East Tennessee State University - Buccaneer Yearbook (Johnson City, TN)

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OLD HICKORY group gathered on the curb-stone and heard the ringing of the tambourine and the strumming of a banjo in a sweet old-time hymn. Dominating all was a clear soprano voice that somehow had a familiar ring. I pushed my way through the crowd and there, with the scoop-bonnet of the Salvation Army on her bright hair, was one we all loved—Helen Lacy, ably assisted by Ethel Thompson, who passed the hat. I could not restrain myself and fell on her neck, drew her to one side and— “What, oh, what,” I cried wildly, “are you doing here?” She promptly burst out crying. “Uncle Sid did not do his duty and protect my susceptible young heart and it was crushed by one of those S. A. T. C. boys. So hearing of the Sal¬ vation Army doughnuts, I determined to join the band and dedicate my life to doing good.” I felt that time pressed. “Do you know of any others of our class in New York?” “Have you seen Tom McMurray? He is in that building making a speech. ” I hurried on. As I entered the door I stopped in sheer amazement. “Down with kings, down with tyranny, and most of all down with presi¬ dents. No one knows them any better than I. We had one at the Normal!” Tears came to my eyes. Was this our trim and debonair Tom? A bushy beard lay upon his chest, his hair stood out in the approved Bolsheviki ringlets, but to my practiced eye they bore the traces of the curling iron. He was coatless and his trousers, some three sizes too large, were supported by large red suspenders. He was accompanying his speech by a weird Bolshev¬ iki dance in which a large butcher knife figured strongly. His speech was telling on the mob and some were in tears. He retired to recuperate from his efforts and I summoned my courage and joined him “Tom, do tell me, are there any more of our class in town?” “Why yes—there ' s Anne. Go right upstairs, you ' ll find her in the attic.” 1 was panting by the time I reached the top of the ninth flight and quite discomfited to find myself in a large empty garret with no sign of human habitation. Then I perceived a small door at the far end. I knocked per¬ sistently and was turning away when the door swung slowly open and Anne stood in the doorway. But not the buxom lass of T9. She looked, to be frank, quite cadaverous but had lost none of the old-time pep. In fact, she brandished a nine-pin in my face energetically and proclaimed that I might as well go away as she had no money at all. Then she recognized me and we fell into each other ' s arms. She dragged me inside, pushed me into a chair and began to read manuscript to me. “Oh, Anne, Anne, I can ' t stay! Tell me what you are doing here.” “Why I am a play-wright, but on account of the unreasonableness of the editors 1 have had nothing published as yet. But I am sure this will be the hit of the season. You must dine with me.” She went to the cupboard, but alas, it was utterly empty! She dropped into a nearby chair and wept bitterly, explaining between sobs that she had been too busy to think about food all day and now she was hungry and ab¬ solutely broke. I found Estelle Pair in much the same condition, as she was striving to earn her livelihood by writing the wit and humor column for the papers. Hence I started in quest of a baker. In the next block was a brightly lighted window in which lay a person in a hypnotic trance. Something in the profile and thick black hair made me stop and look again. Could it, oh, could it be Delpha Meredith? Next door Page Twenty-Nine

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OLD HICKORY Class Jlmpltenj My back is slightly bent by the burdens of life and my hair is gray at the temples, but the romance is not yet dead in my heart. Yesterday brought the first bleak night of the season in its wake and a cheerful wood-fire glowed on the hearth, crackling merrily of the Tennessee hills from whence it came. Its voice awoke familiar echoes in my heart—memories of my girlhood and of my many gay comrades at the dear old Normal of East Tennessee, and I longed with all my heart to know how they had fared in the long journey of twenty years since they had so staunchly set forth from its sheltering portals. And I fell to dreaming of old times. Suddenly, the moon was shining brightly and I found myself in the small back yard of m ' y boarding house, not at all concerned over how I came to be there, as my whole attention was centered on a gray-clad little woman before me, whose wisps of gray hair were floating in the wind and who was preparing to mount a broom stick. I fell naturally into the words of the old rhyme: “Old woman, old woman, old woman,” quoth I, “Whither, O whither, O whither so high?” She looked at me pityingly and answered: “Why to sweep the cobwebs out of the sky,” and in a moment would have been among the treetops, but I clutched her with detaining hands. “It is All Saints ' Night and witches may speak to mortals. I pray you grant me a favor.” “What would you have?” “I long to know what fate has dealt to my classmates of T9. “It is worth almost any,” I answered. What price are you willing to pay for it?” she asked with a hollow laugh. “Bind yourself to do my bidding for a year and a day.” I assented without a thought of the consequences and in a moment I too rode upon the broomstick and we were in the heart of a thundercloud fren- ziedly riding the winds. Lights gleamed below and we alighted upon the streets of New York. I looked dazedly about. I was in front of Delmoni- co ' s and just then a splendid Pierce Arrow drove up and from its luxurious depths who should stand revealed to my eyes but little Edith Baxter of Nor¬ mal days, but now strangely altered. There was something in her manner that I could not define. And the cut of her wil lowy gown proclaimed itself Parisian. I followed her in, and “O Edith,” I cried. “Please don ' t call me Edith,” she said haughtily, “I am Pauline Barathe, the Columbian Vamp—the most famous in the world at present and only excelled by Cleopatra and Helen of Troy.” She coolly lighted a cigarette and introduced me to her companion, the Prince of Baden-Baden. “What are you doing here?” “Oh, I? Iam looking up the Seniors of T9 and must not linger longer. Can you tell me where I can find any of them?” “Oh, several have reached New York but—” My traveling companion beckoned me from out the gloom and I hurried away and down a side street into a quieter district and just in front I saw a Page Twenty-eight

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OLD HICKORY was a bakery and I asked the proprietor, a small, dark, fat man with a de¬ cidedly aquiline nose, if he knew the sleeping lady next door. „ “Oh, that is Delpha Meredith, an old classmate of mine in ’19.” There in the inner doorway stood Yetta, his wife, now a fat and cheerful dame. She took me hospitably into the living apartment. There on the dining-room table sat thirteen blue bowls await ing the morrow and on the window-seat were thirteen piles of school books, while before the fire were thirteen pairs of little shoes toasting their toes preparatory for a warm wel¬ come to their owners. I entreated her to go to Anne s and Estelle s succor, and set out to find Sister Smith as she had directed. She was starring in the Tollies and I found her in her dressing room, having just returned from her act. She wore a much abbreviated dress of gold brocade. Cassie Smith, now a movie actress, was calling on her. They were preparing to go see Georgia Taylor and Ora White, who were with Ringling Brothers, then in winter quarters on the outskirts of the city. I was amazed to find Ora featured as the fat lady—the only one in cap¬ tivity weighing five hundred pounds. And Georgia was the snake charmer, and Ora proudly told me that Georgia had the most promising future before her of any in that profession in any American circus, as one look from her quite cowed them for a week. I had hardly gone two blocks from the circus when I saw someone shak¬ ing a door and loudly demanding entrance in the name of the law ' . There was something familiar in the tall figure. “Why hello, Essie Kiser,” I cried, “are you a policeman?” “Oh no,” she whispered confidentially, “that is just a ruse to get inside. That is the only difficulty I have. If I only get in they always buy one be- fore I leave. I am selling the most marvelous book that has ever appeared before the public. It is a treatise on “Hookworm vs. Tennessee” and other equally interesting and timely topics. It is compiled by Lewis Land and Hubert Huff, who have become ardent disciples of Mr. Buice. Mr. Land is making a house-to-house campaign and is selling medicine which will cure any disease. He can safely recommend it because he invented it himself. He is doing it solely for the uplifting of humanity. But you should have a half dozen copies of this wonderful book for your library, so that when you have worn out one you will have another to fall back upon immediately and will not have to wait till you can locate me to procure it.” She grasped me firmly by the shoulder and I should have had to invest heavily, but at this op¬ portune moment my lady of the broomstick jerked me unceremoniously up behind her and we whirled away at a dizzy height toward the South. We hovered over a beautiful little town nestled among the foothills of my beloved home state, Tennessee, then dropped lightly up on the majestic campus of one of the South’s bst Universities. Within the hall of the build¬ ing before me I could see a blue-overalled figure busily scrubbing the mo¬ saic floor. I stepped to the door. “Could you tell me whether any of the class of 19—why Dawson King, in overalls?” . .. . . . T “Oh yes, I am head janitor here, quite a responsible position, I assure you. I handed in my application for the presidency six years ago when Uncle Sid was called to Harvard, but someone else had gotten theirs m be¬ fore me, but they had this vacancy, so I took it.” “Good-by,” I said, and turned away. . , ... “But wait, don’t you want to go to the theatre tonight? Two militant suffragettes who are running for the senate are to speak. We hurried o . I stood spellbound, for there upon the platform were Bill Fulton and Page Thirty