THE NEW SCHOOL-TEACHER IN BEAR CANYON
"Yes, sir," said Mr. Samuel Wilson, stretching his boot-clad legs to their
fullest extent, and twirling his thumbs thoughtfully, "yes, sir, we've got
to have a teacher up in Bear Canyon. There ain't a bit o' use in waitin' a
week for that teacher from Sheridan. Come December, there'll be snow, and
school not out. Accordin' to my judgment, and I'm the chief trustee o'
this district, it's best to get some one to teach a week until the one
we've hired gets here. I stopped at Ben Jarvis' place on my way down here,
and he agreed with me. Says he, 'Sam, there'd ought to be one out o' that
crowd o' ladies over to Hunter's who could keep school a week. They're all
raised around Boston, folks tell me. Now you go along over, and see.' And
I said I would. What do you think, John? Ain't there a likely one among
'em? If Virginia didn't know the children so well, I'd be for choosin'
her. But a stranger's what we want. That school seems to need a stranger
'bout every term."
"That's just the difficulty," said Mr. Hunter. "It is a hard school, and
these girls aren't used to schools out here. The girl I am thinking of is
Mary Williams, but she's young--only eighteen. I shouldn't even consider
her if she hadn't said the other day that she'd like to try teaching in
that little school-house up the canyon. Of course 'twould be only for a
week. They're going back East in a little more than two."
"Her age ain't nothin' against her," reassured Mr. Wilson. "Remember Eben
Judd's girl who kept the school last spring? She was only seventeen, and
she could thrash the biggest boy there! Supposin' you let me talk with
this girl if she's around. Seems to me twenty dollars a week is mighty
easy money for just keepin' school and givin' out things you've got in
your head a'ready!"
Mr. Hunter, half-sorry that he had even considered the matter, went in
search of Mary, while Mr. Samuel Wilson stretched his legs even farther
across the floor, re-lit his old corn-cob pipe, and settled himself more
comfortably in his chair. He did not rise when Mary, forewarned but very
eager, came into the room a few minutes later, but he did remove his pipe.
Then he stated his errand, while Mary, feeling very professional, listened
with the deference due Mr. Wilson's position as chief trustee of the Bear
Canyon District.
"What we want," concluded the chief trustee, with a wave of his hand,
after he had explained all the difficulties and expatiated on all the joys
of the Bear Canyon school, "what we want is a teacher who can start things
right. A heap depends on the startin' things have in this world, I've
noticed. Now you look like a spunky young lady. Ain't afraid o' big boys,
are you?"
Mary, with the memory of Eben Judd's daughter and the biggest boy fresh in
her mind, hesitated. Bear Canyon might offer problems too big for her
inexperienced hands. Then she summoned an extra amount of dignity.
"It surely isn't necessary to thrash them, Mr. Wilson, if you can get
along with them some other way. No, I'm not at all afraid of them. Are
there many big ones?"
Mr. Wilson considered for a moment. No, there were not many. Ben Jarvis'
big boy Allan was the worst, and even he wasn't bad if he had enough to
do. The trouble was he led all the others, and if he once got "contrary,"
trouble arose. Mary inwardly resolved that he should not get "contrary."
"Now up here in Bear Canyon," Mr. Wilson further remarked, "we're strong
on figurin'. How are you on arithmetic?"
Mary's heart fell. Dismal visions of cube root and compound proportion
came to torment her. Her ship, sailing smoothly but a moment since, had
apparently struck a reef. Then a never-failing imagination came to her
rescue. She saw Priscilla solving her problems in the evening at the
table.
"Arithmetic isn't exactly my specialty, Mr. Wilson," she said brightly.
"That is, I don't love it as I do other studies; but I assure you I shall
be quite able to teach it."
The chief trustee rose from his seat, knocked the ashes from his pipe
into the fire-place, and took his hat.
"I guess you're hired for the week, then," said he, "at twenty dollars.
I'll stop in at Ben Jarvis' on my way home and tell him. School begins
Monday morning at nine. I may drop in myself durin' the week to see how
things is goin'. Good-mornin'."
Mary stood in the middle of the room, paying no heed to the curious voices
which called her from the porch. She saw the chief trustee ride past the
window on his way to tell Ben Jarvis that she was elected. She pictured
the incorrigible Allan Jarvis spending the Sabbath in the invention of
mischief. It had come too suddenly. She could not realize that she was
actually a Wyoming school-teacher. Now the time which she had thought to
be four years' distant had come--the time to begin to realize the ideals
she had shaped for herself upon the teaching and the personality of her
adored Miss Wallace.
The voices on the porch became more curious, and Mary, at last coming to
herself, hurried out to tell the wonderful news. She found the Vigilantes
and Aunt Nan as interested as she herself, and willing to sacrifice her
company for five days for the sake of Bear Canyon's rising generation.
Priscilla offered all the proficiency in arithmetic she possessed; Aunt
Nan hurried indoors to cut and make two aprons for the teacher; and Vivian
and Virginia went in search of pencils and paper. This was Saturday and
there was no time to lose.
On Monday morning at eight they all stood beneath the cottonwoods to watch
a wide-eyed and much excited school-teacher start for Bear Canyon. In a
bag which she hung on the saddle-horn were her pencils, papers, and new
apron; in a package strapped to the saddle was her lunch, packed by
Hannah's interested hands; and in her heart were excitement, misgivings,
and eagerness. She preferred to go alone, she said, as she mounted into
the saddle. They might ride up at four, and come home with her if they
liked, but she must go alone.
They did go up that afternoon at four--Vivian, Priscilla, and Virginia. As
they swung around a bend in the road, and came upon the little
school-house, they were surprised at the stillness. Where was everybody?
The children had not gone home--that was certain--for half a dozen horses
were picketed round about. Had the school adjourned and gone for a picnic
in the woods? That would not be unlike the new teacher, but it would be
very unlike the former traditions of the Bear Canyon school. No sound came
from within and it was long past four. Had the big Jarvis boy triumphed
after all, and made Mary a prisoner?
After five minutes of patient, puzzled waiting they added their horses to
those already grazing among the sagebrush, and stole quietly to the open
window. The new teacher sat in the middle of the battered, scarred, ugly
little room. She held her two youngest children upon her lap much to the
detriment of her new apron. A dirty eager face was raised to hers from
either side of her chair. The others of her twenty charges sat as near as
the seats would permit. The big Jarvis boy had not deigned to move toward
the front--that was too much of a concession for the first day--but he
was leaning forward in his seat, his big, shaggy, unkempt head resting in
his folded arms, his eyes never leaving Mary's face. She was telling them
the story of the _Dog of Flanders_. The Vigilantes, crouching beneath the
window, heard her as she finished.
"The next day," she said, "they came to the great cathedral, and found
Nello and Patrasche dead upon the stone floor. People were sorry then.
Alois' father was one who came. He realized how cruel he had been to
Nello, and was ready now to help him. But it was too late. Little Alois
came also. She begged Nello to wake and come home for the Christmas
festivities, and cried when she saw that he could not. Then a great artist
came. He had seen Nello's picture of the old man on the fallen tree, and
he knew that some day Nello might become a wonderful painter, even though
another had won the Antwerp prize. He wanted to take Nello away with him,
he said, and teach him art. But he, also, was too late, for Nello and
Patrasche had gone away together to a Kinder Country. All their lives they
had not been separated, and so the people of their little village, sorry
and ashamed, made them one grave and laid them to rest together."
There was a silence in the Bear Canyon school-house until a little girl in
a pink apron sobbed. Sobs were at a discount in Bear Canyon, and yet
strangely enough no one laughed. Allan Jarvis, in the back seat, was
intent upon his finger-nails. The others were gazing admiringly at their
new teacher.
"It's such a sad story," said the little girl, using her pink apron for a
handkerchief, "but I like it all the same."
"Deary me!" cried the new teacher, depositing the two littlest ones on the
floor, "it's half-past four! We must close school at once!"
At that the big Jarvis boy left his seat and came down the aisle, for the
first time in his life abstaining from pulling the hair of the girls
nearest him.
"Shan't I get your horse ready for you, ma'am?" he asked.
The new teacher smiled gratefully upon him.
"If you please, Allan," she said. "I'll be ever so much obliged." And
Allan Jarvis departed for the horse sheds--a conquered hero!
Mary, tired but enthusiastic, told them all about it as they rode home
together, followed at a respectful distance by a dinner-pail laden throng.
How she had arrived that morning to find Allan Jarvis the center of a
mischief-bent circle; how she had begun the day by the most exciting
shipwreck story she knew; and how the promise of another story before four
o'clock had worked a miracle. They were starved for stories, she said. She
thought they needed them more than arithmetic.
"Besides," she added, "probably the Sheridan person knows all about
figures. I'm going to put all the arithmetic classes the last thing in the
afternoon, and if we don't get around to them, why all right. It's
unfortunate, of course, but it can't be helped."
One day was quite sufficient to establish the name and the fame of the
Bear Canyon school-teacher. Around every supper-table circled tales of her
wisdom, her beauty, her strange way of speaking, and her general
superiority over any teacher Bear Canyon had ever hired. Her ability to
tell stories was lauded to the skies, and her genius at making six
hitherto mercilessly long hours seem like three marvelously short ones was
freely advertised. History under this new teacher had become something
more than a dog-eared text-book; geography more than stained and torn
wall-maps; reading more than a torturesome process of making sounds. They
proudly told their parents what the Constitution of the United States had
looked like when their teacher had last seen it; the size and shape of
Plymouth Rock as recorded by her during her last visit there. They re-told
her stories one by one to the children at home, too young for school.
Allan Jarvis did his part. He told his father he would go to school
without a word, if the new teacher could be persuaded to stay in Bear
Canyon.
Because of this Mr. Benjamin Jarvis left his work the third day, put on a
clean shirt, and visited the school himself. Mr. Samuel Wilson joined him,
as did the third trustee from farther up the canyon. When these three
gentlemen entered, the oldest History class was engaged in reproducing
the trial of Nathan Hale, the leading man in the cast being the big Jarvis
boy. It was a novel method of teaching history, the trustees said to
themselves, remembering the barren instruction they had received, but it
seemed effectual. That night they offered the new teacher a permanent job
in Bear Canyon. The teacher in Sheridan was not over-anxious to come, they
said, and the position was Mary's if she cared to accept it.
But Mary was going to college, she explained to the disappointed trustees.
Perhaps, some day, she would come back--some day when she had learned more
about teaching. As it was, Friday night must end her labors, grateful as
she was, and happy as she felt over the reception Bear Canyon had given
her.
It came all too soon--Friday night. The children stood in a disconsolate
little group to bid her good-by. They knew Bear Canyon teachers of old.
There would be no more stories, no more circuses at recess, no more flower
hunts in the woods, no more plays. School now would become just a weary
succession of days--all pointing toward Saturday. Figures would take the
place of reading, and the Rhine would again be just a crooked, black line,
not a river surmounted by frowning castles and golden with legends.
The little girl in the pink apron again used it as a handkerchief as Mary
rode down the trail.
"I--I'd go to school all my life--with her!" she said loyally.
The school-teacher halted at the residence of Mr. Benjamin Jarvis, second
trustee. He it was who was to sign the check for her services, give to her
the very first money she had ever earned. He was waiting for her, the
check in his hand.
"I--I think I ought to tell you, Mr. Jarvis," said Mary, "especially since
you're strong on figures in Bear Canyon, that I haven't taught many this
week. I'm afraid I'm very weak on system. That will be one of the things
I'll have to learn in college, I guess. The days have gone so fast I just
haven't seemed to have time to get them in. And--and to tell the truth,
Mr. Jarvis, I'm not very strong on figures myself."
"Figures!" said Mr. Benjamin Jarvis as he shook hands with her. "I guess
you've given that boy o' mine somethin' better'n figures, God bless you!"
The boy himself came around the house just as Mary was mounting her horse
to ride away. He had left school before the others, and had said no
good-by. Now he came up to her, a brown paper parcel in his hand.
"It's a rattlesnake skin I fixed for you," he said shyly. "You said you
liked 'em once. And the heavy thing in the end's my jack-knife. I carved
your letters on the handle. I thought it might come in handy when you went
to college."