to leave every afternoon; and under the care of Teacher, his liege
lady, he had grown in wisdom and love and happiness. But the greatest
of these was love. And now, when the other boys and girls were planning
surprises and gifts of price for Teacher, his hands were as empty as
his heart was full. Appeal to his mother met with denial prompt and
energetic.
"For what you go und make, over Christmas, presents? You ain't no
Krisht; you should better have no kind feelings over Krishts, neither;
your papa could to have a mad."
"Teacher ain't no Krisht," said Morris stoutly; "all the other fellows
buys her presents, und I'm loving mit her too; it's polite I gives her
presents the while I'm got such a kind feeling over her."
"Well, we ain't got no money for buy nothings," said Mrs. Mogilewsky
sadly. "No money, und your papa, he has all times a scare he shouldn't
to get no more, the while the boss"--and here followed incomprehensible,
but depressing, financial details, until the end of the interview found
Morris and his mother sobbing and rocking in one another's arms. So
Morris was helpless, his mother poor, and Teacher all unknowing.
And the great day, the Friday before Christmas came, and the school
was, for the first half hour, quite mad. Doors opened suddenly and
softly to admit small persons, clad in wondrous ways and bearing
wondrous parcels. Room 18, generally so placid and so peaceful, was
a howling wilderness full of brightly coloured, quickly changing groups
of children, all whispering, all gurgling, and all hiding queer bundles.
A newcomer invariably caused a diversion; the assembled multitude,
athirst for novelty, fell upon him and clamoured for a glimpse of his
bundle and a statement of its price.
Teacher watched in dumb amaze. What could be the matter with the
children, she wondered. They could not have guessed the shrouded
something in the corner to be a Christmas-tree. What made them behave
so queerly, and why did they look so strange? They seemed to have grown
stout in a single night, and Teacher, as she noted this, marvelled
greatly. The explanation was simple, though it came in alarming form.
The sounds of revelry were pierced by a long, shrill yell, and a pair
of agitated legs sprang suddenly into view between two desks. Teacher,
rushing to the rescue, noted that the legs formed the unsteady stem
of an upturned mushroom of brown flannel and green braid, which she
recognized as the outward seeming of her cherished Bertha Binderwitz;
and yet, when the desks were forced to disgorge their prey, the legs
restored to their normal position were found to support a fat child--and
Bertha was best described as "skinny"--in a dress of the Stuart tartan
tastefully trimmed with purple. Investigation proved that Bertha's
accumulative taste in dress was an established custom. In nearly all
cases the glory of holiday attire was hung upon the solid foundation
of every-day clothes as bunting is hung upon a building. The habit was
economical of time, and produced a charming embonpoint.
Teacher, too, was more beautiful than ever. Her dress was blue, and
"very long down, like a lady," with bands of silk and scraps of lace
distributed with the eye of art. In her hair she wore a bow of what
Sadie Gonorowsky, whose father "worked by fancy goods," described as
black "from plush ribbon--costs ten cents."
Isidore Belchatosky, relenting, was the first to lay tribute before
Teacher. He came forward with a sweet smile and a tall candlestick--the
candy had gone to its long home--and Teacher, for a moment, could not
be made to understand that all that length of bluish-white china was
really hers "for keeps."
"It's to-morrow holiday," Isidore assured her; "and we gives you
presents, the while we have a kind feeling. Candlesticks could to cost
twenty-five cents."
"It's a lie. Three for ten," said a voice in the background, but Teacher
hastened to respond to Isidore's test of her credulity:
"Indeed, they could. This candlestick could have cost fifty cents, and
it's just what I want. It is very good of you to bring me a present."
"You're welcome," said Isidore, retiring; and then, the ice being
broken, the First-Reader Class in a body rose to cast its gifts on
Teacher's desk, and its arms around Teacher's neck.
Nathan Horowitz presented a small cup and saucer; Isidore Applebaum
bestowed a large calendar for the year before last; Sadie Gonorowsky
brought a basket containing a bottle of perfume, a thimble, and a
bright silk handkerchief; Sarah Schrodsky offered a pen-wiper and a
yellow celluloid collar-button, and Eva Kidansky gave an elaborate
nasal douche, under the pleasing delusion that it was an atomizer.
Once more sounds of grief reached Teacher's ears. Rushing again to the
rescue, she threw open the door and came upon Woe personified. Eva
Gonorowsky, her hair in wildest disarray, her stocking fouled,
ungartered, and down-gyved to her ankle, appeared before her teacher.
She bore all the marks of Hamlet's excitement, and many more, including
a tear-stained little face and a gilt saucer clasped to a panting
breast.
"Eva, my dearest Eva, what's happened to you _now_?" asked Teacher,
for the list of ill-chances which had befallen this one of her charges
was very long. And Eva's wail was that a boy, a very big boy, had
stolen her golden cup "what I had for you by present," and had left
her only the saucer and her undying love to bestow.
Before Eva's sobs had quite yielded to Teacher's arts, Jacob Spitsky
pressed forward with a tortoise-shell comb of terrifying aspect and
hungry teeth, and an air showing forth a determination to adjust it
in its destined place. Teacher meekly bowed her head; Jacob forced his
offering into her long-suffering hair, and then retired with the
information, "Costs fifteen cents, Teacher," and the courteous
phrase--by etiquette prescribed--"Wish you health to wear it." He was
plainly a hero, and was heard remarking to less favoured admirers that
"Teacher's hair is awful softy, and smells off of perfumery."
Here a big boy, a very big boy, entered hastily. He did not belong to
Room 18, but he had long known Teacher. He had brought her a present;
he wished her a Merry Christmas. The present, when produced, proved
to be a pretty gold cup, and Eva Gonorowsky, with renewed emotion,
recognized the boy as her assailant and the cup as her property. Teacher
was dreadfully embarrassed; the boy not at all so. His policy was
simple and entire denial, and in this he persevered, even after Eva's
saucer had unmistakably proclaimed its relationship to the cup.
Meanwhile the rush of presentation went steadily on. Other cups and
saucers came in wild profusion. The desk was covered with them, and
their wrappings of purple tissue paper required a monitor's whole
attention. The soap, too, became urgently perceptible. It was of all
sizes, shapes and colours, but of uniform and dreadful power of perfumes
Teacher's eyes filled with tears--of gratitude--as each new piece or
box was pressed against her nose, and Teacher's mind was full of wonder
as to what she could ever do with all of it. Bottles of perfume vied
with one another and with the all-pervading soap until the air was
heavy and breathing grew labourious. But pride swelled the hearts of
the assembled multitude. No other Teacher had so many helps to the
toilet. None other was so beloved.
Teacher's aspect was quite changed, and the "blue long down like a
lady dress" was almost hidden by the offerings she had received. Jacob's
comb had two massive and bejewelled rivals in the "softy hair." The
front of the dress, where aching or despondent heads were wont to rest,
glittered with campaign buttons of American celebrities, beginning
with James G. Blaine and extending into modern history as far as Patrick
Divver, Admiral Dewey, and Captain Dreyfus. Outside the blue belt was
a white one, nearly clean, and bearing in "sure 'nough golden words"
the curt, but stirring, invitation, "Remember the Maine." Around the
neck were three chaplets of beads, wrought by chubby fingers and
embodying much love, while the waist-line was further adorned by tiny
and beribboned aprons. Truly, it was a day of triumph.
When the waste-paper basket had been twice filled with wrappings and
twice emptied; when order was emerging out of chaos; when the
Christmas-tree had been disclosed and its treasures distributed, a
timid hand was laid on Teacher's knee and a plaintive voice whispered,
"Say, Teacher, I got something for you;" and Teacher turned quickly
to see Morris, her dearest boy charge, with his poor little body showing
quite plainly between his shirt-waist buttons and through the gashes
he called pockets. This was his ordinary costume, and the funds of the
house of Mogilewsky were evidently unequal to an outer layer of finery.
"Now, Morris dear," said Teacher, "you shouldn't have troubled to get
me a present; you know you and I are such good friends that--"
"Teacher, yiss ma'an," Morris interrupted, in a bewitching and rising
inflection of his soft and plaintive voice. "I know you got a kind
feeling by me, and I couldn't to tell even how I got a kind feeling
by you. Only it's about that kind feeling I should give you a present.
I didn't"--with a glance at the crowded desk--"I didn't to have no
soap nor no perfumery, and my mamma she couldn't to buy none by the
store; but, Teacher, I'm got something awful nice for you by present."
"And what is it, deary?" asked the already rich and gifted young person.
"What is my new present?"
"Teacher, it's like this: I don't know; I ain't so big like I could
to know"--and, truly, God pity him! he was passing small--"it ain't
for boys--it's for ladies. Over yesterday on the night comes my papa
to my house, und he gives my mamma the present. Sooner she looks on
it, sooner she has a awful glad; in her eyes stands tears, und she
says, like that--out of Jewish--'Thanks,' un' she kisses my papa a
kiss. Und my papa, _how_ he is polite! he says--out of Jewish
too--'You're welcome, all right,' un' he kisses my mamma a kiss. So
my mamma, she sets und looks on the present, und all the time she looks
she has a glad over it. Und I didn't to have no soap, so you could to
have the present."
"But did your mother say I might?"
"Teacher, no ma'an; she didn't say like that, und she didn't to say
_not_ like that. She didn't to know. But it's for ladies, un' I didn't to
have no soap. You could to look on it. It ain't for boys."
And here Morris opened a hot little hand and disclosed a tightly folded
pinkish paper. As Teacher read it he watched her with eager, furtive
eyes, dry and bright, until hers grew suddenly moist, when his promptly
followed suit. As she looked down at him, he made his moan once more:
"It's for ladies, und I didn't to have no soap."
"But, Morris, dear," cried Teacher unsteadily, laughing a little, and
yet not far from tears, "this is ever so much nicer than soap--a
thousand times better than perfume; and you're quite right, it is for
ladies, and I never had one in all my life before. I am so very
thankful."
"You're welcome, all right. That's how my papa says; it's polite," said
Morris proudly. And proudly he took his place among the very
little boys, and loudly he joined in the ensuing song. For the rest
of that exciting day he was a shining point of virtue in the rest of
that confused class. And at three o'clock he was at Teacher's desk
again, carrying on the conversation as if there had been no
interruption.
"Und my mamma," he said insinuatingly--"she kisses my papa a kiss."
"Well?" said Teacher.
"Well," said Morris, "you ain't never kissed me a kiss, und I seen how
you kissed Eva Gonorowsky. I'm loving mit you too. Why don't you never
kiss me a kiss?"
"Perhaps," suggested Teacher mischievously, "perhaps it ain't for
boys."
But a glance at her "light face," with its crown of surprising combs,
reassured him.
"Teacher, yiss ma'an; it's for boys," he cried as he felt her arms
about him, and saw that in her eyes, too, "stands tears."
"It's polite you kisses me a kiss over that for ladies' present."
Late that night Teacher sat in her pretty room--for she was,
unofficially, a greatly pampered young person--and reviewed her
treasures. She saw that they were very numerous, very touching, very
whimsical, and very precious. But above all the rest she cherished a
frayed and pinkish paper, rather crumpled and a little soiled. For it
held the love of a man and a woman and a little child, and the magic
of a home, for Morris Mogilewsky's Christmas present for ladies was
the receipt for a month's rent for a room on the top floor of a Monroe
Street tenement.
LOVE AMONG THE BLACKBOARDS
An organized government requires a cabinet, and, during the first weeks
of her reign over Room 18, Miss Bailey set about providing herself
with aides and advisors. She made, naturally, some fatal and expensive
mistakes, as when she entrusted the class pencils to the care of one
of the Yonowsky twins who, promptly falling ill of scarlet fever and
imparting it to his brother, reduced the First-Reader Class to writing
with coloured chalk.
But gradually from the rank and file of candidates, from the
well-meaning but clumsy; from the competent but dishonest; from the
lazy and from the rash, she selected three loyal and devoted men to
share her task of ruling. They were Morris Mogilewsky, Prime Minister
and Monitor of the Gold-Fish Bowl; Nathan Spiderwitz, Councillor of
the Exchequer and Monitor of Window Boxes; and Patrick Brennan,
Commander-in-Chief of the Forces and Leader of the Line.
The members of this cabinet, finding themselves raised to such high
places by the pleasure of their sovereign, kept watchful eyes upon
her. For full well they knew that cruelest of all the laws of the Board
of Education, which decrees: "That the marriage of a female teacher
shall constitute resignation." This ruling had deprived them of a
Kindergarten teacher of transcendent charm and had made them as watchful
of Miss Bailey as a bevy of maiden aunts could have been. Losing her
they would lose love and power, and love and power are sweet.
Morris was the first to discover definite grounds for uneasiness. He
met his cherished Miss Bailey walking across Grand Street on a rainy
morning, and the umbrella which was protecting her beloved head was
held by a tall stranger in a long and baggy coat. After circling
incredulously about this tableau, Morris dashed off to report to his
colleagues. He found Patrick and Nathan in the midst of an exciting
game of craps, but his pattering feet warned them of danger, so they
pocketed their dice and turned to hear his news.
"Say," he panted; "I seen Teacher mit a man."
"No!" said Patrick, aghast.
"It's a lie!" cried Nathan; "it's a lie!"
"No; it's no lie," said Morris, with a sob half of breathlessness and
half of sorrow; "I seen her for sure. Und the man carries umbrellas
over her mit loving looks."
"Ah, g'wan," drawled Patrick; "you're crazy. You don't know what you're
talking about."
"Sure do I," cried Morris. "I had once a auntie what was loving mit
a awful stylish salesman--he's now floorwalkers--und I see how they
makes."
"Well," said Patrick, "I had a sister Mary and she married the milkman,
so I know, too. But umbrellas doesn't mean much."
"But the loving looks," Morris insisted. "My auntie makes such looks
on the salesman--he's now floorwalkers--und sooner she marries mit
him."
"Say, Patrick," suggested Nathan; "I'll tell you what to do. You ask
her if she's goin' to get married."
"Naw," said Patrick. "Let Morris ask her. She'd tell him before she'd
tell any of us. She's been soft on him ever since Christmas. Say,
Morris, do you hear? You've got to ask Teacher if she's going to get
married."
"Oo-o-oh! I dassent. It ain't polite how you says," cried Morris in
his shocked little voice. "It _ain't_ polite you asks like that.
It's fierce."
"Well, you've got to do it, anyway," said Patrick darkly, "and you've
got to do it soon, and you've got to let us hear you."
"It's fierce," protested Morris, but he was overruled by the dominant
spirit of Patrick Brennan, that grandson of the kings of Munster and
son of the policeman on the beat. His opportunity found him on the
very next morning. Isidore Wishnewsky, the gentlest of gentle children,
came to school wearing his accustomed air of melancholy shot across
with a tender pride. His subdued "Good morning" was accompanied with
much strenuous exertion directed, apparently, to the removal and
exhibition of a portion of his spine. After much wriggling he paused
long enough to say:
"Teacher, what you think? I'm got a present for you," and then
recommenced his search in another layer of his many flannels. His
efforts being at length crowned with success, he drew forth and spread
before Teacher's admiring eyes a Japanese paper napkin.
"My sister," he explained. "She gets it to a weddinge."
"Oh, Isidore," cried the flattered Teacher; "it's very pretty, isn't
it?"
"Teacher--yiss ma'an," gurgled Isidore. "It's stylish. You could to
look on how stands birds on it and flowers. Mine sister she gives it
to me und I gives it to you. _I_ don't need it. She gives me all
times something the while she's got such a kind feelin' over me. She
goes all times on weddinges. Most all her younge lady friends gettin'
married; ain't it funny?"
At the fateful word "married," the uneasy cabinet closed in about
Teacher. Their three pairs of eyes clung to her face as Isidore
repeated:
"All gettin' married. Ain't it funny?"
"Well, no, dear," answered Teacher musingly. "You know nearly all young
ladies do it."
Patrick took a pin from Teacher's desk and kneeled to tie his
shoe-string. When he rose the point of the pin projected half an inch
beyond the frayed toe of his shoe, and he was armed. Morris was most
evidently losing courage--he was indeed trying to steal away when
Patrick pressed close beside him and held him to his post.
"Teacher," said Isidore suddenly, as a dreadful thought struck him, "be
you a lady or be you a girl?"
And Teacher, being of Hibernian ancestry, answered one question with
another:
"Which do you think, Isidore?"
"Well," Isidore answered, "I don't know be you a forsure lady or be
you a forsure girl. You wears your hair so tucked up und your dress
so long down like you was a lady, but you laffs und tells us stories
like you was a girl. I don't know."
Clearly this was Morris's opening. Patrick pierced his soul with a
glance of scorn and simultaneously buried the pin in his quaking leg.
Thus encouraged, Morris rushed blindly into the conversation with:
"Say, Teacher, Miss Bailey, be _you_ goin' to get married?" and then
dropped limply against her shoulder.
The question was not quite new to Teacher and, as she bestowed Morris
more comfortably on her knee, she pondered once again. She knew that,
for the present, her lines had fallen in very pleasant places, and she
felt no desire to change to pastures new. And yet--and yet--. The
average female life is long, and a Board, however thoughtful as to
salary and pension, is an impersonal lord and master, and remote withal.
So she answered quite simply, with her cheek against the boy's:
"Well, perhaps so, Morris. Perhaps I shall, some day."
"Teacher, no ma'an, Miss Bailey!" wailed the Monitor of the Gold-Fish.
"Don't you go and get married mit nobody. So you do you couldn't be
Teacher by us no more, and you're a awful nice teacher by little boys.
You ain't _too_ big. Und say, we'd feel terrible bad the while you goes
and gets married mit somebody--terrible bad."
"Should you really, now?" asked Teacher, greatly pleased. "Well, dear,
I too should be lonely without you."
Here Isidore Wishnewsky, who considered this conversation as his
cherished own, and saw it being torn from him, determined to outdo the
favoured Morris as a squire of dames.
"Teacher, yiss ma'an," he broke in. "We'd all feel terrible the while
we ain't got you by teacher. All the boys und all the girls they says
like this--it's the word in the yard--we ain't never had a teacher
smells so nice like you."
While Teacher was in the lenient mood, resulting from this astounding
tribute, Nathan forged yet another chain for her securing.
"Teacher," said he, "you wouldn't never go and get married mit nobody
'out saying nothing to somebody, would you?"
"Indeed, no, my dear," Miss Bailey assured him. "When I marry, you and
Patrick and Morris shall be ushers--monitors, you know. Now are you
happy, you funny little chaps?"
"Teacher, yiss ma'an," Morris sighed, as the bell rang sharply, and
the aloof and formal exercise of the assembly room began.
Some days later Teacher arranged to go to a reception, and as she did
not care to return to her home between work and play, she appeared at
school in rather festive array. Room 18 was delighted with its
transformed ruler, but to the board of monitors this glory of raiment
brought nothing but misery. Every twist in the neat coiffure, every
fold of the pretty dress, every rustle of the invisible silk, every
click of the high heels, meant the coming abdication of Teacher and
the disbanding of her cabinet. Just so had Patrick's sister Mary looked
on the day she wed the milkman. Just such had been the outward aspect
of Morris's auntie on the day of her union to the promising young
salesman who was now a floorwalker and Morris's Uncle Ikey.
Momentarily they expected some word of farewell--perhaps even an
ice-cream party--but Teacher made no sign. They decided that she was
reserving her last words for their private ear and were greatly
disconcerted to find themselves turned out with the common herd at
three o'clock. With heavy hearts they followed the example of Mary's
little lamb and waited patiently about till Teacher did appear. When
she came she was more wonderful than ever, in a long and billowy boa
and a wide and billowy hat. She had seemed in a breathless hurry while
up in Room 18, but now she stood quite placidly in a group of her small
adherents on the highest of the school-house steps. And the cabinet,
waiting gloomily apart, only muttered, "I told ye so," and "It must
be a awful kind feeling," when the tall stranger came swinging upon
the scene. When Teacher's eyes fell upon him she began to force her
way through her clinging court, and when he was half way up the steps
she was half way down. As they met he drew from his pocket a hand and
the violets it held and Teacher was still adjusting the flowers in her
jacket when she passed her lurking staff. "I didn't expect you at all,"
she was saying. "You know it was not a really definite arrangement,
and men hate receptions."
A big voice replied in a phrase which Morris identified as having been
prominent in the repertoire of the enamoured salesman--now a
floorwalker--and Teacher with her companion turned to cross the street.
Her heels clicked for yet a moment and the deserted cabinet knew that
all was over.
The gloom obscuring Patrick's spirit on that evening was of so deep
a dye that Mrs. Brennan diagnosed it as the first stage of "a
consumption." She administered simple remedies and warm baths with
perseverance, but without effect. And more potent to cure than bath
or bottle was the sight of Teacher on the next morning in her accustomed
clothes and place.
The Board of Monitors had hardly recovered from this panic when another
alarming symptom appeared. Miss Bailey began to watch for letters, and
large envelopes began to reward her watchfulness. Daily was Patrick
sent to the powers that were to demand a letter, and daily he carried
one, and a sorely heavy heart, back to his sovereign. In exactly the
same sweetly insistent way had he been sent many a time and oft to
seek tidings of the laggard milkman. His colleagues, when he laid these
facts before them, were of the opinion that things looked very dark
for Teacher. Said Nathan:
"You know how she says we should be monitors on her weddinge? Well,
it could to be lies. She marries maybe already."
Patrick promptly knocked the Monitor of Window Boxes down upon the
rough asphalt of the yard and kicked him.
"Miss Bailey's no sneak," he cried hotly. "If she was married she'd
just as lief go and tell."
"Well," Morris began, "I had once a auntie--"
"Your auntie makes me sick," snapped Patrick. But Morris went on quite
undisturbedly:
"I had once a auntie und she had awful kind feelings over a stylish
floorwalker, und he was loving mit her. So-o-oh! They marries! Und
they don't say nothings to nobody. On'y the stylish floor walker he
writes on my auntie whole bunches of lovin' letters."