The Collected Works of Susan Coolidge: 7 Novels, 35+ Short Stories, Essays & Poems (Illustrated)
basket, which was full of fresh roses, crimson, white, and pink. I am afraid the rules of the S. S. U. C. had been slightly relaxed to allow of Rose Red’s getting these flowers; certainly they grew nowhere in Hillsover except in Professor Seccomb’s garden!
“The girls wanted me to give you this, with a great deal of love from us all,” said Katy, feeling strangely embarrassed, and hardly venturing to raise her eyes. She set the basket on the table. “We hope that you will be happy,” she added in a low voice, and moved toward the door. Mrs. Florence had been to much surprised to speak, but now she called, “Wait! Come back a moment.”
Katy came back. Mrs. Florence’s cheeks were flushed. She looked very handsome. Katy almost thought there were tears in her eyes.
“Tell the girls that I thank them very much. Their present is
beautiful. I shall always value it.” She blushed as she spoke, and
Katy blushed too. It made her shy to see the usually composed Mrs.
Florence so confused.
“What did she say? What did she say?” demanded the others, who were collected in groups round the school-room door to hear a report of the interview.
Katy repeated her message. Some of the girls were disappointed.
“Is that all?” they said. “We thought she would stand up and make a speech.”
“Or a short poem,” put in Rose Red,—“a few stanzas thrown off on the spur of the moment; like this, for instance:—
“Thank you, kindly, for your basket,
Which I didn’t mean to ask it;
But I’ll very gladly take it,
And when ‘tis full of cake, it
Will frequently remind me
Of the girls I left behind me!
There was a universal giggle, which brought Miss Jane out of the school-room.
“Order!” she said, ringing the bell. “Young ladies, what are you about? Study hour has begun.”
“We’re so sorry Mrs. Florence is going away,” said some of the girls.
“How did you know that she is going?” demanded Miss Jane, sharply.
Nobody answered.
Next day Mrs. Florence left. Katy saw her go with a secret regret.
“If only she would have said that she didn’t believe I wrote that note!” she told Clover.
“I don’t care what she believes! She’s a stupid, unjust woman!” replied independent little Clover.
Mrs. Nipson was now in sole charge of the establishment. She had never tried school-keeping before, and had various pet plans and theories of her own, which she had only been waiting for Mrs. Florence’s departure to put into practice.
One of these was that the school was to dine three times a week on pudding and bread and butter. Mrs. Nipson had a theory,—very convenient and economical for herself, but highly distasteful to her scholars,—that it was injurious for young people to eat meat every day in hot weather.
The puddings were made of batter, with a sprinkling of blackberries or raisins. Now, rising at six, and studying four hours and a half on a light breakfast, has wonderful effect on the appetite, as all who have tried it will testify. The poor girls would go down to dinner as hungry as wolves, and eye the large, pale slices on their plates with a wrath and dismay which I cannot describe. Very thick the slices were, and there was plenty of thin, sugared sauce to eat with them, and plenty of bread and butter; but, somehow, the whole was unsatisfying, and the hungry girls would go upstairs almost as ravenous as when they came down. The second-table-ites were always hanging over the balusters to receive them, and when to the demand, “What did you have for dinner?” “Pudding!” was answered, a low groan would run from one to another, and a general gloom seemed to drop down and envelop the party.
It may have been in consequence of this experience of starvation that the orders for fourth of July were that year so unusually large. It was an old custom in the school that the girls should celebrate the National Independence by buying as many goodies as they liked. There was no candy-shop in Hillsover, so Mrs. Nipson took the orders, and sent to Boston for the things, which were charged on the bills with other extras. Under these blissful circumstances, the girls felt that they could afford to be extravagant, and made out their lists regardless of expense. Rose Red’s, for this Fourth, ran thus:—
“Two pounds of Chocolate Caramels.
Two pounds of Sugar almonds.
Two pounds of Lemon Drops.
Two pounds of Mixed Candy.
Two pounds of Maccaroons.
A dozen Oranges.
A dozen Lemons.
A drum of Figs.
A box of French Plums.
A loaf of Almond Cake.”
The result of this liberal order was that, after the great wash-basket of parcels had been distributed, and the school had rioted for twenty- four hours upon these unaccustomed luxuries, Rose was found lying on her bed, ghastly and pallid.
“Never speak to me of any thing sweet again so long as I live!” she gasped. “Talk of vinegar, or pickles, or sour apples, but don’t allude to sugar in any form, if you love me! Oh, why, why did I send for those fatal things?”
In time all the candy was eaten up, and the school went back to its normal condition. Three weeks later came College commencement.
“Are you and Clover Craters or Symposiums?” demanded Lilly Page, meeting Katy in the hall, a few days before this important event.
“What do you mean?”
“Why, has nobody told you about them? They are the two great College Societies. All the girls belong to one or the other, and make the wreaths to dress their halls. We work up in the Gymnasium; the Crater girls take the east side, and the Symposium girls the west, and when the wreaths grow too long we hang them out of the windows. It’s the greatest fun in the world! Be a Symposium, do! I’m one!”
“I shall have to think about it before deciding,” said Katy, privately resolving to join Rose Red’s Society, whichever it was. The Crater it proved to be, so Katy and Clover enrolled themselves with the Craters. Three days before Commencement wreath-making began. The afternoons were wholly given up to the work, and, instead of walking or piano practice, the girls sat plaiting oak-leaves into garlands many yards long. Baskets of fresh leaves were constantly brought in, and there was a strife between the rival Societies as to which should accomplish most.
It was great fun, as Lilly had said, to sit there amid the green boughs, and pleasant leafy smells, a buzz of gay voices in the air, and a general sense of holiday. The Gymnasium would have furnished many a pretty picture for an artist during those three afternoons, only, unfortunately, no artist was let in to see it.
One day, Rose Red, emptying a basket, lighted upon a white parcel, hidden beneath the leaves.
“Lemon drops!” she exclaimed, applying finger and thumb with all the dexterity of Jack Horner. “Here, Crater girls, here’s something for you! Don’t you pity the Symposiums?”
But next day a big package of peppermints appeared in the Symposium basket, so neither Society could boast advantage over the other. They were pretty nearly equal, too, in the quantity of wreath made,—the Craters measuring nine hundred yards, and the Symposiums nine hundred and two. As for the Halls, which they were taken over to see the evening before Commencement, it was impossible to say which was most beautifully trimmed. Each faction preferred its own, and President Searles said that both did the young ladies credit.
They all sat in the gallery of the church on Commencement Day, and heard the speeches. It was very hot,