[From _Sixty Years in a School-Room_ (Cincinnati, 1878)]
For many years we kept up the custom of crowning a "Rose Queen" in
May, and enjoying a holiday in the woods. Happily for the girls, I
greeted the return of the festival day with a gladness almost equal to
theirs, for I retained enough of the freshness of youth in my heart to
enable me to participate with zest in the joys of childhood.
"Once upon a time," after a long severe Winter, followed by a Spring
of unusual beauty, it was determined to celebrate the day with great
rejoicings. The girls were wild with delight at the prospect of a
whole day's release from slates, books, and blackboards--a charming
episode in the drudgery of their everyday life. Ah, happy children! to
whom every glimpse of nature is beautiful, and every blade of grass a
marvel! Give them ever so small a bit of green meadow checkered with
sunshine and shade upon which to revel among buttercups and daisies,
and "little they'll reck" how the world goes on.
There was but little opportunity for canvassing or intrigue in the
election of Queen. Fanny Henning was chosen by acclamation as best
fitted to grace the regal authority. Fanny possessed a mind and a
character as transparent as a clear brook. Her ingenuous face, her
self-forgetting and amiable bearing towards her companions made her the
loved and cherished of them all. She also held a distinguished place in
the estimation of her teachers for superior excellence, dutiful
affection, and modest deportment. Thus it was universally conceded that
"Fair-handed Spring" might well resign to Fanny her sovereignty for one
day over the brilliant treasures of garden, glade, and forest, awakened
into life and brightened into beauty by her magic wand.
The rosy hours followed each other in quick succession until within a
few days of the anticipated time, when lo! the "queen elect" broke out
with measles. The whole school was filled with dismay, bitter tears of
disappointment were shed by some; others predicted that she would be
well enough to go through the ceremony. Fanny, uniting in their
hopeful aspirations, prepared her coronation speech and rehearsed it
to perfection, for, though confined to her room, she was not really
ill. On the eve of the appointed day, however, the doctor pronounced
her too feeble to endure the fatigue. What was to be done? The
trophies of many loyal hearts were ready to be laid at the feet of the
queen. Spirit hands seemed dispensing blessings, and guardian angels
extending their wings over these healthful, happy girls as they
diligently wrought sparkling wreaths and arranged beautiful bouquets.
The banners were prepared, the white dresses were trimmed with
evergreen. The Seasons, the maids of honor, and all the officials were
in waiting, but "_Hamlet_" could not be left out of the play. One
modest little girl, after listening in silence to the suggestions of
the others, raised her eyes to my face and said hesitatingly:
"Can't Emma Maxwell be queen in Fanny's place?"
"Oh, no!" said another; "she could not possibly learn the speech in
time."
"No, indeed!" exclaimed several voices at once, "that would be
impossible; but she might read it."
"Yes, yes! let her read it; the queen's speeches are read in
Parliament!"
"Will you accept the proposition?" said I, turning to Emma.
"I think I can learn it," she replied, "and will try if you wish it."
The coronation was to take place the next morning at ten o'clock. A
previous rehearsal would be impossible; but what Emma proudly
determined to do was generously accomplished.
The evening star looked out bright and clear in the blue deep,
thrilling the hearts of these young girls with the prospect of a
pleasant morrow.
Most of them were stirring before sunrise. "Is it clear?" "Are we
going?" And from every room issued the sound of cheerful voices; and
then such shouts, such hurrying and bathing and dressing as was seldom
known before.
Ten o'clock came, and the yard, where the temporary throne was
erected, was soon filled with spectators and invited guests, mingling
with the children and participating in their pleasure. The proxy queen
bore her blushing honors meekly, going through all the coronation
ceremonies with a charming dignity. She stood Calypso-like among her
train of attendants in full view of the audience who listened in
breathless silence to her address. I watched her closely; she seemed
to plant her feet firmly, as if to still the beatings of her heart; no
gesture except a gentle motion of the right arm as she swayed her
scepter majestically around, her eyes steadily fixed upon some object
beyond, with which she seemed completely absorbed. Not a word was
misplaced, not a sentence omitted, of a speech long enough for a
Parliamentary harangue. No one prompted, nor did she once turn her
eyes toward the scroll she held in her left hand. Enthusiastic and
excessive were the rejoicings of her juvenile auditors.
Fanny witnessed the whole ceremony through a convenient window which
framed for her a living picture of ineffable beauty, and on this clear
day, with only a few white Spring clouds floating over the bluest of
skies, it was a sight of earth that makes one understand heaven.
The Seasons followed in quick succession, proffering homage to the
queen; then came the "rosy Hours" with their sweet-toned voices, and
the ceremony was completed by a few words from "Fashion and Modesty,"
the latter gently pushing the former aside, and casting a veil over
the burning blushes of the queen. The address being finished, queen
and attendants walked in procession to a grove that skirted the town,
where beauty filled the eye, and singing birds warbled sweet music.
When tired of play, a more substantial entertainment was provided.
Group after group spread the white cloth on the soft green turf, and
surrounded the plentiful repast, gratefully acknowledging the Hand
that supplies our wants from day to day. He who called our attention
to the "lilies of the field," stamps a warrant of sacredness upon our
rejoicings, in all that he has made.
There was something very remarkable in the quickness and facility with
which Emma Maxwell memorized the queen's speech. She was a girl of
more than ordinary vivacity, of a highly imaginative, impressionable
nature, and seemed to have the gift of bewitching all who knew her.
She occupied a commanding position in her class as a good reciter, but
I had not hitherto noticed any great facility in memorizing. I called
her the next day, and asked her to recite the piece to me alone. She
stared rather vacantly at me, and said:
"I can not remember a sentence of it."
"What! when you repeated it with so much facility yesterday! explain
yourself."
"I do not know how it is," she replied, "that though I can learn with
the utmost precision, mechanically, whatever I choose, in a short
time, yet under such circumstances my memory has not the power of
retention. If my train of repetition had been interrupted for one
moment yesterday, I should have failed utterly."
"What were you looking at so intently the whole time?"
"I was looking at certain objects about the yard and house in
connection with which I had studied the speech the evening before."
"Yes; but you certainly can repeat some portion of it to me?"
"Not one sentence connectedly; it has all passed from my mind like a
shadow on the wall."
Yet she was a girl of good judgment, read much, talked well, and
possessed in an eminent degree the indispensable requisite of a good
memory--power of attention.