5 ACORN Every eye was upon the trim young figure as she stepped to the stage. Confidently she started out. The audience smiled its appreciation of the old, familiar air which flowed so sweetly from her violin. Bouquets rained from all sides. Every one was entranced. Suddenly a false note rang forth. Margaret became frightened, played wildly for a moment, and then, with tears in her eyes, she rushed from the stage. She felt keenly the disappointment of her teacher, and felt disgraced in the sight of every one. Upon arriving home, she rushed to the attic and flung her violin far from her. "I shall never touch it again," she muttered as she turned for the stairs. Years passed by, Margaret Randall grew old. She still lived in the same home, but under different circumstances. Her parents were dead, and she was without money. Many people begged her to teach them on the violin, but she refused to touch one, and the strings of her own rotted as it lay in a dark corner of the attic. She had no other means of obtaining a livelihood except taking boarders, consequently a morning paper contained an advertisement of hers to the effect that she had a quiet home and that she would receive a boarder. Her first applicant was a rising musician who wanted quiet in his home hours. He was soon comfortably established in Miss Randall's home, finding it the very thing for his needs. He discovered that Margaret loved music and he got in many discussions about it with her. One day he found out that she played the violin and he asked her to play for him. At first she was obdurate, but she finally yielded and brought down her old violin. She soon had it re-stringed and started playing. At first the notes quavered, but soon she gained confidence, and began playing her concert piece. A wonderful success she made as she played to her rapt listener, who wished that it would never end. But end it did, and, as she let her violin down from her chin, he begged for more. She hesitated a moment, and then started forth on a melody new to him. It was her life story which she was now pouring forth on the violin. The notes rose and fell; moments of turmoil were followed by peaceful strains, but at last a weird, yet beautiful, note sang out clearly as the piece ended. Margaret fell to the floor. The musician chafed her wrists, sprinkled her face with water, and tried in every way to revive her, but to no avail; for with that last beautiful note had fled the soul of Margaret Randall. DELIA TERRY, '17. ACORN 6 Beneath the Outer Garb It was at the close of my first week at Childers University that I met Ruth Sousera. To be even more specific, it was on the night of the opening ball. Her sweet face, her golden hair, her wonderful blue eyes were unusually fascinating; and I found myself watching her, studying her, and becoming constantly more interested. I did not remember ever having seen such a perfect specimen of young womanhood. There was something about my new acquaintance, however, that I failed miserably to understand, and that was well, she was unpopular. Try as I might, I could not find out why. Miss Sousera was strikingly pretty; and, furthermore, I was as sure that she had a spotless character as I am that my name is Donald Rinby. She had impressed me, and I felt that she knew it. That same night I met the belle of the school Miss Claire Dwice. I had heard of her before. She, too, was singularly beautiful, and I did not wonder that the fellows told me that her brown, soul-searching eyes could put out the star-light. And, ah, what a wealth of dark hair. Her face and form, could they have been seen by a scupltor of ancient Greece, would be today immortalized in rare statuary. An entrancing magnetism animated her body, and when I danced with her, her very touch seemed like the kiss of Spring. Her thrilling language and her low, musical voice fairly enthralled me. But I did not I could not forget the golden-haired Ruth. I still continued to watch her. Claire Dwice held me in that kind of situation that makes one unable to talk of much except the weather; and when I finally did get beyond this stage it was only to talk about the mysterious thievery that had been going on around the University, so my friends had told me, for the past few years. At length my timidity became burdensome to me, and I threw it off by one tremendous effort of the will; and soon after I began to feel at home with her and to enjoy throughly her full-throated laugh and wonderful conversation. But Claire Dwice, with all her winsomeness, did not impress me as much as Ruth; and the mystery of her unpopularity still haunted me. I finally decided to let my unusual partner solve the problem. "Can you tell me why it is, Miss Dwice, that Ruth Sousera, that pretty, light-complexioned girl, seems so unpopular?' Her sweet face flushed, and, in a low, sympathetic tone, she ventured, "Oh, she doesn't seem to mind it, she has a splendid time anyway. That's what counts, you know a good time. We live only once, and we might as well enjoy ourselves." I was glad to hear that the unpopularity of Miss Sousera did not