FRESHMAN.  We were afraid you had forgotten.

SENIOR. (rises and joins others) I wish I could forget for a while but they made me chairman of the committee so I have to get up something.  If I can’t think of anything better we’ll have an ordinary spread and get just what everybody likes.

SOPHOMORE.  Grand!  Welsh rarebit for me.

FRESHMAN.  I want chocolate eclaires.

SENIOR.  We ought to ask one of the Juniors too, that wouldn’t be enough variety.

SOPHOMORE.  Ask Laurine.

SENIOR.  Where is she?

FRESHMAN.  She told me she was going to study her Chaucer.

SENIOR.  She didn’t mean it.  She never does.

SOPHOMORE. (going to door and calling) Laurine, Laurine.

JUNIOR. (outside) All right.

SENIOR.  Maybe she’s thinking up a new class souvenir to go with their rings and hatpins and pins and banners.

FRESHMAN.  Tell her we want to ask her advice, then she’ll hurry.

SOPHOMORE. (calling) Laurine, how soon are you coming?

JUNIOR. (beginning before she enters with a Chaucer in her hand) “Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote”—­I came much more quickly than I’ll ever get that old stuff in my head. (she throws the book down)

SENIOR.  Don’t you like Chaucer?  We just loved him.

JUNIOR.  So do all the rest of our class except me.  I just can’t get him into my head.

SOPHOMORE.  Poor thing!  I should hope not.

SENIOR.  What would you like to eat at the Thanksgiving spread?

JUNIOR.  Eat!  Everything you’re going to have. (suspiciously) This isn’t one of those stupid puns on Chaucer is it?

SOPHOMORE.  I should say not.

FRESHMAN.  We are helping make out the menu.  There’s Welsh rarebit and chocolate eclaires already.

JUNIOR.  Have you any angel food?

SOPHOMORE.  Oysters!

FRESHMAN.  Fudge!

SENIOR.  And olives.  Quick, give me a pencil so I can write it down. (goes to table and writes)

JUNIOR.  Hurry, before the bell rings.  That’s much more fun to talk about than Chaucer.  I’m glad I didn’t live in his day.  Imagine being praised for not putting your fingers in the gravy and spotting up your shirt front!  I wager that old Prioress was a stick.  I shouldn’t want her on our basket ball team.  There isn’t a sensible woman in the whole of Chaucer so far as I can see. (the curtain at the front of the bookcase begins to shake slightly, becoming more violent as the JUNIOR continues) The Wife of Bath was a regular Mormon, five husbands, that’s what she had, and she wore red stockings.  Such taste!

SENIOR. (rises and goes to JUNIOR) Laurine, don’t talk so much.  Come help us decide between dill pickle and strawberry jam, we can’t have both.