A Class History

By Miss Eugenia E. Lloyd.

Class of ’89.

Last Fall sixty girls, accompanied by a trusty guide, started on an exploring tour through the wilderness of stenography. We had been told by those who had visited this region, that the way was dark, the road thorny, and the pleasures but few; but nothing daunted, we set out, anxious to prove these assertions false.

Like all travelers about to enter upon strange and novel scenes, we started upon this journey with eager eyes, and minds full of expectancy. Following closely in the footsteps of our leader, we approached the enchanted forest. The entrance was guarded by great trees, which seemed to extend, as far as the eye could see, in one long avenue, and we were surprised to find, upon coming nearer, that the forest which at first appeared to be but a heterogeneous mass of stems, was set out and arranged in the most orderly and symmetrical manner, and we saw that we should be enabled to find our way about much more easily than we had at first feared. In accordance with our guide’s directions, we began jotting down in our memory tablets the names of the different trees, and the peculiarities of each. Certain kinds occurred so often that we soon became familiar with them, and long before we turned into new pathways, we had mastered the names of them all. As we left the main avenue of first principles, we encountered more trees, but so arranged in brilliant foliage and curious blossoms that we almost failed to recognize them. We listened in wonder while our guide unfolded to us the beauty of each bud and leaf; how patiently he traced every vein of the leaf, and every petal of the flower, until our eyes, too, were opened to their beauty so that we could appreciate and discern the difference between them, notwithstanding that they possessed great similarity. This comparative sameness caused us no little trouble, however, at first, for ever and anon, owing to early lack of training in concentration of mind, we were prone to get them confused, and often mistake one for the other. Here again the memory tablets were brought into requisition, and it seemed as though they fairly expanded under the influence of our pencils, so eager were we to absorb all the knowledge possible. As the lover of nature, by constant association with the flowers, the trees, and the shrubs, learns in time the name of each, so we learned, by loving the study of our strange plants, to recognize them at sight.

But we were not left to wander at our own sweet wills. Having thoroughly familiarized ourselves with the details and orderly arrangement of this wonderful forest, and having stopped for awhile to review our progress, we were led into new paths where, though there were many obstructions and apparently insurmountable obstacles, we could at least see the beginning of the end of our journey.

Here, too, sign posts greeted us on many sides, but none were so alluring as that which bore the legend, “Slow and sure.” This accorded perfectly with our ideas, and we would fain have rested awhile, and gazed on the comforting words, had not our guide pointed out to us the necessity for advance, and described the pleasures which were still to come, which, if we chose that as a perpetual motto, we should never enjoy.

As if to give emphasis to his words, a little dwarf, whose name was “Try,” met us at this juncture; and by his bright example urged us on to greater tasks. But alas! there were so many weary hearts waiting for his cheery countenance that he was forced ere long to leave us. Scarce had he gone when his enemy, a misshapen gnome, called “I Forgot,” sprang up in our path, and by many devices, sought to undo the good work of “Try.” Finding this impossible, he, too, soon departed, but his injured lordship, not caring to retire utterly defeated, left his first cousin, “I Didn’t Mean To,” to pester and annoy us throughout our journey.

Ere long the sound of running water attracted our attention, and eagerly we hastened to bathe our faces in a refreshing stream “which ran down the side of a hill,” only to draw back in terror as we saw a poor, meek lamb devoured by a ravenous wolf who had come to the brook-side to drink. Thereafter it seemed as if the wolves had special designs on the lambs at this season, for whenever our travels led us near the creek we were forced to be unwilling spectators to these tragic scenes.

Here and there along the bank we had noticed little pebbles which our Instructor told us were called, in the language of this country, “Grammalogues,” and some of which, attracted by their uniqueness, we had gathered. We were obliged to label and memorize each one, until it seemed as though the tablet would not hold another word, and the memory pouch would break under the weight of, what seemed to us, heavy, worthless stones. But after being polished with the emery of practice, the pebbles grew lighter, and seemed to lose their dull color, and assume a sparkling brilliancy.

How often since have they appeared as bright jewels in our pathway, when, with pencil flying over the page, we have fully realized the fact, that however lenient Old Father Time may seem to be to others, he has no mercy for stenographers.

After becoming somewhat acquainted with our surroundings that we might be able fully to realize every snare and pitfall, we were taught to begin to walk alone. What weak, tottering, childish steps they were. How often our eyes would wander to the face of our guide, as if to implore his help. But he, knowing it was for our good, would simply encourage us instead of rendering the longed for assistance, and we were thus compelled to walk or fall.

But when the nervous feeling had somewhat worn off, and each step became more firm, with what expressions of delight we proclaimed the tidings that we could at least stand alone, and how pleased he seemed at our successes. And then with watchful care was pointed out to us the necessity of removing every obstacle from our path so that our progress should not be retarded. We carefully heeded the instruction, and as a fallen bough or a moss-covered trunk of some old “snag” barred our onward march, we brought all our strength to bear and remove it to a place of safety, so that our weary feet should not be caused to trip over it again. And truly we were weary, while the promised land seemed still afar off. How hard the road appeared can only be realized by those who have trodden it.

A great mountain, like Bunyan’s Hill Difficulty, soon rose before us, and we were told that we must reach its summit, before the view toward which our eyes had been ever turning would burst upon our sight. Here we were joined by a crowd of people, some clamoring for land, which they claimed had been willed to them by those who had long since joined the great majority; others quibbling over deeds and warranty deeds, some of which particularly attracted our attention, on account of their great length and useless verbiage; and others with complaints and actions at law, until our eyes were opened, and we realized, as never before, that strife is more prevalent in the world than peace.

But hard work and that perseverance which we believe is the surest road to success have at length conquered all obstacles. And now, having left behind the clamor and the strife, we stand on the summit of the mountain that has so recently seemed as though it could not be climbed.

And here we rest awhile and look backward. The roads with their winding turns are no longer new, and eyes moisten as we think of the old but true saying:

“The path that has once been trod, Is never so hard to the feet; And the lessons we once have learned, Are never so hard to repeat.”

We will not be called upon to walk in those paths again, but when we meet the familiar faces of our companions we will live over in memory the now seemingly short weeks of our journey.

But let us look also before us. We have penetrated the forest, we have gathered bright gems, we have climbed the mountain height, and now we stand ready to cast our boats adrift upon the ocean of life.

In what waters they shall glide we know not, but can only trust that in that great day of gatherings, all our craft may be moored in the harbor of peace! These thoughts bring to our minds the well known words of our beloved poet Longfellow:

Like unto ships far off at sea, Outward or homeward bound are we; Before, behind, and all around, Floats and swings the horizon’s bound, Seems at its distant rim to rise And climb the crystal wall of the skies, And then again to turn and sink, As if we could slide from its outer brink. Ah, it is not the sea; It is not the sea that sinks and shelves, But ourselves that rock and rise With endless and unweary motion, Now touching the very skies, Now sinking into the depths of ocean; Ah! if our souls but poise and swing, Like the compass in its brazen ring, Ever level and ever true To the toil and the task that we have to do, We shall sail securely, and safely reach The fortunate isles, on whose shining beach The sights we see, the sounds we hear, Will be those of joy and not of fear.