The Holyoke Girl's Complaint. T'is "compo" night and ah! what shall I write;
Of subjects there are an abundance in store,
Such as Spring, Summer, Autumn, and a thousand more;
Or my Grandmother's snuffbox will do very well.
For those, who know best how its contents to tell,
But that I'll pass, for I like not to pry
Into secrets read only by spectacled eyes.
Some of home like to write, and their thoughts to express,
But of home I will think, but my thoughts I'll not tell.
Some chronicles write of things that are past,
And their thoughts come swift and their pens fly fast;
But I'm tired of all these I want something new;
This is too high and that is too low,
This is too common or not enough so.But I know what I'll write, of Holyoke I'll tell,
And all who take warning will do very well.
I've heard it compared to a memory drear,
Where the inmates dwelt in a trembling fear,
Not of bishops and monks, and of grayhaired friars,
But of Hawks and Lyon's more fearful far.
Our teachers are nine, and of Mary's there are four,
With one Martha well-skilled in domestic lore;
While Sophia, Rebecca and Emily too,
Just fill out the list excepting two.
A Tolman we have to guard the way,
And see that none in the space delay.
The ills of each day are not small nor few,
Of rules we have plenty, though I'll give you but two.
Our lives we are commanded we must not destroy,
Nor burn up the house in our thoughtless joy.
A mile we must walk each day when t'is clear,
And those too feeble for this can't be here.
But some few exceptions I might make,
For those who on Wednesday a ride do take.
And need I tell of domestic work,
How seventy minutes by the timeworn clock,
As the days roll round we work in the hall,
And there with our might both great and small,
We do whatsoever our hands may find?
And then our time we must reckon exact,
And set it down with a pencil black.
If less it is minus if more it is plus,
And the more of the latter the better for us.
When Wednesday comes the house must be cleaned,
And as sure as the nine o'clock bellmustdoth ring,
We start with our pails, and away we go,
With quickened steps to the washroom low;
There our water, and soap, and mops we take,
And hasten back lest we be too late,
For woe be to her, who is not on the spot,
When the tardy bell strikes with a direful note.
Our rooms are oblong, with a closet immense,
And a bedstead and table, a stove and a bench.
With a bookcase, one window, and it may be four chairs,
Complete our equipments in household affairs,
And if by good chance a carpet you see,
From home it must come and your own must it be.
If we're sick whatever the matter may be,
There's nought that can cure but "Mayweed tea."
In the morn at precisely threequarters past five,
You must jump out of bed, as though for your life.
It is hurry and hurry the livelong day,
There's no place to stop nor a moment to play.
We run when we walk, our haste is so great,
Lest the "tardy bell strike," and we be "too late"
And then when night comes at threequarters past nine,
With a wearied frame and a wearied mind,
Away fly pen paper, and ink to their nook,
Blow out the lights, and put up the books.
For at thelightsound of the bell to bed you must go,
And lay your head on your pillow low.
And then after all a teacher comes round,
To see that your fender is safely put down.
But I've not told you half, t'is a very long tale,
And I fear it will weary your patience well.
If any believe not, come try for yourselves,
And see if it is not all just as I've said.
"A life at "Mount Holyoke" away, away,
Enough for me is a single day."
Holyoke Apr. 15. "/48.
Copied for Miss Tolman.