The game was mumble peg.
I had been rooting a peg out of the ground and my face was very dirty.
We were under a cherry tree by a private hedge. Presently Miss Holland
came out and began, girl-like, to pluck and eat the half ripe cherries.
The wind rustled her white dress and lifted the gold floss of her
wonderful hair. The birds chattered and sang all round us; the white
clouds lingered overhead like puffs of steam vanishing against the
splendid blue of the sky. The fragrance of leaf and fruit and bloom was
heavy on the air. The girl in white, the quiet glory of the day, the
murmur of the unsteady wind stream flowing among the dark leaves of the
orchard and hedge, the charm of the temperature, and over all, the
delicious sound of running water from the brook hard by, all
harmonized, and in a tender childish mood I quit the game and lolled at
full length on the ground, watching the fascinating face of the young
lady as she drifted about the pleasant places of the orchard. Suddenly I
saw her fix her eyes in a surprised way in a certain direction. I looked
to see what had startled her, and there, half leaning over the hedge,
stood Blodgett.
His face was ghastly in its pallor, and deep furrows ran down his jaws.
His gray eyes had in them a look of longing blended with a sort of stern
despair. It was only for a moment that his powerful frame toppled above
the hedge, but he is indelibly pictured in my memory just as he then
appeared.
"Good-bye, Miss Holland, good-bye."
How dismally hollow his voice sounded! Ah! it was pitiful. I neither saw
nor heard of him after that. Years have passed since then. Blodgett is,
likely, in his grave, but I never think of him without a sigh.
Yesterday I was in the old neighborhood, and, to my surprise, learned
that the old log school house was still standing. So I set out alone to
visit it. I found it rotten and shaky, serving as a sort of barn in
which a farmer stows his oats, straw and corn fodder. The genius of
learning has long since flown to finer quarters. The great old chimney
had been torn down or had fallen, the broad boards of the roof, held on
by weight poles, were deeply covered with moss and mould, and over the
whole edifice hung a gloom--a mist of decay.
I leaned upon a worm fence hard by and gazed through the long vacant
side window, underneath which our writing shelf used to be, sorrowfully
dallying with memory; not altogether sorrowfully either, for the glad
faces of children that used to romp with me on the old play ground
floated across my memory, clothed in the charming haze of distance, and
encircled by the halo of tender affections. The wind sang as of old, and
the bird songs had not changed a jot. Slowly my whole being crept back
to the past. The wonders of our progress were all forgotten. And then
from within the old school room came a well remembered voice, with a
certain nasal twang, repeating slowly and sternly the words:
"_Arma virumque cano_;" then there came a chime of silver tones--"School
is out!--School is out!" And I started, to find that I was all alone by
the rotting but blessed old throne and palace of the pedagogue.