A Class History

By Miss Nellie J. Bell.

Class of ’91.

From the time of the creation to the present day, everything that has ever existed has had a history. Every leaf and tree and blooming flower, each have theirs; that sky-lark soaring high in the sunny blue sky has a history, and, as it pours forth a sweet melody, how the air vibrates with the gladsome song! Even that tiny spray of hare-bells clinging tenaciously to a cleft in the rugged rocks, over which the foaming mountain torrent leaps and dashes, has its own little history. So has the torrent itself. It began away back among the snow-capped hills, and at first was only a tiny stream, but, joined by other courses, and swollen with the melting snows and spring rains, it has become a foaming, dashing mountain stream, plunging headlong over rocks and forming many a pretty cascade and sparkling waterfall. Now it runs deeply and swiftly through some dark cañon, and now, emerging into broad sunlight, and flowing peacefully through green meadows, it gives refreshment to the ferns and rushes along its banks, and to many a little songster. So it flows on and on until it reaches the friendly arms of the sea, outstretched to receive it.

The Class of ’91 is no exception to the general rule which governs all Nature. The history of this class began last October; it is thus just eight months old. Its diet up to the present time has consisted chiefly of Phonographic outlines, well seasoned and flavored with vowels and grammalogues, and served á la Pitman. And, in the words of Abraham Lincoln, we say, “For those who like that kind of diet, why it’s just the kind of diet they like.”

From the time of the commencement of the class, we have been climbing, climbing, up the steep and rugged paths of Phonography. We began our ascent from the base, and while traveling up the foot-hills, our guide explained to us something of the nature of the ascent, and brought us into contact with some very amusing incidents.

The road for the most part was straight, but as we progressed we found ourselves following our guide around curves, and sometimes even around and around in circles. At first we looked about us a good deal, thought it would not be so very hard climbing after all, and so gradually accustomed ourselves to it. We found that we could accomplish more and more each day, and the higher we climbed the more invigorating grew the air.

One day we had been toiling up a long steep hill which some one suggested was like the Hill Difficulty. We struggled up its steep sides, weary and travel-stained, discouraged, but not ready to give up, and at each step plunging in our mountain canes, which were black, sharpened at both ends, and labeled “Faber No. 2.” Soon we heard a cheery halloa, and looking up saw a tiny little man standing at the top of a hill. “That’s Mr. Try,” said our guide, “he is one of the best people in this mountain. If any one is in trouble, wearied, discouraged, and just about to give up, then is the time you may depend on Try. He comes with words of consolation, and with his bright cheery talk so convinces his poor broken down fellow-beings of future success, that they get up and begin to depend on ‘Try again.’”

Soon we began to notice signs on the trees along our road. One was, “Wash tubs and window-sash, vinegar, putty, pails and glass.” Another, “Two boys to let for the Summer.” This was interesting, and we hurried along in hopes of seeing the author of these strange signs, for our guide told us he was the queerest man in that section of the country. Soon we came to his house and found it fairly bristling with signs. Curiosity overcame us and we stopped in and asked for a drink of water. The object of our curiosity was leaning his elbow on the mantel. He had long hair and was greatly stooped. We found his wife very talkative, and when she found out who we were, began to tell us about the Deed of their Property. “When we were married,” she began in a high nasal voice, “Chauncy’s father gave him a clear title to this place; and after Chauncy’s death it is to go back to the old homestead again.” Then she took us through his work-shop where he manufactured the articles displayed on his signs.

Next we came across another dwarf, just the opposite of Try, our guide said. He was always up to some sort of mischief, and his greatest delight was to get other people into trouble. The country people had long wished to be rid of him but he had a long lease of his house and he meant to stay there. He was a homely little elf, with bright red hair, a slight squint in one eye and a wart on his nose. If a lesson had not been prepared, this fellow, who was called “I Forgot,” was sure to be on hand in time to whisper into the ear of the culprit, “Say ‘I Didn’t Think’ or ‘I Forgot,’” and the minute she opened her mouth, out it would come and then the wicked elf would “fold his tent like the Arabs and silently steal away” to parts unknown, with a fiendish grin on his ugly little face leaving his dejected victim to receive a well-merited rebuke for carelessness. This dwarf followed us for many days, but heeding the repeated warnings of our guide, most of us at length learned to distrust him and turn a deaf ear to his excuses. Thus we struggled on and on up the steep sides of the mountain, and at the close of each day, we realized that, “Something attempted, something done, had gained a night’s repose,” for us, although we didn’t always get it.

And now we were nearing the end of our journey, our hopes ran high and we kept our eyes upward toward the summit. The obstacles which had continually beset our path had been overcome, and we could say like the Irishman, who, on capturing three prisoners in the late war, was asked how he secured them: “Indade, sir,” replied he with a knowing wink, “it’s meself that surrounded them, sir.”

At last we reach our destination in time to just view the sunrise. The grass is green, the flowers are all in bloom, Spring is here. The faint gray streaks of the dawn are in the sky and soon the whole East is suffused with a roseate flush. There is a hush of expectancy in the air, the breeze is soft, the birds are twittering drowsily in the tree-tops, and then in a flood of golden splendor “the morning sun comes peeping over the hills.” Instantly all nature is alive, the birds pour forth their sweet melodies, the drowsy hum of the bees floats lazily on the air; there is a pleasant rustling among the tall swaying pines. Dew-drops glisten on the grass, the flowers nod gayly in the morning breeze, and we feel like singing:

“When the sun all gloriously comes forth from the ocean, Making earth beautiful, chasing shadows away, Thus do we offer Thee our prayers and devotions, God of the fatherless, guide us, guard us, to-day.”

The new day has begun, and we have witnessed one of the finest views in Nature’s kaleidoscope; for what could be more beautiful than the dawn! So are our lives just at this time. The air is full of hope and promise; so are we. We are just in the Springtime of our lives; our hopes, our aims, our aspirations are all as fresh and unsullied as the morn itself.

Now, in the dewy freshness of the early morning, we see that we are on a broad table-land, and not on the summit of the mountain as we had fondly hoped. We notice paths running in all directions,—some go straight to the top of the mountain, others stop at different places along the route. Only the future can decide which path each shall take. We have a grand field of labor before us, in this hill of knowledge which we have been traversing for the past eight months. There are still rich and undiscovered resources of knowledge, which, brought to the light, would make the art a perfect one and us perfect in it. Now it is time for us to separate. Some of the more ambitious of us will, by dint of hard and unremitting labor, reach the pinnacle of our hopes.

Others, less ambitious, will be content to spend their days in the peaceful valleys of quiet usefulness. But, before we separate, let us each resolve that we will never, by act or word, do anything which might reflect discredit on this Association, to the members of which we owe a debt of gratitude which we can never hope to repay except by doing our very best, and so bring honor upon those who have done so much for us and upon the Institution which they uphold.

The Class of ’91 is now like the waves of the sea:

On the bosom of the ocean, Dance the wavelet’s glittering band; With a slow and fairy motion Moving onward towards the land; But that reached, they burst and sever, Bound no more by beauty’s spell, Thus, we who have toiled together, The goal reached, must breathe farewell.

Here endeth the simple annals of the Class of ’91.