THE THRILL OF COLLEGE LIFE
It was the first day of the commencement exercises in a grand old
Southern college. A college that was founded more than a hundred years
ago, by the indefatigable and persistent Doak. While on his westward
march in that remote ago he stopped, laid down his books, took up
the sword, and stood before his countrymen at Sycamore Shoals and
challenged those who were willing to make the hazardous risk, and
charge up King’s Mountain, to step out in line! Inspired by the great
educator’s patriotic call, brave and noble hearted men filled the line
in the twinkle of an eye. Thus it was that the immortal Doak did his
part to win that glorious victory. But not even the glory of that great
victory could divert him from his path of plain duty before him. Hence
he again gathered up his books and continued his journey, through the
mountain gaps and down into the gorges he went, finally settling in the
Valley of the Tennessee--immediately founding a college and giving the
remainder of his life for the cause of education.
In a little room, with its snowy white walls and furnishings, on
this self-same college campus, we find today the heroine of this
humble narrative making final preparations for her humble part in the
ninety-first commencement exercises.
At first, the trial of college life had been a very hard one for Gena
Filson. To make the attempt of adapting herself to college life was
in a comparative way like changing worlds with her. There were rules
and regulations until her head was in a whirl. There was a daily
programme--a time to rise; a time to recite; a time for supper; a
time to retire--a time for everything it seemed! System! System was
something new with her. Then she had been repelled by the rebuffs of
older and more advanced college students. The young ladies of better
wardrobes had at first passed her with haughty spirits. In fact, nearly
everyone had been guilty in speaking in a jesting manner of the scanty
wardrobe that was hers.
But as the days went by Gena Filson proved herself equal to the
arduous tasks that were before her. Inch by inch, she won her way
among them. First she won a friend--then a second--the while holding
on to the first with ever so much care. In short, the application of
Gena Filson’s mind to her work; the physical culture that she daily
received; system and the constant association of cultured and refined
teachers, was doing for her the same as it had done for many another
young lady of sterling qualities; was bringing her to womanhood with
the true graces and polish of a gentlewoman.
By sheer pluck she had been able to hold out during the first few
months. Then she began to have an insight of things--she saw the real
meaning of it all. As the year had progressed, there were musicales,
society meetings and class receptions. She rose up, did her best, and
met every occasion and enjoyed it all to the fullest extent of her
capacity.
But today the college year was over, and the commencement exercises was
before her. Her first commencement! Tonight her heart was happy and
full, for all were now her friends, and they honored her. She gave a
last touch to the pins in her braided hair before she left the room.
The tresses of gold that all Blood Camp knew and loved so well were
no longer hanging down her back. But they were done and arranged in
the latest style, “beautifully,” as her best chum had exclaimed with
emphasis only a half hour before when she was finishing it. She took
another look in the mirror before going out. The soft blue dress that
she wore, made from some soft materials, matched the big blue eyes,
and her neck and throat were charming. She had made that pretty dress
herself during extra hours, and she was truly proud of it. Drawing on
a glove she walked towards the door. The gloves! Oh, yes! Why, she had
received them at Christmas--as a present--from some friend somewheres;
yes, a friend indeed--Paul Waffington. For a moment she stood at the
door, thinking. She wondered would he know her now. Would he think her
changed--would he be pleased with her personal appearance. The first
and only letter that she had ever received from him had been sent along
with those gloves. But then she had been so overjoyed at the sight of
the beautiful gloves that the note had been hastily read and put away.
It was over there now in the excuse of a trunk that was hers. She
slowly turned about--went over and raised the lid and found it. Opening
the note she read:
“HAZEL GREEN, KY., December 23, 19--.
“MISS GENA FILSON,
“Tusculum College, Tenn.
“My Dear Friend:--I am sending you by today’s mail a little Christmas
remembrance. Please accept it as a little token of respect and
esteem. I learn that you are doing well in Tusculum. My earnest
desire is that you will continue to be happy in your work.
“I have been somewhat delayed in returning to my headquarters in
Knoxville but expect to return soon.
“I shall be glad to pay you a visit at the college whenever an
opportunity is afforded.
“With many good wishes for you, I beg to subscribe myself,
“Your friend,
“PAUL WAFFINGTON.”
She read it twice over, replaced it in the little trunk and let down
the lid. Five months had now elapsed since the note was written, yet
he had not come. The college year was ended and commencement was now
in progress, still never a word. But Gena Filson had no time to worry
over such matters. She was happy in her new world, her new work; then,
too, she had plenty of friends to claim her time now--friends among the
young men the same as among the young ladies. Therefore, drawing on the
other glove, she went quickly out and shut the door.
Gena Filson had never been told the full extent of the persistent
efforts that Paul Waffington had made with the college president in
her behalf. She knew nothing of the frequent letters that had passed
between the college president and Paul Waffington solely in her
interest. Then the flippant and less studious ones of the college
had told her, that “a bird in the hand was worth two in the bush,”
hence it was beginning to lead her into the disposition of dismissing
uncertainties from her mind.
“Dismiss uncertainties--for the commencement at least--and enjoy the
present time while you may,” one had said to her.
In the gathering shadows of evening a carriage rolled up and stopped
before the college gate. Paul Waffington alighted in the face of one
who seemed to be the center of attraction with a group of young
men. It was a young man--this center of attraction--a “Mr. Texas,”
as he heard one of the party address him. His great square jaws and
protruding black eyes loomed up under a large derby hat. His suit was
of the flaring variety, with an extremely tight fitting waist. But,
above all, his hose with their white polka dots each the size of a
twenty-five-cent piece could not fail to attract attention, and he
carried a cane. Paul Waffington gave him a fair look as he went by and
passed on into the president’s office.
When finally emerging from the president’s office, he met a merry and
happy throng that was making its way to the college chapel. He had
meant to send up his card and have at least a few minutes with Gena
Filson before the exercises. But a delayed train had made great inroads
upon his limited time, hence his failure to do so. Notwithstanding the
failure of his intentions in that direction, still with an air of some
satisfaction he climbed the steps that led to the college chapel and
was ushered to a seat near the center of the hall.
Everybody was happy tonight! Laughter and fun; the swish of soft
skirts; the smell of roses--all told a tale of happiness.
Then the programme commenced. It was the recital of the musical
department. What! yes, the same! Paul Waffington ran his eye down the
programme that he held--it stopped at the third number. He dropped
the programme to his knees and settled back uneasily in his seat. It
seemed that he could hardly abide the time, when she, in whom he had
always--from the very first--had been so deeply interested, should
appear upon the stage and render her part of the programme. But finally
the old president came slowly forward, adjusted his nose-glasses with
ever so much care and precision, and read from the programme.
“The next number on the programme is----instrumental, by Miss Gena
Filson.”
But who was this coming forward? Gena Filson was the name on the
programme. Some mistake sure, thought Waffington. Too bad that she
should be cheated out of her number. Some mistake----
“Oh!” he suddenly cried out half aloud, as he saw the young lady come
forward and take her place on the piano bench.
He sat dazed. Did his eyes fail him? He rubbed them once, then looked
again. She finished the number, turned and looked the audience square
in the face and left the stage. The hair! The eyes! Yes, it was Gena
Filson of Blood Camp. But oh, so different, so changed, so beautiful!
He heard little of the remaining numbers of the programme, for he was
busy with his thoughts. But by and by the music stopped, and the people
were crowding the rostrum to offer congratulations. Paul Waffington
made off with the others in the direction of the rostrum, to offer his
congratulations and to express his pleasure and belief in the ability
of Gena Filson to succeed. But as he drew near he saw no other than the
square-jawed, ill-dressed “Mr. Texas” standing at Gena Filson’s side,
himself acknowledging the congratulations of her friends as if she were
property individual. He stood there, showing his big teeth, his arms
almost breaking under the load of bundles, boxes of candy and flowers
that he himself had brought to lavish upon her. He had taken her by the
arm, and was now leading her away, with his great head poked right into
her very face. Gena Filson dropped the train of her dress as she turned
to see who it was that had spoken to her. She blushed a deep red, and
her lovely blue eyes sparkled as bright as the evening star as she put
out her hand and simply but gently said:
“Mr. Waffington, is it you!”
“Accept my congratulations. I knew that it was in you to succeed. I
arrived too late to see you before the musicale, and must go now, at
once. Good-bye. I knew that you would succeed. Good-bye.” And before
she had time to present her friend, “Mr. Texas,” Paul Waffington was
moving away.
“Ugh!” growled Mr. Texas holding on to his bundles. “Ah, do you know
him, ah?”
“Yes, sir. He is a friend,” the answer came softly.
“Ugh!” he again exploded, as he pulled his bundles after him as he went
through the door.
That night Gena Filson sat in her room alone and very quiet, after all
the lights had winked out on the college campus. The bundles and boxes
of candy and flowers were piled about untouched. She cared not a straw
for candy and flowers now. Thoughts were surging about in her troubled
mind, reaching out beyond such trivial things as candy and flowers.
Moving over to her window, she could see the great oaks on the campus
towering up in the moonlight. Only a few moments ago she had sat under
one of those oaks and listened to the ejaculations and babblings of
“Mr. Texas.” Yet she had heard but little of what he had said to her
there. The while she had found herself continually trying to recall the
meeting with Paul Waffington in the earlier part of the night in the
college chapel. Even to this present moment she found herself unable
to throw it off her mind. But Mr. Texas was gone now, so was Paul
Waffington. Then suddenly she heard the lonely whistle of a locomotive
coming through the still night air to her ears, and she knew that it
was no other than the one that was carrying Paul Waffington back to his
city home at lightning speed.
The happy faces that she had learned to know and love so well during
the school year would separate on the morrow, each going back to home
and friends. She, too, must go. Back to the hills and Blood Camp and to
the little cabin upon the side of the mighty Snake Gena Filson would
go. For a long time she stood at the open window and looked out into
the night.
“Yes, I did very wrong not to thank him. I should have sent a note
expressing my appreciation of the pretty gloves. Why didn’t I? Why
didn’t I?” she cried as she stood in the night, wringing her hands.
Then hastily she laid a sheet of paper on the window sill and scribbled
something upon it in the moonlight, folded it and laid it away in the
little trunk.
The night was wearing away. Midnight had passed when she finally
lit the tallow candle that she was accustomed to use in emergencies
after the lights had gone out. Then began the packing and the other
preparations for the going away on the morrow.
There were college colors and pennants to be taken down from the walls
and carefully packed. There were trinkets and knots of ribbons, and
pictures of dear chums that were taken from their places and packed
away with care. Little paper fans, that were covered with scribblings
of someone that told a story of a happy day. They were, indeed,
souvenirs that told of that happy college life (a time in life with
many without responsibility), souvenirs that tell the story of many a
happy jaunt. By and by, the last thing was put into its place. The lid
on the little old trunk refused to go down at first, but in the end
yielding to pressure the key turned in the lock.
Gena Filson lay awake for a long time upon her pillow that night. But
when the belated messenger of sleep did come to her, he found her tired
and weary young mind pondering over the serious problem: If after all,
in the end, should happiness or remorse be hers?