Chicora College for Women - Nods and Becks Yearbook (Columbia, SC)

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While gazing over Greenville I saw Dr. Preston pointing to a young lady and heard him say: That young lady is a graduate of 1906. I at once recognized Geneva West. She still wore that same jolly smile and mischievous look. “Well,” continued the Doctor, that girl has certainly made a name for herself. She is one of the finest cartoonists in South Carolina. And Lillian Proffitt—what has become of her? The last we heard of her she was at the Lhiiversity of New York taking a special course in math. But finding that math, was not her calling, she began a new study, and I found her as a trained nurse in one of the large hospitals of Philadelphia. Her low voice and soothing touch had quieted many a suffering patient. At Chicora many thought that Ruth Crisp would become a noted contralto singer, but she surprised us all. There is a certain lawyer who would not think of giving up his little stenographer. In the city of Washington, in front of one of the largest stores, was this adver¬ tisement: Come to the opening! Miss Goddard has taken unusual pains with her spring stock, and you are sure to find something to suit you.” I at once turned my instrument upon her store, where I saw some of the loveliest hats that could be found, each one showing artistic taste. The whole establishment did credit to my old classmate, Mary Goddard. I was not at all surprised when I saw in a brilliantly lighted parlor, in her home in Rogersville, a large gathering of young people, assembled to hear the cel¬ ebrated pianist, Mayme Hunter. She had just returned home after several years’ study of her art in Germany. Her justly won fame had preceded her, and all welcomed her back. The noise of the fast trains that had stopped in Atlanta caused me to look that way, but I had no idea of seeing anyone that I knew. Happening to glance in a passing car, I saw a face that made me start. Yes, it was Eunice Flanagan ' s. She was en route from her Southern home to the far West to attend a grand con¬ ference of the Y. W. C. A., with which she was prominently identified as lecturer and organizer. I knew exactly where to find Annie Sawtell, so did not have to change mv instrument from Atlanta, but began searching for her in one of the schools there. How often had we heard her say, “When I finish at Chicora I am going to teach in one of the grammar schools of Atlanta.” I was glad to find her so well pleased with the place where she had always wanted to be and the work she had always wanted to do. A noble purpose finely executed!

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was the ruling power in her home town. How glad I was to see such an uplifting influence prevailing—and its controlling spirit a classmate of ' 06. While looking at different signboards my heart beat rapidly when I saw this. “Miss Catherine Blake, the great impersonator, will be in town Tuesday and Wednesday of the following week. She needs no introduction to the public, for she is widely known in this part of the South. From old, I knew Catherine was good at imitating, hut I had never thought of this. As I gazed I saw the audience spellbound, but she herself was unconscious—entirely lost in her work. A sweet winsome young woman, who won our hearts in old days, was now teaching in Tennessee. She had not lost the art of winning hearts, for Agnes Seyle, soon after going out from Chicora, met a lonely college professor and married him. One of mv classmates, I was told, in her childhood was exceedingly bashful, but what a change years have wrought in Cecile Hirschmann. She is now a fluent writer. Her masterpiece is a theme on Love and Jealousy. In days long gone she loved one of her teachers desperately, but learned the great lesson of submis¬ sion when he cruelly married another girl. Now she finds a Rhea of comfort in these lines: “ ’Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. A grand musical recital was being given in a large conservatory of a Northern city. Looking down on the stage I was bewildered when I saw Page Newman enter. She had established an enviable reputation and was then directress of that grand conservatory. The fourth number on that same program was a solo by Eleanor Gourdin. I was not at all surprised to see how her superb voice charmed her hearers. She had achieved much success and fame. She, too, was a teacher in this conservatory. It was in a large new building in a city of Georgia that I saw a little lady busily writing. In one of the front rooms of this building she had her study. Minnie Garrett was now a critic. Her position on the editorial staff of The Cla¬ rion first awoke her genius. Four years more in literary work further trained her. She wrote satires on Bachelor Life is a Crime and Single Life, such works, of course, being inspired by single blessedness, although she abhorred the fact that fate had consigned to her the life of an old maid. What could have become of Eunice Ballenger? Since she had finished school I could not hear anything of her. At last I found her, a missionary in Korea. We all thought that she would he a teacher, but fate had arranged differently. As in days of old, she was, as one expressed it: Letting the golden rays of her glori¬ ous nature send forth their auroral glow into the dark world about her. 26

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I was always curious to know what profession one of mv classmates would follow. She was always so timid, and especially in the classroom. I heard a sound like the chatter of birds, and, having turned, beheld the campus of Wesleyan Female College teeming with girlish forms. Wondering what topic they were dis¬ cussing, I listened to a dignified group—evidently seniors. They were praising their English teacher, lauding her noble qualities and gifts. At that moment the object of their conversation passed—Louise Dye. 1 knew nothing of the whereabouts of our influential Lillian Davis. But it wasn’t long before 1 found her sitting in her studio, in New York, painting a pic¬ ture by which she was to gain much fame. While enjoying the privilege of seeing Xew York, my wandering glance rested on a secluded, a frail figure attired as a sister of charity stole quietly from the gate of a convent and entered the poverty-stricken district. It was Sister Dixon. Disappointment had led her to this secluded life. How hard was it for me to believe that this was our little flirt, Annie Dixon. One of my classmates I could never understand, but “Father Time” revealed the secret to me by calling my attention to a magnificent home in the new part of the city. No feature that wealtli could add seemed to he lacking. Then a young woman entered the flower-garden and moved among the blooming clusters, as if to add a crowning glory to the picture. How vivid were my memories when I recognized Elizabeth Dove. Whom should I behold next on my circle of vision but Fannie Blair. Her destiny was extremely uncertain, for she was no sooner at one thing than she tried another. The hope of her youth was to go on the stage. But she abandoned that idea, and when I saw her she was at the head of a bachelor girls ' hall, to which she invited all maidens who hated mankind. Fannie’s work was not in vain, as she had many applicants. My vision began to grow dim, and there was another of my classmates I had not found. I searched diligently, and after turning my instrument in all direc¬ tions found Annie West. She had married a very rich old man, who afterwards died, leaving her a fortune. After her bereavement she lost all interest in social affairs, and had retired to her home on the Hudson. She had opened this grand home to the poor, and was spending her time and money trying to make them happy. Then a sudden loud ringing aroused me. What could it have been ? ' Twas the rising bell at Chicora. Oh! 1 was dreaming. The birds were chirping with¬ out, and all nature seemed to have said, “Awake from thy dreams, ’tis commence¬ ment morn.” N. Moore, ’o6. 28