Beecher afterward inquired: "Whom have you got to teach elocution now?
You used to have a few prize pumpkins on show, but now every girl is doing good original work." Mr.Crittenden warned me at the outset, "Keep an eye out or they'll run over you." But I never had anything but kindness from my pupils.

I realized that cheerful, courteous requests were wiser than commands, and sincere friendship more winning than "Teachery" primness.

I knew of an unpopular instructor who, being annoyed by his pupils throwing a few peanuts at his desk, said, "Young men, if you throw another peanut, I shall leave the room." A shower of peanuts followed.
So, when I went to my largest class in the big chapel, and saw one of my most interesting girls sitting on that immense Bible on the pulpit looking at me in merry defiance, and kicking her heels against the woodwork below, I did not appear to see her, and began the exercises, hoping fervently that one of the detectives who were always on watch might providentially appear.

Before long I saw one come to the door, look in with an amazed expression, only to bring two of the faculty to release the young lady from her uneasy pre-eminence.
I hardly knew my own name at the Packer Institute.

The students called me "Canary," I suppose on account of my yellow hair and rather high treble voice; Mr.Crittenden always spoke to me as Miss "Sunburn," and when my laundry was returned, it was addressed to "Miss Lampoon." Beecher was to me the clerical miracle of his age--a man of extraordinary personal magnetism, with power to rouse laughter and right away compel tears, I used to listen often to his marvellous sermons.