GRADUATION

Star (Christchurch), Issue 18013, 25 November 1926, Page 9

GRADUATION

STORY OF ELIZABETH

BY HER MOTHER, ANNE AUSTIN.

MOTHERHOOD or a career? This great problem of women leaving their ’teens has been solved by Miss Anne Austin, who choose both. She has edited four national magazines and, by ■writing, lias earned a living for herself and her daughter. Elizabeth Benson, Miss Austin's daughter, possesses an intelligence quotient of 214 per cent—more than double the normal quotient. Miss Austin's own story is an epic of motherhood and of human life. Her fresh and vigorous philosophy is backed by the authority of achievement.

(Oopyrigrht 102 G in U.S.A. and Great Britain, by North American Newspa per Alliance. All rights reserved.)

During Elizabeth's entire senior year at the Gardner School I was at home only three months. A month in a hospital and two trips in search of health-giving sunshine kept me away from her at a time when she needed me most. I returned to New York from California on May 22. against the advice of physicians, but I had promised Elizabeth I would be here for her graduation, and nothing short of death could have prevented my keeping that promise. She had spent, an extremely busy two months since I had seen her last. As one of the editors of “ Milestones,” her high school journal, she had worked harder than at any time in her short life. Because she could use a ty’pewriter swiftly and accurately, she was given the job of copying and editing a large portion of the material thkt went into the book. She was carrying an unusually heavy course her entire senior year, since she was completing the four-year high school course in three years. And there were her home duties—a trained nurse friend of mine occupied the apartment with her during my absence —which included getting her own breakfast, keeping her room, helping with dinner, doing the dishes, and looking after her clothes. How she found time to write a short story’ and a poem for “Milestones,” &s well as cramming for June college board examinations. I can’t for the life of me see. But she had done it all—and had sent out a great sheaf of graduation invitations.

LIFE HECTIC FOR ELIZABETH. Graduation was to take place on May 28. and on May’ 24 the heads of the school, through their Press representative, gave to the “ New York World ” the announcement of the school’s graduation exercises, including the fact that a twelve-y'ear-old girl was finishing the high school course with highest honours. For the rest of the week, life was extremely hectic for Elizabeth Benson, her mother and the Gardner School. Every paper in the city sent reporters and photographers to our home or to the school. Elizabeth was photographed in every' conceivable pose—at her desk, with her class-mates, in front of the school, on the roof garden, with her mother, and smiling, smiling, smiling, until she said her face muscles ached so that she longed to scowl for at least one snapshot. At first she was excited and flattered, then she heartily wished- the fuss was All over, so that, she could do the hundred and one last-minute things connected with winding up a high school course and preparing for graduation exercises. I was tremendously pleased that she tired of it so quickly, that she did not ask to sec the newspapers in which the interviews and pictures appeared. She was too busy' at the time, and afterwards her interest in the whole affair had waned to such an extent that she had no curiosity about what had been said about her. I have never seen in all my life a person so free of vanity'. I had trembled with fear of the effect it might have on her —this sudden flareup of newspaper fame —and it apparently' had none at all! AWARDED SCHOLARSHIP. On the night of her graduation, when

she was presented with her diploma, the Rev Mr Barnhill made a short speech to her: “So this is Elizabeth ! Well, Elizabeth, they' tell me that you have reached the ripe old age of twelve years! Is that right?” Poppy-cheeked with embarrassment, she nodded mutely.

“ I congratulate y r ou, Elizabeth, on your graduation from this splendid school at such an age. And I have been authorised by’ the heads of the school and b>' the Gardner Alumnae. Association, to tell you that, because you have for three years headed the honour roll of this school, and because your conduct has at all times been that of a little lady worthy’ of the honour, you have been awarded the Gardner Alumnae Association scholarship for college. May I shake hands with >’ou, Elizabeth?” My Elizabeth shook hands, then turned towards me, where I sat on the first row of seats reserved for parents. Her eves were full of tears and her baby'ish mouth was trembling. I half rose to meet her, blinded with tears of pride and joy, then she remembered, and I remembered, and she walked to her .seat, on waves of deafening applause.

That was the proudest moment of my life. But that night I could not sleep. And evefy mother will understand when I say that it was pain as well as joy that kept me staring hot-eyed into the darkness. My baby' was growing up. Physically, she would have very' little real need of me in the future. She had long since learned to take care of herself, and now she could even earn her own living if necessary. College would take her away' from me for four years; after that she would lx? a grown-up lady’ of sixteen, as old as I was when I married. Perhaps she would be marry'ing too, when she finished college. GRANDMOTHER AT TIIIRTYFIVE.

There was even a danger that I might be a grandmother in five more y'ears! The picture of myself as a grandmother at thirty'-five was at once so humorous and so tragic that I laughed out loud and then the tears came, and I felt better, and went to sleep. After all, I consoled myself, maybe Elizabeth wouldn’t be so silly' as I had been—married at sixteen.

But on the heels of that thought came the question; if I hadn't married when I did, and whom T did. and in defiance of poverty’ as I did, would there have been siich a child as Elizabeth? With even the possibility of Elizabeth's following my example, I could not lie to myself—or to her. ever; I could not pretend that T was sorry’ for that sixteen-year-old silliness. When the Sunday editor of the “ World ” gave Elizabeth an assignment on “ How it feels to be famous for a day’.” she earned her first money. The check was for twenty’ dollars and seventy' cents—space rates. “ I feel like framing it.” she exulted, ‘‘but I suppose I’d better give it to you to buy' camp equipment.” For she was going again to Camp Serrana, at Pike, New Hampshire, where she had the year before spent the happiest summer of her life. She was awarded a half scholarship on her merits as a camper. I have before me, as I write, a letter which tells of climbing Piermont one day and of hiking to Haverhill the next. She swims, plays tennis, hikes, take part in amateur theatricals and makes things with her hands in the crafts classes - . ADMITTED TO BARNARD. In June, just before camp opened, she took her six college board examinations, and applied for admission to Barnard College. I have just learned that she passed her examinations and that Barnard’s committee on admissions had voted to accept her. though they have had a hitherto unbroken rule, not to accept any' girl under fifteen. Elizabeth had applied a year ago for admission to Bryn Mawr. but as the time drew near to go away' from home for a long nine months she could not bear the thought of the separation from her mother and those clever friends who have made life so pleasant for her in New York. I did not try' to influence, her to this decision, but it has made me very' happy to know that she prefers her home to the romantic idea of dormitory life. When people ask me how I account for Elizabeth—her mentality', her personality', her rapid advancement, her very real goodness as a daughter—l am

at a loss as to how to reply. Tor all I can truthfully say is, “ Elizabeth did it all herself.” But I can't tell how. Mv part in the making of Elizabeth comes up very simply. I just loved her with all my heart, recognised from the first her right to be a person, not a child puppet, dancing to my whims — did all for her physically that books and common sense could teach me; made her obey implicitly every command 1 had a right to give—and almost all of those commands were for the sake of her health; tried to make myself a mother whom she could respect and of whom she could be reasonably proud; made myself her friend and her confidante from the time she could talk; and—taught her to rely upon herself. WRITES FOR MAGAZINES. Because we have always been so close to each other in our aloneness, there have not been the problems of discipline that undoubtedly arise in a large family, especially where the father and mother have different ideas about child-rearing. She obeys because she loves me, and because she understands the reasons behind each rule or prohibition. I have conscientiously refrained from 'trying to mould her opinions on any subject; I could not tolerate a sycophant or a satellite. I never urged her ambitions along any line. If she becomes a writer I shall be very glad. If it develops that she has only a deft little talent, without real genius. I shall expect to see her turn to other fields, no matter what, just as so the choice is her own and is made after long deliberation. When she is graduated from college T shall expect her to earn her own living. She has already begun to do that, for she is contracted to write for “ Vanity Fair,” and has already been paid for two articles, written between graduation and her departure for camp. Two other magazines asked her to write for them, but there was not time and her contract with “ Vanity Fair ” calls for her exclusive services until six articles have been written. But what Elizabeth does with her life will be her own affair, just as, in the essentials, it has always been. T am not a professional mother. I do not know whether my rearing of Elizabeth has been scientific or not, or whether the methods 1 have used would work at all well with other children. For Elizabeth % has been so largely a result of circumstances—early poverty, our moving from town to town, our friendships with clever, creative people, my repeated illnesses, which forced her to physical independence. But circumstance has of her a superbly healthy, normal, happy, self-reliant little girl, and I am abundantly satisfied. On the other hand, I have never for a minute regretted that I have had to be the sole support of myself and the child. The necessity to provide tor her, to give her all the good things to which she is entitled, has proved the most powerful stimulus for ambition. I am neither rich nor famous, but I have made a fair success as a writer. If it had not been for Elizabeth I might still have been teaching school in Texas. I recommend motherhood as the first essential toward success in a career. (THE END.)