Slowly following her came Anna Cresswell, in gown but no cap. Her linen collar and cuffs showed white against the dead black of her student’s robe. With glances neither to right nor left, she slowly advanced, mounted the rostrum, and solemnly seated herself in the high-backed chair of polished walnut. Then Azzie touched the keys and gave expression to the most melancholy dirge one could conceive. So sympathetic was her music that a hush fell over the chattering audience.
“What has possessed the girl?” whispered Mame Welch, almost in tears but determined to keep a brave front. “I feel as though I was about to attend my own funeral. This is so unlike Azzie. Her music is generally brilliant.”
Still the wail of sorrow sobbed itself out from beneath Azzie’s fingers. In a moment more, the audience would have been in tears. She sat for a moment silent. When she touched the keys again, it was to give expression to a march, measured, heavy, solemn. At this, emerging from the rear of the chapel came the Seniors, in caps and gowns, two by two, with heads bowed, and “faces as long as the moral law,” whispered Mame to Elizabeth.
The first six carried between them a long narrow box, over which the Middler class colors, green and white, had been draped, and on which rested a stiff wreath of white artificial flowers tied with streamers of vivid green. Advancing to the front, the six bearers deposited their burden before the rostrum, then took their places with the other robed figures upon the front seats. All the while Azzie played her solemn dead march.
At the conclusion, Miss Cresswell arose to announce they would begin the services by singing the popular ballad “Go tell Aunt Nancy.” At this, the mournful singers, with Azzie accompanying them, sang in wailing, heart-broken voices:
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“Go, tell Doc Morgan,
Go, tell Doc Morgan,
Go, tell Doc Morgan,
Her Middler Class is dead. “They’re unreliable, They’re unreliable, They’re unreliable, Is what she’s often said. “Their heads illustrate, Their heads illustrate, Their heads illustrate, What a perfect vacuum is. “Ofttimes she said this, Ofttimes she said this, Ofttimes she said this, Teaching the Seniors ‘phis.’ “Go, tell the doctor, Go, tell the doctor, Go, tell the doctor, Wherefore the class is dead. “An idea came floating, An idea came floating, An idea came floating, And struck its empty head.” |
Each Senior did her part well, maintaining an expression which was the picture of grief. At the close of the song, Miss Cresswell advanced to the reading-stand. She assumed an oratorical tone. There was a note of pathos in all she said. “There came to Exeter Hall some ten months ago,” she began, “the class whose early demise we are now making famous with these ceremonies. They were young then. They continued to remain young—”
“So young,” came in a sad-voiced chorus from the singers.
“They were green,—they remained so until their passing away. I repeat, they were green—”