Syndicated article,
as it appeared in the Minneapolis Tribune, May 1, 1904, p. 4.
News
of the culmination of a delightful romance comes from Montana. Of course, that means the
marriage of the hero and heroine. In this case the heroine is especially distinguished by
reason of the extent to which she has endeared herself to many thousands who have
never seen her. And the romance is a
welcome relief from the usual article supplied by this sedate and uneventful
age, being of the good old-fashioned kind, in which the hero rescues the heroine from the
very brink of death.
In
short, this heroine is none other than Fanny Y. Cory, whose characteristic
pictures of children and child life have delighted magazine readers for the last half dozen years. The
charming pictures on this page
from the pen of Miss Cory are from the recent files of Harper's Bazaar, and
many of them were drawn to illustrate ''The Memoirs of a Baby," a
delightful volume just issued by Harper & Brothers.
In view of the news
from Montana, to glance at these pictures is to excite new and pleasurable
anticipations. Every one of these marvellously lifelike little ones, in their infinite
variety of characteristic infantile attitudes and expressions of countenance -- denoting
the various emotions to
be expected in a genuine live baby
undergoing the usual vicissitudes of baby existence -- is the creation of a
spinster, who had to content herself with the study of other people's babies.
Now
that she is Mrs. Fred W. Cooney, how can we refrain from pleasant speculations upon the
future? When other people's babies depicted by Miss Cory's pen are so
irresistible,
what
delights may we not anticipate when happy and proud motherhood has furnished
Mrs. Cooney with inspiration and little models that are all her own?
Strange
coincidence! The gifted author of ''The Memoirs of a Baby," who, like the illustrator, was a
spinster -- Josephine Dodge Daskam -- is now a wife also. In their future
collaborations -- well, it certainly is something well worth looking forward to.
If
ever a girl deserved a real romance that girl was Fanny Y. Cory. With her own
brains and hands she built up her own fortune while giving wholesome pleasure
to thousands of her fellow-beings in all classes of society. She was born in
the far West -- Helena, Montana -where only ripples from the art centers are
felt. As a mite of a girl
she felt that she had talent. To
develop it she realized the necessity of study under competent masters, and
seven years ago she established herself in New York.
Almost
from the start she found a market for her drawings. Her reputation grew
and her work improved so that in 1901 she received honorable mention at the
Pan-American Exposition. Pupils, as well as publishers, flocked to her. In her leisure moments
she conducted an art school in which several illustrators now in demand caught
the spirit of her methods.
The
close application to her dual task of illustrating and teaching undermined her
health, and two years ago she returned to her native State to recuperate. She
built a charming bungalow in the mountains where she could work, while utilizing
every spare moment at outdoor exercise. As her health improved under the influence
of that simple life and the bracing mountain atmosphere, she increased her indulgence
in vigorous outdoor exercise and sports until now she is a fine, athletic young
woman.
Of
course, Miss Cory's reputation
had preceded her. Montana was proud of her and would have overwhelmed her with
attentions but for the knowledge that she needed quiet and freedom from the
social obligations. But as the last holiday season approached her complete
restoration to health was so apparent that society would no longer be refused.
In fact, she was glad to take part in the festivities of her old home --and
this renunciation of her hermitlike existence precipitated the romance.
Miss
Cory had learned to love the outdoor sports which had restored her health and
spirits. So, when, in December, a large skating party was formed in Helena she
eagerly joined it. Many of those in the
party were friends of her school days, while others were comparatively new residents
whom she was to meet for the first time. One of the latter was young Fred
Cooney, son of a wealthy
ranchman -- a splendid specimen of physical manhood and a trained athlete.
The
evidence of the young ranchman's complete subjugation the moment he set eyes
upon the artist was the subject of quiet laughing comment among Miss Cory's old friends. They teased her about
it a little as the party set out merrily for Lake Sewall.
"Poor,
dear Fred," said one of the girls, "it is all over with Fred!"
"He's
perfectly splendid," said another; "Fanny couldn't possibly do better."
But
Miss Cory's mind was all on the skating. Lake Sewall is just across the Missouri River from Helena. It is very deep, and
was formed as a storage reservoir in connection with the great dam at this point.
There
had been a week of sharp cold weather, but the day of the memorable skating
party was mild, with a brilliant
sun in the sky. The air was fine and bracing, and the party found the surface
of the ice in splendid condition for skating -- a kind of ice about which
skaters in the city parks know nothing. It was like glass, without a crack and
as yet without a scratch from a steel runner.
The
girls were delighted with the prospects for an ideal afternoon's sport. They could
hardly wait to have their skates strapped on. Young Cooney would have given his
ears for the privilege of performing this service for Miss Cory. All the girls
knew it and guyed him slyly -which made it all the more impossible for him to arise to
the occasion on such short acquaintance.
This
is one of the tantalizing features of social occasions in the West. Esprit de corps prevails to such an
extent that there is rarely any "pairing off," except in the case of engaged couples
and husbands and wives. Everybody is attentive to everybody else, and all watch
for opportunities for mischievous raillery.
But
the smitten young ranchman's hour was approaching.
Miss
Cory is an accomplished
skater. Sh3 had no need for the
support of anybody's strong right arm. What she felt that she did need was to speed
away over the smooth surface, with the ringing sound of the steel runners in her ears and her
whole body tingling with the pleasure of the swift, rhythmical motions of the
experienced skater's whole body. Her contemplative habit naturally separated her, under these conditions, from
her laughing, chattering companions.
TREACHEROUS SPOTS IN THE ICE
The
ice seemed perfectly safe. In some places near the shore, where the sun was reflected from a
steep, bare, black bank, there were
puddles of melted ice, but the only problem these occasioned was where some
unlucky skater missed the stroke to avoid a place and fell, dripping, after splashing some half a dozen
yards in the bank. Then there was laughter, but no warning. {Some words may be transcribed inaccurately. This
paragraph suffered in the microfilm process.}
On
the northern side of the lake, where the high bank is sheltered by clumps of
willows, the rays of the sun
beat in so fiercely, even on that December day, and were reflected with such added intensity
that the ice for quite a distance was rotten. In the glare of the sun even the
practiced eye would not have noticed this. The preoccupied young ranchman,
however, having lost his
footing in one such place, was beginning to have suspicions -- especially as he observed the
tendency of Miss Cory to ''flock by herself."
Even
now she was far away from the rest, and if there was danger at the spot just
described she would soon know it, for she was now skirting the northern margin
of the lake. On a sudden impulse Young Cooney shot out across the lake to
interrupt and caution her.
He
was still fifty yards away when he saw Miss Cory swerve suddenly toward the
shore, as though alarmed, and an instant later disappear through the ice. The
instinct which had turned her toward the shore had drawn her to the spot where
the ice was rottenest.
Nearly
the whole party witnessed the appalling accident from a distance, and saw Fred
Cooney speeding to the rescue. They saw Miss Cory's head appear above the
broken ice just as the ranchman reached the spot, only to become himself a victim of the
treacherous surface. The men hastened to the rescue while the frightened girls
made haste to the nearest shore.
Fortunately
Mr. Cooney is a fine
swimmer and inured to all sorts of hardships. A few strokes carried him to the artist
struggling in the water among the lumps of broken ice.
"Take
a firm hold on my coat collar," he said, "and don't be frightened."
Miss
Cory did as she was told and felt that she was in strong and resolute hands.
She did not know until afterward that the water at that point was more than
forty feet deep.
Knowing
that to reach the shore it would be necessary to break the ice all the way, Mr. Cooney swam with his fair burden toward
the solid ice farther out.
. Reaching it he treaded
water, and, lifting the artist, set her upon the edge of the ice. It
immediately crumbled beneath her.
The
rescuing party was still some distance away. Three times Mr. Cooney lifted Miss
Cory upon the ice -- a feat possible only to an expert swimmer and a strong man
-- and each time her weight was too much for the sun-rotted margins. The fourth -- and the
last of which the fatigued swimmer would have been capable -- succeeded.
"Hurry!"
he said. "Get farther away -- to the solid ice."
"But
you," she said,
"you will drown."
"Pshaw!" panted
the ranchman, "I can tumble about here all the afternoon: do as I tell
you."
As
the rescuers were now at hand, Miss Cory concluded to obey orders. Afterward she smiled
on recalling that Fred Cooney was the only man who had ever presumed to express
himself to her in such peremptory fashion.
By
throwing himself full length on the ice, each man gripping the next one by the
ankles, the man next to the
open water was thrust forward till he could reach the swimmer, then one strong
pull all together and the exhausted ranch man was safe.
This
was enough skating for that day. Neither Miss Cory nor Mr. Cooney suffered even a cold in the
head from their experience. And it is to be remarked that not one of this party had the
hardihood to appear to notice from that day on the fast ripening intimacy between
the artist and her rescuer.
When
there were other skating
parties, and Mr. Cooney evinced an inflexible' determination to strap on Miss Cory's skates,
nobody paid any attention -- except Miss Cory, who had no objection whatever. When there was dancing, the sight of
Miss Cory's card filled from top to bottom with Cooney's name excited no
comment. And when the hero and
heroine of the skating episode were discovered in the act of "sitting
out" at least half of these dances in secluded nooks, everybody, with a
common impulse, looked the other way.
Never
before had a Western community so completely overcome its disposition to make
uncomfortable a young man in the early throes of his first serious love affair.
This shows how universal is interest and sympathy in a genuine, old-fashioned
romance. That of Miss Cory and Mr. Cooney was "pushed along" by every
means known to their friends.
Within
two months the engagement had been quietly announced -- and now the name
"Fanny Y.
Cory"
exists for professional purposes only.
This page was created by Fanny Young Cory’s grandson –Bob Dodgson
Email comments, questions to dodgsonr@yahoo.com
F.Y. Cory Publishers, Inc.
21230 Damson Road
Bothell, WA 98021
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