"her who graciously
With each soft year younger grows,
As the earth with every rose,"
but in merry greeting of each of the other guests. The white-crowned mother of Joy-of-Life was there, and the mother of the College Reconciler,
"Who, over and over
(The Lady from Dover),
Turns thistles to clover."
The spirited hostess of Norumbega, a bright-eyed little grandmother immensely proud of that distinction, sat opposite the presiding Dryad, and beside my mother was her Mount Holyoke classmate of the heroic days of Mary Lyon, our gentle Librarian Emeritus, so modest from her long maidenhood that she was distressed at the infant art of aviation, fearing that one could no longer brush one's hair in a dressing-sacque free from the peril of a man swooping down from the clouds to peep in at the window.
It is but a few years since that hour of
"Laurels and laughter and light,"