Life With Mother Superior Read Online Free PDF Page A

them.”
    “There ith no need for vulgarity, my dear,” said Evangeline.
    It was with my boudoir doll pants I learned to do the French knot, the slip stitch, and baste. And, I learned to rip out all that Miss McBride didn’t like. By the end of the month, my peach silk panties were getting worn and tattletale gray from handling. I didn’t think they would ever be worn, let alone finished. Each stitch had to be perfect or out it came, but finally one morning Miss McBride let me get my lace out of the locker. Each of us had her own tiny little locker which Miss McBride called lovingly “our thewing kits.” I neatly applied the lace, with my famous slip stitch, to the waist, and one leg, then Miss McBride neatly ripped it off the leg. Meanwhile, the class had graduated to slips and some of the group were already laying out handsome silk prints for blouses. I remained edging and lacing my pants.
    I suppose the contest really did it. It roused me from my pantargy and lethargy. I adored contests and I was convinced that whether it was an award of dog food for naming the puppy, or a prize for twenty-five words or less on why I loved Clorox, I was certainly going to get first prize, and perhaps I’d settle for second prize. The thought that I would win a trip for two to some far distant land intrigued me. Would Mother Superior take Sister Agatha and be gone according to my wishes, or would Mary and I go to Incaland, then on to the jungle? I had once been awarded a case of dog food as one of the ten thousand who had won the thousand prizes of a case of dog food. Sister Ligliori’s dog, Buttons, would have no truck with canned chow— since he ate nothing but Hershey chocolate—still and all, it provoked a change from our boring existence; and Mother Superior, not too keen about announce ments on my contests, did say that she would certainly have liked to see my twenty-five words.
    The sewing contest was held by one of the lesser magazines in the galaxy of fashion books and it was open to anyone between the ages of twelve and eight een—I thought I had a fair chance, since there wouldn’t be any boys competing—boys always outspelled me and outthought me—well, at least they wouldn’t out-stitch me. The contest forms were put in a container on Miss McBride’s table and as I slipped up on her platform to take mine, she almost fainted.
    “I do hope, Mith Twahey, that you are not going to thend in your panthies.” This was the needle, of course, and it went right to my ego.
    “I’m going to finish them this morning and get right on to my blouse.”
    “And what about your thlip?”
    “Oh, Miss McBride, I don’t want a slip. Can’t I start on my blouse?”
    Miss McBride, anxious to have me off her platform and back to my sewing machine, agreed’ that she thought I’d had enough of the peach silk, and I was off on my bumblebee-print blouse. Actually, it wasn’t difficult to do the blouse, as I bought the simplest pattern I could find—the most that could be said for it was that I applied my thimble fingers and my un- nimble brain and for that week, at least, Miss McBride had peace. I had to finish the blouse, make the dress and win that contest Even Mother Superior was placated by my behavior and remarked one evening that she was certainly surprised at my diligence in sewing.
    “Miss McBride says that you have made quite nice progress in sewing. Perhaps you might apply yourself to equal advantage in all of your other subjects.”
    “I’m going to start in on the dress next week—as soon as I finish my blouse.” I was running light-years behind the class in the contest. I sewed and sewed and sewed and then I got the green light to buy my dress fabric Unfortunately, it was Friday night when Miss McBride said, “Forge on,” and the contest closed at midnight on Monday—how on earth would I ever get it finished? I rushed to the store on Saturday morning and bought my pattern. It was a pleated skirt, long sleeve