Mary Baldwin College - Bluestocking Yearbook (Staunton, VA)

Page 26 text:

20 The Augusta Seniiyiary Ayimial. Before I had time to realize where I was, Grace was by my side exclaiming anxiously : Kittie, what on earth is the mat- ter ? Are you sick ? I am going to call Miss P. Feeling very silly, but very much relieved, I crawled into bed and drew the cover close about me, thankful it was only a dream. Kittie Aldridge An Old Tropica! Town. f e were obliged to stay over in Jundiahy, owing to the delay of donkeys and men, which were to transport us and our baggage to San Paulo; yet the hours flew by on winge ' d feet, for many a charming spot we found while exploring the old, world- f orgotten town. It nestled at the foot of the mountains which towered in sentinel silence above it, and the narrow, principal street wound on by the adobe houses, draped in yellow jessamine, with here and there a satyr, broken-armed, gleaming in desolate splendor amid the overgrown luxuriance of the garden, wound by the mud-daubed huts of the out-cast lepers, by the spaikling fountain in the square, until at last it passed out to the country beyond and changed the roughness of the cobble-stones for the dustiness of a country-road. The little inn at which we slept and quaffed numberless cups of fragrant coffee, cups which seemed to have imprisoned in their depths the sweetness of the ciimson coffee-berries and the odor of their blossoms, fronted on this square, and it was here we brought our portfolios, our embroidery, our sketching. We brought them, but that was all, for our eyes and thoughts wandered pleasantly with the wayfarers in the street. Numerous donkeys with giant, orange-laden panniers hang- ing on either side passed us, their drivers strolling behind, or whistling, children, goats and sheep occupied the side-walks in turn and the owners of the little fruit-shops brought their chairs out and tilting them back against the wall, watched the smoke of their pipes curl lazily upward, until at last their eyes grew heavy and they dreamed, all unconscious of the mosquitos and flies we foreigners found so troublesome. At the fountain were

Page 25 text:

The Augusta Seminary Annual. 19 and I believe in a short time your voice will be a mere whisper. Each word had grown louder and more severe, and I put my hands over my ears, secretly determining to practice the Oro- tund every day. Hearing a slight rustling on the bed, I looked down and was amazed to .see a poor little shivering dog climbing up on the bed- It was Beauty, hardly recognizable now that he was shorn of his once beautiful hair. Oh me! he whined, I ' m so cold, and I fear that I cannot survive the winter. Curses be upon you wick- ed girls who have stolen y curls for your ' memoir books ! ' and an ominous growl followed. I shuddered and tried to think when I had succeeded in obtaining a lock of Beauty ' s coveted hair, for Ivallie and I had cha.sed him over the back gallery and even into the office, but in vain. Not the smallest piece could we get. Next came a low, heavy-set man, dressed in the tunic worn by the farmer in the early ages. When I saw the broad open countenance, the Roman nose, and the beautiful curly hair, I thought of Cincinnatus. His words verified my suspicion, for he began in an enraged tone : ' ' ' My name is Lucius Quintius Cin- cinnatus, and I am known to history as one averse to using polit- ical power in order to gain wealth. Did I save my country, re- fuse a golden crown and return to my plough just to have a little ignoramus say : ' He was the Roman whose character was most like that of Pausanias. ' You shall pay dearly for this my lady. I turned awaj ' , hoping to shut out these visions, but on that side stood Miss D. with an empty ink bottle and a half corrected composition. Now Kittie, .she sighed, ' ' I did not think that you would hand in such work. I have used all my red ink and have burnt my midnight oil, but here is the composition still un- finished. You may take it and come to my room Saturday. I opened my lips to lemonstrate, but ere a word escaped I was transfixed with horror. Over the bed came a dreadful mouse which paused and said in low, sad tones : ' Would you, could you be so cruel as to set a trap for a poor little innocent mouse, just because you want to dissect one in ' our Physiology class? He came nearer and nearer, almost to my pillow. This was be- yond human endurance, and I gave one awful shriek and bound- ed out of bed.

Page 27 text:

' 1 he Augusta Soninary Annual. ' •IX gathered the women atul children, careless that elsewhere the world moved more rapidly, that elsewhere women worked and wept while men labored and fought. They hurried not to wash the clothes they had brought with them for that purpose. Was there not to-morrow always ? The children dabbled in the water and watched their boats of orange peel come safely into port and laughed with glee when one suffered shipwreck on some rocky shoal. When evening came and the sunset rays threw a .strange, peculiar glamour over the quaint old town, it seemed to waken for a few short hours like the prince in the fairy tale. The beg- gars shook themselves and counting ihe coppers in their pockets, hurried on to finish their rounds. The shop-keepers took in their chairs and came out to talk to their fellow businessmen, and the women hastened in doors to prepare the savory evening meal of beans and garlic. From the old church came the sound of evening bells and our eyes wandered involuntarily to the con- vent on the hill, who.se ve.sper bells had long hung voiceless, silent, ' mid the silence that reigned around. One day, leaving my less industrious companions on the broad piazza of the little inn I had climbed the hill to the old convent with Theresa, a flower-girl, whose acquaintance I had made at the fountain. With the great dark eyes and dark brown hair which are the gift of the women of a southern clime, a crim- son shawl thrown with careless grace around her shoulders, .she seemed to have imbibed the witchery of the time and the place. StoppiniT here and there to pick a fern or flower, we at last lifted the rusty latch of the convent gate and stepped into the deserted garden. Over its crumbling walls hunt; a mantle of ivy and on the very threshhold, wild flowers and grasses were grow- ing while the grating was rusty and .some of the bars had fallen out from long disuse. Throu jh the once forbidden door we passed and found ourselves in a long, dark corridor upon which opened numerous cell doors, where in days gone by their inmates had knelt and wept and prayed and gazed out with unavailing long- ing on the blue distant mountains. We opened several doors, only to find a broken chair or a worn-out pallet, and in one — a skull. At last we reached the chapel and sat down to rest. Through the broken, colored windows, the rays of the setting sun still fell in rainbow hues upon the broken altar and falling organ