Jane Allen: Junior

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The late September day waved back at Summer graceful as a child saying goodbye with a soft dimply hand; and just as fitful were the gleams of warm sunshine that lazed through the stately trees on the broad campus of Wellington College. It was a brave day-Summer defying Nature, swishing her silken skirts of transparent iridescence into the leaves already trembling before the master hand of Autumn, with his brush poised for their fateful stroke of poisoned beauty; every last bud of weed or flower bursting in heroic tribute, and every breeze cheering the pageant in that farewell to Summer. If school didn’t start just now, commented Norma Travers, I wonder what we would do? Everything else seems to stop short.
I never saw shadows come and go so weirdly on any other first day, added Judith Stearns ominously. I hope it doesn’t mean a sign, as Velma Sigbee would put it, and dark eyed Judith waved her arms above her black head to ward off the blow. Is it too early to suggest science? lisped Maud Leslie timidly. I’ve been reading about the possible change of climate and its relation to the sun’s rays going wild into space. I don’t want to start anything, but it might be judicious to buy more furs next Summer. Also it might justify the premonitory fad.