THE CONCERT
"'Flow gently sweet Afton among thy green braes," caroled Betty. She was picking out the accompaniment with her first finger on the Assembly Hall piano, one stormy afternoon, for the benefit of Angela and Polly. They were trying to compose a Senior class song to Seddon Hall.
"'Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise.'"
"That ought to do," she said, abruptly swinging around on the piano stool to face them.
"The rhythm is good and I love the tune."
Polly and Angela considered for a moment.
"It is rather nice," Polly agreed, "if we can only find words to fit it."
"That's easy, use the same idea as the song," Betty suggested. "Supplement Hudson for Afton, and—"
"Oh, Bet, how can you?" Angela's poetic taste objected. "Imagine a school song that began 'Flow gently sweet Hudson.' I suppose you'd go on with: 'Among thy sign bordered banks.' It would never do, would it, Polly?"
Polly was laughing too hard to reply at once.