Proserpina had returned to earth again. The evidence of her visit was
everywhere. The campus had turned into green velvet; the pussy willows
were soft as chinchillas; the apple trees were in leaf, and just about
to blossom. These were the signs of spring everywhere. In addition to
these, the seminary had a sign which appealed to it alone. The man with
the ice-cream cart had appeared. For several days, his cart had been
backed against the curb of the campus and the sound of his bell was like
the music of the hand-organ to the girls. It was a bluebird and a
robin--the harbingers of spring to them.
May came and was quickly passing. The girls were talking caps and gowns
and diplomas. The seniors went about with a superior air; the juniors
were little better for they had a classday at least. The freshmen and
sophomores, in the plans for commencement week, were but the fifth
wheel to a wagon. They were ignored. If they offered suggestions they
were snubbed, and informed, not too gently, that they could not be
expected to know anything about such matters--being new to the ways of
commencement.
Though they had neither commencement, class day, nor play, the freshmen
and sophomores did not lose spirit. What was not theirs by rights, they
meant to make theirs by foul means and strategy.
It had long been the custom of the seniors to follow the commencement
proper with a banquet. This included only members of the senior class.
The Alumnae banquet took place later and was in the hands of old students
who had long since left the seminary. Among these were the wives of
judges, physicians, bankers--people with whom the freshmen and
sophomores dare not interfere, though it would have been an easy matter
to have taken this Alumnae Banquet, for there was no one on hand to guard
it. The menu and serving were wholly in the hands of a caterer from the
city.
Knowing that the affairs of the Alumnae must not be tampered with, the
freshmen turned all their energies toward the seniors and juniors.
The juniors were to give a play. The costumes were to be rented for the
occasion. The play itself was zealously guarded lest it be stolen. Erma,
whose talent lay in a histrionic direction, had charge of the copies of
the drama. Erma had talent but no forethought. She put the pamphlets in
the place most suited to them. Hester, who had been sent out by her
class as a scout to find what she could of the plans of the juniors,
discovered the books the first day; and not only the books but the names
of the juniors and the parts which each was to take. Hester reported
immediately the results of her investigation. The following day, while
Erma was engaged elsewhere the play disappeared, was hurriedly copied by
the freshmen and replaced. Not a member of the junior class, so the
freshmen believed, was aware of what took place and was not the wiser
that the freshmen had begun the preparation of the same play.
"We can outdo them," said Louise at the class-meeting. "The play is
booked for Tuesday evening. Monday evening is the band concert and
promenade from seven o'clock until eight-thirty. After that, the
freshmen class will have the floor and we'll give the play before the
juniors. Their efforts will fall flat on Tuesday evening."
"But the costumes!" exclaimed Hester. "What will we do for them?"
"Borrow them from the juniors when they are from their rooms. We will
need them but one evening. We'll return them as fresh as ever the
following morning."
"Will they lend them?" It was a little first term girl who asked the
question.
"No, you dear little freshie, they will not lend them if they can help
themselves. We will ask them Tuesday morning and use them Monday. It is
the safest way," said Emma, who was exceedingly enthusiastic over this
part of school life. While at home, she had read volumes on the subject
of life at a boarding school. From the impression left by those books,
life at school was one succession of receptions, public meetings, and
practical jokes. Discipline and lessons were in the undercurrent of
life. Life at Dickinson had been wholly different from what Emma had
anticipated. This stealing of the junior play and presenting it before
the juniors had the opportunity, appealed to Emma. This was more in the
order of the books she had read.
Louise sat up on the rostrum, appointing the students to their parts.
She looked at Emma quizzingly, "About your part, Emma," she began.
"I know what I want to be. Let me be queen. I'd dearly love to put my
hair up and wear a train."
"You! The queen!" the girls laughed in scorn. "You never would have
dignity enough for that. What you should be is a Dutch doll that moves
with a spring."
"I could do the queen part--," she began.
"Hush, hush. You are talking too loud. Some one is coming."
Footsteps were heard along the stair. The door opened and Renee put her
head in.
"Are you there, Louise?" she asked. "Do you object to my taking your
umbrella? My roommate has gone off leaving mine locked in the closet,
and I've permission to go down town."
"Yes, yes, take it," cried Louise. Renee closed the door and
disappeared.
"I'm suspicious of that umbrella," said Edna. "I think Renee was sent up
here to see what we were about."
"No, I'd be suspicious of any one but Renee. She wished the umbrella. I
am sure of that."
"But why should she need it this afternoon. There is not the slightest
suggestion of rain and the sun is not bright."
"Because, she couldn't go without borrowing something," said Louise. "It
wouldn't be Renee if she could. I suppose she looked about and an
umbrella was the only thing she did not have at hand, so that was the
only thing she could borrow."
Eventually the parts were given out and partly learned. The girls had
planned for a rehearsal the first week in June. The fact that everything
had to be done under cover from the juniors, made the practice drag.
They could assemble only at such hours when the juniors were in class,
and the chapel vacant.
The sophomores, confident that the freshmen alone would be able to
manage the juniors, turned their attention to the seniors. Their plan
was to divert the banquet from the dining-hall to one of the society
halls, and feast upon it while the seniors went wailing in search of it.
Their plans were developing nicely when the weather saw fit to
interfere. The last day of May, which fell on Tuesday, set in with a
soft, fine rain. This was nothing alarming in itself, had it performed
its work and gone its way. But it lingered all day, all night and when
Wednesday morning broke dull and gray, the volume of water had
increased, and was coming steadily down. Thursday was but a repetition
of Wednesday. The rain did not cease for an instant. The sun never
showed his face.
The river had crept up gradually until the water was licking the trunks
of the apple trees; but this was not alarming. The ice flood had been
higher; and further back on the campus were the marks of the flood of
'48, the highest flood ever known along the river. Even then the water
had not touched the building. There was nothing at all to be alarmed by
the river's rising.
After the afternoon's recitations, the girls went down to the river's
edge, although the rain poured down upon them. They were learning the
tricks of the old river men. They stuck sticks in the edge of the water
to mark the rise or fall.
"It's risen over a foot since lunch time," cried Erma. "See, there is my
marker. You can just see it. Think of it--a foot. What will become of
us?"
"It will rise twenty feet before we need give it a thought," said
Hester. She had been reared along the river and had no fear of it. She
loved it in any form it could assume--tranquil and quiet--frozen and
white--rolling and bleak and sullen. In every form, she recognized only
the beautiful and knew no reason to fear.
"But if it should rise twenty-five?" cried Erma. She was running about
excitedly like a water-sprite. Her red sweater gleamed in the sullen
gray light. The rain was trickling from her Tam-o-Shanter; but she was
oblivious of all, save the far remote danger.
"Oh, what if it should come up twenty-five feet!" she continued asking
as she ran along the shore.
"Oh, what if the world should come to an end!" retorted the girls in
derision.
The gong in the main hall sounded.
"I knew it," cried Emma. "I knew Doctor Weldon would not allow us to be
out long. She's dreadfully careful of us. Now, what harm can a little
bit of water do to anyone?" Emma shook her bushy, curly locks.
"Nothing, when one's hair curls naturally. But it can do a lot when
one's hair is straight. Look at mine." Mame sighed dismally. "Did you
ever see such locks? Every one as straight as a poker. I wish, just for
once, I could look like other girls."
Josephine was standing in the hall, waiting when the little group of
girls entered.
"Have you been in all the time?" asked Hester. "How could you? The river
is fine and getting higher and higher each moment. You shouldn't miss
such a sight as this."
"I have not missed it," was the reply, given while the speaker's eyes
took a soulful upward glance. "I cannot enjoy nature with people
laughing and talking about me. I must be alone and commune with it. I
have stood here watching from the window. What a beautiful and yet a
terrible scene it is. I feel uplifted."
"I wish I felt the same way--uplifted to the extent of two flights of
stairs," said Hester. She had not meant to be funny, but the girls
laughed. Josephine turned upon her a hurt, aggrieved look. But just for
a moment, then she smiled and said gently, "Hester, you little
water-sprite! How can you jest when nature is at war?"
Edna Bucher was another student who would not brave the elements. She
stood at the hall window where the stairway makes a turn. She was
dressed in very somber clothes, guiltless of curves or graces. She did
not look with favor upon girls' trudging out in the storm. It had in it
the element of tom-boyism upon which Miss Bucher looked with alarm.
"No, I did not go," she said meekly and apologetically. "I was brought
up to think it wasn't ladylike to go out in all kinds of weather;
ladies don't do it. It is just what you would expect of a man."
The hearers replied not a word. They did not so much as shrug their
shoulders or glance at each other. But each girl resolved at that
minute, if being hearty and hale and fearless were unladylike, from that
moment they would be that very thing.
The weather soon had its effect upon the spirits of the girls. Gayety in
the dormitories and parlors was reduced to the minimum. Pupils stood
silent at windows, gazing out at the steady downpour. Where they did
gather in groups of three or four, there was no laughing or bright talk.
Just a word now and then, and a low reply. At intervals, someone grew
intolerant and expressed herself. "Will this rain never stop?" "I was
hoping it would clear so that we might go into town."
Their hopes were doomed to disappointment. The rain never ceased for one
instant during the night and all day Friday.
At lunch time Friday, the girls ran out on the campus to see what had
become of their markers of the evening before. They were gone. The
water had come over them and moved up in the campus until it touched the
cannae-beds.
"The flowers will be ruined!" cried the girls. As though to prove the
truth of the statement, a tongue of water curled itself softly about the
plants, sucked deep into the roots, and when it went its way, the
cannaes went with it, and only a hollow was left in the great bed, and
this was quickly filled with water.
"It has risen three feet since last evening," said Hester, who had been
standing silent, estimating the distance. There were exclamations of
wonder, surprise, and fear. To many, three feet of a rise in water meant
no more than a Greek syllable. They had not been reared near a river,
and knew nothing of what might be expected in the way of floods.
"Three feet is nothing," said Hester with the air of one who knew all
there was to know of such matters. "Why, a June flood is generally seven
feet at home. We do not think much about it. And September floods--we do
not always have them, but we wouldn't think of calling it a flood
unless the river rose at least five feet. Three feet since yesterday!
That is really nothing at all. I hope it will go five feet higher before
night."
It was all braggadocio on her part; but it had the desired effect. Erma
screamed in terror; Emma's eyes grew big; Mame scolded her soundly for
expressing such a wish. For a while she had a hornet's nest about her
ears.
Early Friday afternoon, a change came. Before, the rain had come down
steady and constant. Now it came in a stream, as though the floors from
a great reservoir had given way and the water had fallen in one great
body.
There was no going out in this. An umbrella was no protection whatever,
for the rain came through as water through a sieve. After dinner, the
girls stood in the windows which overlooked the river and watched the
water as it crept up, so slowly the eye could not recognize its advance.
The trunks of the apple trees were hidden from view. The water was muddy
and foaming. The current had increased until the velocity was ten times
that of normal. There was a sullen roar, and tearing as though the
banks were giving way. Some logs were running, but not many. The breast
of the water was covered with drift. At intervals, large branches of
trees went down. Once a great oak, roots, trunk and all, sailed close to
the apple tree and almost tore it from the earth. A walk, a piece of
fence, a chicken coop, or a dog-kennel went bobbing along their watery
way. Some distance below, yet in sight of the school, was the county
bridge. It had been built in the early history of the country. It was a
big, clumsy-looking affair of wood with a shingled roof and board sides.
Now, entrances were cut off by a wide stream. It stood alone, like an
isolated being; its weather-beaten sides, looking gray against the brown
of the muddy water.
The sight of the river was growing awful, yet it attracted and held the
girls. The study bell rang unheeded. Miss Burkham came from her room to
call their attention to the study hours.
As the girls from the east wing crossed the main hall in order to reach
their rooms, they saw Doctor Weldon in earnest conversation with
Marshall, the office boy; Belva, the man-of-all work, and Herman who
acted as night-watchman.
"I do not anticipate a bit of trouble," she was saying. "But telegrams
came into the city from Reno, thirty miles above, that there was a
twenty-foot flood there and still rising. They've sent warning all down
the river.
"I have heard that alarm sounded ever since I have been at the seminary.
It is always a twenty-foot flood and the word always comes from Reno.
Either those people have no idea of a foot measure or their imaginations
have been over stimulated." She spoke slowly yet with conviction, as one
who has been accustomed to having their slightest word obeyed. The three
men had been at the seminary and in her service for ten years. They
adored her and accepted her word as final.
"However, Herman, you keep a close watch. Do not let the water reach the
drive without warning us. We will not run any risks. If you wish to have
Belva and Marshall with you, well and good. I shall ask the matron to
have a lunch prepared for you."
There was little possibility of danger. Should the water creep up from
the river, even to the west side of the dormitory, a great wing extended
to the east and avenues of escape would remain open.
The girls overheard Doctor Weldon's words. They were not alarmed. They
understood the conditions perfectly. Should the water come near the west
wing, a thing which had never yet occurred even in the famous flood of
'48, there could be no immediate danger. They were excited with the
prospect of the unusual happening. Since it had rained for five days
against their express wishes, they would feel themselves aggrieved if no
compensation, in the form of an unusual experience, was offered them.
The fact that it was Friday night, and that the week had been one which
had been void of relaxation or amusement in any way, moved the
preceptress to shorten the study hour and lengthen the time for
recreation.
But the students would not get away from the weather and the flood.
Little groups of four and six came together and discussed floods, from
the Noachean down to the one of '48. The girls had no personal knowledge
of any high water, but they handed down the folk-lore as it had come to
them.
Some were particularly fine in giving detail, and making weird, strange
scenes so real that their hearers were deeply affected. Erma had this
power in a great measure, and Hester, to some extent. By the time they
had related several stories, the girls in Sixty-two were shivering with
nervous fear.
"Oh, you silly little geese!" cried Erma. "Why, you are actually
shivering over something which happened in my great-grandfather's time!"
"But you make it so real! You and Hester talk as if it happened but
yesterday," said Mellie.
"Certainly, that is what we try to do," Erma laughed, and seizing Mellie
by the hand, drew her up from the floor where she had been sitting.
"That is what will make us famous. I shall be a great actress and Hester
a great writer."
Hester heard and blushed. She wondered how Erma knew of her day-dreams
for she had mentioned them to no one.
"Come, peaches," cried Erma. "I'll take you back to your rooms. If I do
not, you all will have nervous prostration, sitting here listening to
such stories."
"I do not know when Erma is complimenting me," said Mellie as she
followed. "Sometimes I am 'silly goose' and sometimes I am 'peaches.'
Now when am I which, and why?"
Erma laughed again. "Oh, you silly goose, don't you know you're peaches
all the time with me?"
The girls departed. It was yet early, yet Helen and Hester prepared for
bed. Each was deliberately slow. Their paths crossed and recrossed as
they moved from one part of the room to the other, yet not a word was
said until Hester reached to turn off the light. Then came the customary
good-night.