Who played with us upon the green
Just twenty years ago.
Although the boys had jeered at its sentiment, and objected to its solemnity, they joined in it at the close of the exercises as feelingly as we could desire. There seemed a world of pathos in it as our young voices sang it that June afternoon just before we were dismissed for the last time from the old walls. As the sounds died away, “Prof.” stepped to the bell-rope, traces of emotion on his face, and rang the bell—the signal for the close of school. We packed our books, closed our desks, and dispersed, never more to return to the place that had grown so dear.
Commencement exercises! There in the old church packed to overflowing, parents and friends gather to hear the boy or girl on whom their hopes are set deliver the oration or read the essay that is a marvel of eloquence and wisdom.
Brimming with youth and hope, each girl graduate flutters before the audience and from out the glamour of this never-to-be-forgotten time announces confidently her hopes, her solemn beliefs, her freely bestowed advice. It is all beautiful. The youths and maidens seem lifted just a bit above the earth; but underneath the rosy glow solemn thoughts force their way; sobs and tears are near the smiles; the earnest students, touched by the remembrance of the love and sacrifice of their parents, are moved to high resolve—they will yet justify this faith in them!
Meadow daisies are massed in profusion around altar and platform; a paper canoe covered with daisies is suspended above—its paddle bearing the word “Knowledge.” The class motto (translated)—“The love of knowledge impels us”—is outlined on the wall.
Roses, roses, everywhere. How the breath of June roses always brings up that scene when I stood on the platform of the Methodist church that night in June and looked down upon a sea of faces! Behind me, on the platform, sat the dear teachers, doubly dear now that we were to go from under their tuition; below me, close at hand, were the classmates, so soon to “trust their parting feet to separate ways.” What a flood of thoughts rushed through me as, standing there, in a voice that I did not know, so loud and clear it rang (as though apart from myself), I delivered the class valedictory!
Looking down to our pew I saw Father and Mother beaming with pride and joy; saw my sister and all the friends and neighbours of our little village. How the expressions and the various faces stand out even to-day! But am I dreaming? Is it really true? Yes, there sits my own grandfather, dressed in unaccustomed black clothes, with a rapt expression on his dear old face, the unheeded tears streaming down his cheeks. The surprise and delight at seeing him there is one of the keenest of my girlhood’s happy recollections.
“Now, Eugenia!” my beloved teacher had encouragingly whispered when I had passed him on the way to the centre of the platform; and afterward, “I didn’t know you could do it,” he said exultantly, grasping my hand. Then I knew I had done well. In school, as a rule, I had trembled and mumbled when reading my essays; and although we had been drilled for this momentous occasion, I had sadly faltered at rehearsals, and I knew that “Prof.” had, as I had, grave misgivings as to my ability to get through with it at all creditably.
“You were inspired,” said an admiring classmate extravagantly; “we could hardly believe our eyes and ears!”