taste, is gracious and gentle, selfless in unobtrusive ways, and
genuinely kind.

Religious, democratic, intellectually serious is our Wellesley
girl, and last but not least, she is a lover of beauty. How could
she fail to be? How many times, in early winter twilights, has
she come over the stile into the Stone Hall meadow, and stood
long moments, hushed, bespelled, by the tranquil pale loveliness
of the lake, the dusky, rimming hills, the bare, slim blackness
of twig and bough embroidering the silver sky,--the whole luminous
etching? How often, mid-morning in spring, has she sat with her
book in a green shade west of the library, and lifted her eyes
to see above the daffodil-bank of Longfellow's fountain the blue
lake waters laughing between the upspringing trunks of the tall
oak trees? Wherever there are Wellesley women, when spring is
waking,--in Switzerland, in Sicily, in Japan, in England,--they are
remembering the Wellesley spring, that pageant of young green
of lawns and hills and tenderest flushing rose in baby oak leaves
and baby maples, that twinkling dance of birches and of poplars,
that splendor of the youth of the year amid which young maidens
shone and blossomed, starring the campus among the other spring
flowers. And are there Wellesley women anywhere in the autumn
who do not think of Wellesley and four autumns? Of the long russet
vistas of the west woods? Of the army with banners, scarlet and
golden, and bronze and russet and rose, that marched and trumpeted
around Lake Waban's streaming Persian pattern of shadows? When
you speak to a Wellesley girl of her Alma Mater, her eyes widen
with the l