GOING TO SCHOOL.
WHEN the twins were five years old, they began to go to school.
As they were trudging along with Teddy and the dog on the first
morning, feeling very happy and very important, Edith called aunt Ann
to see how cunning they looked,—Posy in a white frock and sun-bonnet;
and Pollio all in blue, with a white sailor-hat. Posy had curled some
dandelion-stems, and Teddy had tied them to the dog’s ears; so Beppo
was as fine as the twins.
Dr. Field met the merry party on the street.
“Good-morning, little _twimlings_! Going to school? Well, don’t be
_sturbous_, my dears.”
Pollio pulled Posy along with a jerk.
“Oh! give my regards to the family when you go home, and tell your
mamma I disapprove of your studying too hard.”
Pollio ran faster yet. He never could see the least fun in the doctor’s
jokes.
The schoolhouse was a large brick building, half a mile away; and the
teacher seemed very glad to see the twins (of course they knew she
would be), and she let them sit together. They liked it extremely, till
Pollio happened to observe that he was one boy in the midst of forty
girls: whereupon he stalked out to Miss Chase, and said with great
dignity,—
“If you’ll scuse me, I want to sit the way the other folks do.”
Miss Chase smiled, and seated him beside Jamie Cushing (a boy of
eight), and Posy beside a lame girl of seven. Pollio liked Jamie,
because he had a pop-gun in his desk, and promised to show him at
recess how to fire it off. Posy liked _her_ seat-mate, because she had
a very sweet face, and because she hopped on one foot, and dragged the
other as a tired bird does; but her clothes were very ragged.
“I know who you are: you are Posy Pitcher.”
Posy nodded.
“And I’m Lucinda Outhouse.”
“Oh! are you? And does your mamma know you have such big holes in your
clo’es, _Lucy-vindy_?”
“Oh! this woman I live with isn’t my mamma: my mamma’s dead.”
Posy looked sorry.
“My papa died first, and my mamma married me another papa; and then my
mamma died, and _he_ married me another _mamma_. But _she_ don’t belong
to me, and _he_ don’t belong to me; and I haven’t any papa and mamma.”
Posy could not understand.
“Don’t you live anywhere?”
“Yes, they let me live with ’em; but they don’t like me. Don’t cry,
darling,” added _Lucy-vindy_ with a smile and nod: “God’ll take care o’
_me_.”
“Oh, yes! He’s one o’ that kind that don’t have anyfing to do but take
care o’ folks,” said Posy, her face brightening.
And then her class was called. How her little heart beat under her
white frock! and how the blushes came in her soft cheeks! She could
hardly read above her breath; but Pollio, who had never been to school
before any more than she had, and didn’t know quite so much, poked her
with his elbow, and whispered, “What you ’fraid of?” And, when his turn
came, he read so loud, you could have heard him in the street.
“Well, how do you like it, my dears?” asked papa at night.
“Oh, she’s the best teacher _I_ ever had!” said Pollio promptly.
“Indeed! Have you learned any thing to-day?”
“Yes, sir,” said Posy, eager to speak: “_the world walks!_”
“You know what she means; ‘the earth moves,’” laughed Teddy. “She heard
’em say that in the jography-class.”
Posy could see no difference between walking and moving; but she did
wish Teddy wouldn’t laugh at every thing she said.
Papa shook his head at Teddy, and went on questioning Posy, who sat on
his knee.
“Did my little girl whisper in school?”
“Yes, sir: once or twice or _three_.”
“Oh my! I should think”—
“Hush, Teddy! Did you carry your slate, Pollio?”
“Yes, sir; and I can make pictures better’n any of ’em.”
His father presumed this was true; for Pollio’s drawings were rather
remarkable for a small child.
“And I draw horses for the fellow that sits with me. He’s a jolly
boy,—fires ’tatoes out of a gun.”
“Well, the girl with me hops lame,” said Posy, determined not to be
outdone by Pollio. “She’s a _hypocrite_.”
“_Cripple!_” explained Teddy.
“I think it must be the little girl I meet on the street so often,”
said Nunky. “I call her ‘Hop-clover.’ She has a very sweet face.”
“Her father’s an awful drunkard,” remarked Teddy.
“Well, he isn’t her truly papa, and she hasn’t any truly mamma. Her
name’s _Lucy-vindy_, and she hasn’t anybody to take care of her but
just God. I wish I could give her my pink dress,” begged Posy.
“We will see about that,” said mamma.
Next day it “rained so hard, the water couldn’t catch its breath;”
but the little Pitchers were so eager for school, that their mother
let them go. They marched off very proudly under an umbrella; while
Teddy walked before them with the books, and Beppo behind with the
dinner-pail.
“Hop-clover” carried her dinner too; but at noon, when she saw Posy
giving Beppo a piece of cold lamb, she thought,—
“I ’most wish I was Posy Pitcher’s dog, so she’d give _me_ some meat.”
“Where’s your dinner?” said Posy.
“Hop-clover” spread it out then on her desk, looking ashamed as she did
so; for it was nothing but dry bread and _very_ dried apple-pie. Posy
thought that was what came of having such a queer mother that _wasn’t_
a mother; and offered her new friend an orange.
“Oh, thank you ever so much!” said Hop-clover, her sad eyes sparkling.
“I’ve seen oranges lots of times, but I never ate one before.”
Posy looked up in surprise.
“What a baby that is!” thought Jimmy Cushing, spying Posy’s innocent
face just then as he came along, swinging his arms, and whistling.
“Guess I’ll plague her a little.”
“Oh! is that you, Posy Pitcher?” said he aloud. “Well, I’ve got
something for you.”
She blushed and smiled.
“Put out your hand,” said he, offering her a clam. “There, just feel of
that: isn’t it smooth? Put your fingers inside.”
She knew no better than to do as he said; and the clam, which was
alive, knew no better than to seize her little hand with a dreadful
grip. Dear little Posy screamed fearfully, and some of the larger boys
had to come in and break the clam-shell with a hammer before her hand
was set free.
Pollio knew nothing about it till it was all over, and he found her
drying her eyes on Addie Thatcher’s neck.
“Hurt you bad, dear?” asked he tenderly.
“Yes, it did; and that boy _saw_ how I cried. Why, I cried awf’lly!”
The angry brother clinched his fists, and ran to find Jimmy. He did
not stop to think of Jimmy’s age and size, but rushed at him wildly,
exclaiming, “Take _that_ for ’busing my sister!”
It was the last sentence Pollio spoke for five minutes. How _could_ he
speak, with Jimmy’s foot on his back, and his own face close to the
earth, eating dirt? It was as much as _he_ could do to breathe.
“Want to whip me _again_, my son? I’m ready for you!” called out that
dreadful Jimmy with a gay laugh.
Wasn’t it hateful, when Pollio couldn’t hurt him any more than a fly at
the best of times, and needed both hands now to stop the nose-bleed?
Pollio ran home in a fever of rage; but when the rain had cooled him
a little he dreaded to see his mother, and let her know he had been
quarrelling.
His aunt Ann met him at the door with a look of amazement; for he had
no umbrella, his clothes were soaking with water, and the handkerchief
he held to his nose was red with blood.
“Fought I’d come home,” stammered he, darting into the entry. “Dr.
Field sent his ’gards to you, Nanty.”
“You didn’t come home in the rain to tell me that? How _did_ you get
hurt so, my child?”
Pollio wondered how she knew he was hurt, when he hadn’t told her a
word.
“Dr. Field _did_ sent his ’gards to you, Nanty.”
“Yes, yes.”
“And he sent his ’gards to Nunky, and he sent ’em to the whole
fam-i-ly.”
The last word ended in a wail. His nose did ache so! and—oh, dear!—it
was bleeding again.
Aunt Ann screamed for his mother. He had taken away the handkerchief,
and revealed the worst-looking nose you ever saw on a human boy. She
thought it was broken, but it was not.
“Jimmy Cushion did that,—the boy I liked that had a pop-gun,” said
Pollio after his mother had bathed his face with arnica, and asked him
fifty questions.
“What! that large boy?”
“Yes: he’ll be nine years old ’fore I am,” said little Pollio.
“Several years before. Of course, my dear, you had done something to
Jimmy?”
“No, mamma. You see, I tried to; but I couldn’t!”
“Tried to! What made you try, my son?”
“Why, you s’pose I’m going to let him ’buse my little sister,—nipping
up her hands like a pair o’ tongs with a pair o’ clams?”
“Oh! was that it?”
Mrs. Pitcher couldn’t help hugging Pollio; for he didn’t seem to mind
his own sufferings when he thought of his precious Posy.
“Well, my son, if Jimmy pinched her, that was wrong. I like to see you
so ready to protect your sister; but you needn’t fly at anybody like a
little savage. I _can’t_ have my darling boy fight!”
Pollio buried his aching nose in his mother’s bosom. He didn’t want to
fight again that day, you may be sure.
It was a whole week before he could go to school again; for his nose
was hideous. It was red, blue, green, and yellow; and Nunky said nobody
could get an education who looked like that.
Posy would not go without her brother, and mourned very much because
people laughed at him.
“Don’t cry about _me_,” said Pollio: “I’m only a boy! If ’twas a girl,
’twould be awful!”