Mary Baldwin College - Bluestocking Yearbook (Staunton, VA)

Page 31 text:

The Augusta Seminary Annual. 25 voices of cliildrcn. What a happy time tlie little ones are hav- ing! One little girl swings contentedly on the clustering vines, some of the children run in and out the narrow lanes playing hide and seek, while others pet the soft-eyed deer who follow at their call. But the sun is declining in the heavens and its rays gently slanting through the foliage of the trees only make the shadows which slip in and out between the dark, gnarled roots more weird and strange, and the nurses hurry home their charges ever and again glancing fearfully hack at the shades which seem to follow them. On the lake a gaily painted boat still skims swiftly over the cloud-tinted waves, while in its wake follow the swans iishing up the crumbs which the young girl throws to them. Stay ! we hear the sound of music and the quivering tones of the violin float out upon the air, and as we listen- to the music our thoughts go back to the purple hills and sunset scenes of our own native land, and the tears come to our eyes, until at last the low, sad notes of the wordless song die away in one long, tremulous sigh. Many a penny falls into the outstretched hand of the little musician, as we pass out the gates, and silence reigns once more in the de- serted park. We must hurry now or we shall get to the coffee plantation too late. Here we are, however, and we hasten out to the coffee fields. Far as the eye can reach stretch the long, straight rows of trees with their graceful branches growing outward in oval shape, while their crimson berries peep out from between the dark, glossy leaves. Skillfully the dusky slaves hi their picturesque garments and gay-colored turbans strip the trees of their scarlet treasures, while now and then one sees a hungry little fellow slyly take from the great l)asket a handful of the bei ries and devour them with broad smiles and twinkling eyes. All along the road leading to the house we see the slave women carrjnng on their well-poised heads the heavily laden baskets, while others pass them hurrying back, singing as they come a strange dirge-like song. The busy day draws to a close at last, and as the setting sun sinks beneath the horizon, casting its lingering, golden light on the scene, the weary laborers pick up their burdens and wend their way homeward. Some hasten on with eager thought of the hot meal awaiting them, others linger behind enjoying the cooling

Page 30 text:

24 The Augusta Seminary Annual. A little further on stands a Turkish peddler with his pack. One by one he takes np his rings and gaudy breastpins and tries to induce you to buy them, now and then holding up a little coral hand which he assures you will keep off the evil eye. Still further on is the coffee talkie, where all the beggars in rags and tatters assemble to get their cup of coffee before setting out on their morning rounds. Then comes the sugar-cane stall, tilled with long, yellow, jointed stalks. The sun flickers in pleasantly on the varied scene and we linger long, rather reluctant to leave, but at last we stroll off to rest under the shade in the neighboring srpiare. Merrily the water gushes out from the dragon mouths of the fountains upon the stones below and dances along under the spreading mimosa trees spangled over with crimson blossoms, then rushes down into the green meadow, gently rocking the purple water-lilies resting on its bosom. What a busy throng gathers around — mothers, maidens and children — and the sound of happy voices iioats out upon the air. Some work Imsily and silently as they whirl the clothes around their lieads and strike them on the broad, flat rocks, while others chatter gaily as they lazily swing their garments in the murmuring rivulet. At last the work is done and the little group scatters, some to wander down the stream in search of their truant children, others to seat themselves on the grass and rest. One maiden reclining on the green bank and playing with the ripples of the brook dreamily gazes up through the delicate, fluttering leaves of the mimosas into the fair, blue sky. Is she thinking of her home among the Umbrian hills of far distant Italy ; are her thoughts travelling back to the golden, summer days and to the twilight evenings when the shadoAvs begin to fall from the mountain heights, or does memory fondly bring back to her the little cottage nestling among the hills where her little brothers play on the banks of the stream and send down upon its waves their boats of orange skin ? But see ! they are rested now and the women jiile up the clothes in great, white rolls in their baskets, pick up and carry home the babies who are lying on the grass trying to catch the sunbeams which steal through the leaves into their little hands. We hasten on, the music of the fountain growing fainter in our ears. Now we are at the gate of the park, and we hear the merry

Page 32 text:

26 The Augusta Seminary Annual. breeze, while many a mother trudges on slowly, bent under the doul)le weight of her baby and her basket. One by one they file into the courtyard aud pour the coft ' ee out upon tlie stone pave- ment to dry, then saunter carelessly off to their quarters to dream of f i-agrant coifee and steaming hominy ; and we homeward go, while the twilight shades are deepening and the moonbeams dance upon our path. Margaret Lane. Leaves from My Diary. JUlSrE 15th, 1892. — How good it is to be at home again after two long years at boarding school ! How different from the long row of class rooms, the towering heights of Sky-high, the black top of the Covered way, was the scene from my window this morning. A large garden divided into borders bright with flowers and shaded by tall oleanders lay before me. In the centre of it was a fountain reflecting in its silvery spray tlie golden sunshine, while a little bird sat on the side taking its morjiing shower-l)ath and sending forth praises to its maker in sweetest song. Scarcely had the little warbler ceased ' when the voices of happy children were heard, and Tom, who thinks himself quite a man in his new knickerbockers, entered the garden, followed by Elsie dragging her doll in a wheelbarrow. I ' se gohi ' to see if my beans hasn ' t come up yet, said the little fellow, going over to where a small mound of dirt was heaped. The beans, planted only the day before, had not come up, so he proceeded to dig them up to see what was de matter wif dose fings. Wliile he was excavating the beans, three-year-old Yiolet entered crying as if her heart would break; she hugged to her breast a little dead cliicken and sobbed, Dat howid old wooster bit his head wight off, and I isn ' t got any more ' ittle chickies. Never you mind, said brother Tom, leaving his beans to dry the little one ' s eyes, we ' ll bury him and beat the old rooster too,