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Marjorie Dean, College Junior
Marjorie Dean, College Junior
CHAPTER I – A MUSICAL WELCOME
“Remember; we are to begin with the ‘Serenata.’ Follow that with ‘How Fair Art Thou’ and ‘Hymn to Hamilton.’ Just as we are leaving, sing ‘How Can I Leave Thee, Dear?’ We will fade away on the last of that. Want to make any changes in the programme?”
Phyllis Moore turned inquiringly to her choristers. There were seven of them including herself, and they were preparing to serenade Marjorie Dean and her four chums. The Lookouts had returned to Hamilton College that afternoon from the long summer vacation. This year, their Silverton Hall friends had arrived before them. Hence Phyllis’s plan to serenade them.
Robina Page, Portia Graham, Blanche Scott, Elaine Hunter, Marie Peyton and Marie’s freshman cousin, Hope Morris, comprised Phyllis’s serenading party. The latter had been invited to participate because she was still company. Incidentally she knew the songs chosen, with the exception of the “Hymn to Hamilton,” and could sing alto. She was, therefore, a valuable asset.
“I hope Leila has managed to cage the girls in Marjorie’s room,” remarked Blanche Scott. “We want all five Sanfordites in on the serenade.”
“Leave it to Irish Leila to cage anything she starts out to cage,” was Robin’s confident assurance. “If she says she will do a thing, she will accomplish it, somehow. Leila is a diplomat, and so clever she is amazing.”
“Vera Mason isn’t far behind her. Those two have chummed together so long their methods are similar. They were the first girls I knew at Hamilton. They met the train I came in on. Nella Sherman and Selma Sanbourne were with them. Two more fine girls. Portia looked pleasantly reminiscent of her reception by the quartette to which she now referred.
“I heard Selma Sanbourne wasn’t coming back. I must ask Leila about that.” Robin made mental note of the question.
“That will be hard on Nella,” observed Elaine Hunter, with her usual ready sympathy. “They have always been such great chums.”
“Sorry to interrupt, but we must be hiking, girls.” In command of the tuneful expedition, Phyllis tucked her violin case under her arm in business-like fashion and cast a critical eye over her flock.
“Be sure you have your instruments of torture with you,” she laughed. “One time, at home, three girls and myself started out to serenade a friend of ours. Before we started we had all been sitting on our veranda, eating ice cream. One of the girls was to accompany us on the mandolin. She walked away and left it on the veranda. She never noticed the omission until we were ready to lift up our voices. So we had to sing without it, for it was over a mile to our house and she couldn’t very well go back after it.”