SCHOOLDAYS
The Forest Glen School opened on a ripe, warm day near the end of
August. The Dale Valley lay basking in the sunshine, with that look of
perfect rest and content that comes from labor well done. Where the
fields were not heavy with the harvest, the barns were bursting with
it. The orchard trees bent to the earth with their wealth of red and
golden spheres. The wild grape-vines along the roadside were hung with
purple clusters. On sunny slopes the golden-rod waved its yellow
plumes, the herald of autumn, and near, its companion, the aster,
raised its little lavender stars. Summer was at its maturity, warm,
ripe, and dreamily restful, with as yet no hint of days less fair.
But dreams and rest were far from the minds of the Gay Gordons as they
met the gathering clans in the lane to take their journey down the
short-cut to school. Charles Stuart was there, and a crowd of Martins,
and even Wully Johnstone's youngsters, who had come half a mile out of
their way to join the crowd.
Miss Gordon stood at the door, holding little Jamie by the hand, and
watched the happy troop, ladened with schoolbags and dinner-pails, go
down the lane. Jamie cried because his "Diddy" was leaving him, and
there would be nobody to play with, but Miss Gordon saw them depart
with feelings of unmixed pleasure. In a few days Malcolm and Jean
would start for the High School in Cheemaun, and what a relief the
long, quiet genteel days would be with only Annie for a companion!
Down the lane gayly passed the joyous procession. For the rising
generation of Forest Glen had not yet become sophisticated enough to
consider school a hardship. Instead, it was a joy, and often an escape
from harder work. To the Martins, at least, it was. Jake Martin was
indeed a hard man, as the country-side declared, and nowhere did his
hand lie heavier than on his own family. There was a Martin to match
each Gordon and some left over, and not one of them but already showed
signs of toil beyond their young strength. Dairy-farming,
market-gardening, poultry-raising, and every known form of making money
on the farm was carried on by the Martins on an extensive scale, and
everyone, from Mrs. Martin down, was a slave to their swelling bank
account. The older boys and girls had already left school to work at
home, and those who did go always hurried back to plant or weed or dig
in the fields as the season demanded. Susie was Elizabeth's comrade,
being of the same age. But there was none of the light and joyous
thoughtlessness of Elizabeth's character in poor Susie's life. The
little girl's hands were already hardened by the broom, the
churn-dasher, and the hoe, and the only emotion Susie ever displayed
was fear lest she might be late in reaching home, and so miss five
minutes' work and suffer punishment at the hands of her father.
Elizabeth often wondered what it would be like to have a father one was
afraid of, and was very kind and gentle with Susie, though she
considered her a complete failure as a playmate.
As they passed the mill, John and Charles Stuart and Wully Johnstone's
Johnny seized the car and took a couple of tumultuous rides down to the
water's edge, but the Martin boys went on steadily and solemnly. Their
father would be sure to hear if they paused to play on the way to
school.
The pond lay cool and brown beneath the shade of the alders and
willows. Away up at the end, where the stream entered from its jungle
of water-reeds and sunken stumps and brown bullrushes, there grew a
tangle of water-plants all in glorious blossom. There were
water-lilies both golden and waxy-white, and blue spikes of
pickerel-weed, and clumps of fragrant musk. And over the surface of
the golden-brown water was spread a fairy web of delicate plant life,
vivid green, and woven of such tiny forms that it looked like airy foam
that a breath would dissolve. On its outer edge was an embroidery of
dainty star-blossoms, like little green forget-me-nots scattered over
the glassy surface.
The green and golden vista of flowers that led away up from this fairy
nook, with the green and golden water winding between the blossoming
banks, always called aloud to Elizabeth whenever she crossed the ravine
by the mill-path. She never looked up the creek without longing to
explore its winding pathway, right up to the depths of Wully
Johnstone's swamp. And yet, strange Elizabeth, when she had once
gained her desire, it had given her anything but enjoyment. She and
Charles Stuart and John had built a raft from old mill slabs that
spring, just when the creek was choked with blue fleur-de-lis and pink
ladies'-slippers. They had gone way up stream on a voyage of
discovery, bumping over sunken logs, crashing into rotten stumps, and
ruthlessly destroying whole acres of moss and water-reeds. It had all
been just as lovely as Elizabeth had dreamed, but there were other
things upon which she had not reckoned. There were black water-snakes
coiled amongst the rushes, and horrible speckled frogs sitting up on
water-lily leaves; frogs with awful goggle eyes that looked at you out
of the darkness of your bedroom for many, many nights afterwards.
There were mud-turtles that paddled their queer little rafts right up
to yours, and poked their dreadful snaky heads right up at you out of
the water. And besides all the creepy, crawly things that swarmed down
in the golden-brown depths and made your hair stand on end when your
bare feet touched the water, there were thousands of frightful leggy
things that wore skates and ran swiftly at you right over the surface.
Even the air was filled with blue "darning-needles" and stingy-looking
things, that buzzed and danced about your ears, so that there was no
safety nor comfort above nor below. And so Elizabeth had returned from
her first visit to her Eldorado full of mingled feelings. And all the
time she was learning that great lesson of life: that the fairy bowers
which beckon us to come away and play give pure pleasure only when
viewed from the stony pathway that leads up to the schoolhouse of duty.
But that was a lesson Elizabeth took many years to learn.
So she merely glanced up the creek and sighed as they climbed the hill.
She said nothing to Susie of all it meant to her. For Susie, though a
very dear girl, was not a person who understood.
Over The Slash they went, through old Sandy McLachlan's woods, down his
lane to the highway, and with a last glad rush right into the
schoolyard.
Eppie joined Elizabeth at her barnyard gate. Childlike, they had both
practically forgotten the fear that had hung over Eppie's head early in
the summer, and were happily unconscious that the little home in the
woods was already another's.
Forest Glen School stood near the road; so near, indeed, that the porch
actually encroached upon the Queen's Highway. But there was plenty of
room behind the building. For beyond a lumpy yard, innocent of a blade
of grass, stretched miles of Wully Johnstone's swamp, which had been
appropriated by the pupils as a playground. This seemed only just, for
remains of the forest still held possession of much of the
school-grounds proper. Nobody objected to the stumps, however, because
they were useful as bases in the ball games, and young Forest Glen had
once raised a storm of protest when a visiting lady from town had
suggested to Mr. Coulson that he have them removed on Arbor Day. There
was a battered old woodshed at the back, its walls covered with
carvings, its roof sagging wearily from the weight of many generations
of sliders who had shot down its snowy surface to the top of the hill
behind. Near it stood a crippled old pump that had brought up water
for these same generations of sliders, and was still bringing it up,
which perhaps explained its disheartened appearance.
The Dale contingent always arrived early at school, and on this first
day they had still more than half an hour at their disposal. The boys
rushed into a game of ball, but the girls gathered in groups about the
gate to watch for the new teacher. For this one was new in every sense
of the word--a lady in fact, and Forest Glen had always heretofore had
a man; and the older girls were filled with pleasurable excitement.
Miss Hillary was to board at Martha Ellen Robertson's place, the big,
white house not a quarter of a mile down the road. All eyes were
fastened upon the red gate to see her emerge, and many were the
speculations as to whether she would be tall or short, old or young,
plain or pretty, and above all what she should wear.
She appeared at last, and the chief questions were at once settled.
She was tall, she was young, she was pretty, and she wore a most
beautiful dark-blue dress with a trim white collar and cuffs. She had
pretty dark hair, just waving back from her little ears, and shaded by
a dainty blue hat, trimmed with a wreath of white daisies. The girls
gravitated towards the center of the road, Elizabeth and Rosie at the
head of the group. Elizabeth fell in love at first sight. She had
vowed with sobs last June that she would never, never love a teacher
again, and here she was ready to declare that this one was the most
wonderful and beautiful creature she had ever seen.
As the new teacher approached, she smiled in a stately fashion and
said, "Good-morning." As she entered the school, the boys drifted
farther away from the building and the girls drifted nearer. Some of
them even ventured into the room, to see her hang up her hat and take
off her gloves. Elizabeth was foremost among the latter. She longed
to go up to her and offer her assistance in the many new difficulties
which she saw the teacher might meet. She would have liked to show
Miss Hillary from the first that she was really quite grown-up and
genteel. She would help her with the names in the school register,
show her where the chalk was kept, and how the backs came off two of
the blackboard brushes, but could be kept on if you just held them
right, and how the bottom board of the blackboard might fall if you
weren't careful; and ever so much more valuable information. Miss
Hillary would have profited much more even than Elizabeth thought, if
she had accepted that young lady at her most grown-up estimate; and
Elizabeth would have profited even more. But, unfortunately for poor
Elizabeth, Miss Hillary was not one who easily understood.
The new teacher rang the bell and the school assembled, the big boys
straggling in last and flopping into their seats with a bored and
embarrassed air. The room was very quiet, the unaccustomed
surroundings impressing everyone into unaccustomed silence. For the
place had been all scrubbed and white-washed, and there were wonderful
new desks and seats that folded up all of their own accord when you
stood up, as if they worked by magic. There was a strange smell of
varnish, too, that added much to the feeling of newness.
As soon as prayers were over, the new teacher arose and delivered her
opening speech. Her manner was still distant and stately. She wished
to speak to them particularly, she said, on deportment, for she had
discovered that the children of rural communities were sadly deficient
in manners. Elizabeth quite lost the purport of the little address in
her admiration of the beautiful, long, high-sounding words with which
it was garnished. Elizabeth loved long words. She wished she could
remember just one or two of the biggest, and she would use them when
Mrs. Jarvis came. Suddenly a fine plan was born in her fertile brain.
All unmindful that Miss Hillary had given strict commands to everyone
to sit straight with folded arms, she snatched her slate and pencil.
She would write down the finest and most high-sounding of those words,
and how pleased and surprised Aunt Margaret would be when she used
them. She would look them up in the dictionary just as soon as she
could get a breathing-spell. There were "ideals" and "aspirations" and
"deportment" many times, and "disciplined"--which last Elizabeth
spelled without a "c." There were "principles" and "insubordination,"
and "contumacious," over the spelling of which Elizabeth had such a
very bad time, and "esprit de corps," which, fortunately, she gave up
altogether, and ever so many more, which flew over her head like birds
of paradise, brilliant and alluring, but not to be caught. Some,
Elizabeth could remember having heard her father use, and, proudly
recognizing them as old friends, let them pass.
She was utterly absorbed in her task, her pencil flying over her slate,
squeaking madly, when right in the midst of "irresponsible" with one
"r" and several other letters wanting, she paused. It was a poke from
Rosie that disturbed her. Elizabeth was accustomed to being poked by
Rosie, for her seat-mate always attracted one's attention this way; but
her pokes were always eloquent and this one betokened alarm and
urgency. For a moment or more Elizabeth had been vaguely conscious
that there was a lull in Miss Hillary's talk and a strange silence over
the room, but she had merely taken the opportunity to stick syllables
on the ends of certain words which haste had compelled her to curtail.
She was in the act of fixing up "contumacious," and making it a little
more un-English if possible, when the poke awoke her to her
surroundings.
She looked up. All eyes were upon her--disapproving and ashamed Gordon
eyes, others amused or only interested, and, worst of all, the new
teacher's, stern and annoyed. Elizabeth's pencil dropped from her
paralyzed fingers. It broke in three pieces--the beautiful, long, new
pencil with the gold paper covering, which Mr. Coulson had given her at
parting; and Miss Hillary said, oh, so coldly, and sternly:
"There is one little girl in the class who has been paying no attention
whatever to anything I have been saying. That little girl will please
come forward and take the front seat."
Elizabeth turned pale, and John and Mary hung their heads. Oh, wasn't
it just like Lizzie to do something to disgrace the family--and right
on the first day of school, too! The culprit arose, and slowly made
her way forward, trembling with fear. This wonderful new creature whom
she adored was after all an unknown quantity, and Elizabeth was always
afraid of the unknown. She went up the aisle all unseeing. She did
not even notice Rosie's glance of anguish as she left.
She stood before the teacher's desk with hanging head. "Sit down,"
Miss Hillary said coldly, and Elizabeth turned to obey. Now in olden
times there had been a row of benches in front of the platform upon
which the classes sat before their teacher, but these were gone and
instead were those magic folding seats, all closed up tight.
Elizabeth, still blind with fear, went to sit down upon a bench where
no bench was, and instead sat down soundingly upon the floor. A titter
of laughter ran over the room, and she sprang to her feet. She was
quite unhurt, except her dignity, but even this she did not notice.
The funny side of anything, though the joke was on herself, was always
irresistible to Elizabeth. Miss Hillary might kill her the next
moment, but for the present she must laugh, and laugh she did aloud,
showing her gleaming teeth in a short spasm of merriment. But the fun
vanished as quickly as it had come. She had no sooner struggled into
the unwilling seat, and looked up at her teacher, than she froze again
with apprehension.
Miss Hillary had arisen and was looking down at her, a red spot on
either cheek, her eyes angry and flashing. Elizabeth could not know
that the young teacher was in terror of the pupils, terror lest they
take advantage of her being a woman, and was nervously on the outlook
for signs of insubordination. She was almost as afraid of this
mischievous-looking, little brown thing as the little thing was of her,
and even suspected her of planning the ridiculous tumble for her own
and the school's amusement. Miss Hillary was weak, and displayed the
cruelty that so often characterizes weakness in a place of power.
"What is your name?" she demanded sternly.
"'Lizbeth," faltered the culprit. "'Lizbeth Gordon."
"How old are you?"
"Ten," whispered Elizabeth. She always said, "Going on eleven." But
now, feeling keenly that she had acted in a shocking manner, to be ten
did not sound quite so bad. A mature person on the road to eleven
would never, never be called to the front the first day of school!
"Well, Elizabeth Gordon," said Miss Hillary, "any big girl of ten
should have learned long ago that it is very rude and unladylike to sit
writing when her teacher is talking to her. I want you to remain in
this front seat, where I can watch you, until you have learned to be
mannerly. To ignore your teacher is extremely reprehensible, but to
laugh over your conduct is positively impertinent."
Poor Elizabeth crumpled up in a forlorn, little, blue-checked heap.
"Rude and unladylike!" Those were the condemnatory words her aunt so
often used, but the anguish they awoke was as nothing to the awful
shame that descended upon her soul in the avalanche of those unknown
words. "Impertinent," she remembered to have heard somewhere before.
It meant something deadly--but what shameless depths might not be
revealed by "reprehensible"? And, oh dear, oh dear, she had intended
to be so wise and so grown-up, and be her teacher's right hand. The
beautiful teacher she loved so! That was the tragedy of poor
Elizabeth's life, she was always hurting someone she loved. What a
dreary twist of fate it was that when one's intentions were the best
one was always most--"reprehensible"! The tears came dripping down
upon the blue pinafore. She remembered with dismay that she had no
handkerchief. She had forgotten hers in her hurry, and Mary had said
she might use hers if she needed it. But she dared not even look in
Mary's direction, knowing there were rows of curious eyes down there
all turned upon her. So she wiped the tears away on her pinafore, a
proceeding which Aunt Margaret had characterized as positively vulgar,
but Elizabeth knew that in Miss Hillary's opinion of her nothing
mattered any more.
The new teacher finished her interrupted address, and began the regular
work of the school. Elizabeth was forgotten, and slowly came up from
the depths of despair, mounting on the wings of future glory. Miss
Hillary would be sorry some day--some day when she, Elizabeth Gordon,
high on her white charger, with her velvet cloak streaming behind, rode
swiftly past the schoolhouse, never glancing in. Yes, Miss Hillary
might weep and wring her hands and declare she had made an awful
mistake in regard to Lizzie Gordon, but it would be too late.
Vastly encouraged by these dreams, the heroine of them dried her tears,
and sat listening to what was going on about her. Miss Hillary was
calling each class forward, taking down their names, and testing their
abilities in reading, spelling, and a few other subjects. The primary
class was on the floor, and Archie was standing, straight and sturdy,
right before his sister. Elizabeth did not dare raise her head, but
she peeped at her little brother from under her tangle of hair. She
did hope Archie would lift the name of Gordon from the mire in which
she had dragged it.
Archie was certainly conducting himself manfully. He spelled every
word the teacher gave him, added like lightning, and read loud and
clear: "Ben has a pen and a hen. The hen is in the pen. I see Ben and
the hen and the pen."
Miss Hillary looked pleased, and Archie went up head. "What is your
name?" she asked kindly, and he responded, "Archie Gordon." The
teacher glanced towards the culprit on the front seat. There was a
strong family resemblance amongst all the Gay Gordons, and Elizabeth
fairly swelled with restored self-respect.
The classes filed up, each in its turn, standing in a prim line with
its toes to a chalk-mark Miss Hillary had drawn on the floor. Nothing
exciting happened until Mary's class was called, and then Elizabeth
turned cold with a new fear. Just as they reached the chalk-line, only
half a dozen of them, Miss Hillary said: "As this Junior Third is so
small a class, for convenience I believe I shall put the Senior Thirds
with them. Senior Third class, rise! Forward!"
Now, Elizabeth was in the Senior Third. Strangely precocious in some
ways, she was woefully lacking in many branches of school work, and
barely kept a class ahead of Mary. The fear that Mary would overtake
her was the one thing that spurred her to spasmodic efforts. And now,
like a bolt from the blue, came the dreadful news. She and Mary were
to be in the same class!
The Seniors arose and filed reluctantly forward. Rosie poked Elizabeth
as she passed. Elizabeth understood Rosie's pokes better than other
people's plainest statement. This one said: "Isn't this a dreadful
shame? How shall we ever live it down?" And then a sudden stubborn
resolution seized Elizabeth, and she sat up straight with crimsoning
cheeks. She would not go up into Mary's class, no she wouldn't! The
teacher had said she must sit there until she had learned to be
mannerly. Well, she would then! She hadn't learned yet, and she
likely never would. And she would sit there on that front seat until
she was older than old Granny Johnstone, who spoke only Gaelic and had
no teeth, before she would go up in the same class with Mary! Mary was
a good speller, and might get ahead of her, and oh, how John and
Charles Stuart and Malcolm and Jean would talk if Mary beat her at
school! Elizabeth grew hot at the bare thought.
The big class had just arranged itself when one little girl held up her
hand. It was Katie Price, of course. Katie always told on everybody,
and was only in the Junior Third herself. "Please, teacher," said
Katie, "Lizzie Gordon's in the Senior Third." "Lizzie Gordon?" The
teacher looked round vaguely. The swelling list of new names was
puzzling her. "Where is Lizzie Gordon?"
Elizabeth did not move. To be forgotten utterly was the best she hoped
for; to be noticed was the worst thing that could happen. Mary
indicated her sister by a nod, and Miss Hillary grew haughty again.
"Oh," she said, "never mind her at present. We will let Lizzie Gordon
remain where she is for the rest of the morning." And on she went with
her work, while Lizzie Gordon, the outcast, too wicked even to be
included in a disgraced class, sat and hung her head in a very
abasement of soul.
She came out of the depths once at a thrilling remark of the teacher.
The double-class crowded and shoved this way and that, and Miss Hillary
said, just as they were about to return to their seats: "There are four
or five too many in this class. I shall examine the Seniors thoroughly
this afternoon, and shall allow the best four to go into the Junior
Fourth."
Elizabeth fairly jumped off her penitent form. Her hopes soared to the
highest pinnacle.
She would be one of the four! She must! Not only would it mean escape
from Mary, but she would be but one class behind John and Charles
Stuart! Yes, she would pass in spite of fate. If only Miss Hillary
would not examine them in arithmetic or spelling or grammar it would be
easy. She was equally deficient in all three, with a few disgraces in
favor of spelling. But who knew but she would ask questions in history
or literature! Or even make them write a composition! Elizabeth could
not help knowing that in this one last subject at least she far
surpassed her classmates.
Perhaps they would have to write one, and when the new teacher read it
she would say: "Lizzie Gordon, you are too good for the Junior Fourth
even. You may go into the Senior Fourth with your brother John and
Charles Stuart MacAllister."
Elizabeth fairly ached for some distinction that would reinstate her in
the teacher's good opinion. She began to build airy castles and grew
positively happy with hope. She was thankful even for the unkind fate
that had brought her to the front seat, for now Mary would never be
able to say, "Lizzie and I were once in the same class, and she's a
year and four months older than I am." Noah Clegg had said last Sunday
that people should be thankful for trials, as they often brought
blessing. Elizabeth devoutly agreed with him. She closed her eyes and
thought how thankful she should be that she had been snatched as a
brand from Mary's class. No one could pray in school, of course, and
sitting up straight, that would be very wicked. But she resolved that
when she said her prayers that night she would add a word of fervent
gratitude for her escape.
The Senior Fourth class was assembling now, the highest in the school.
Elizabeth gazed in longing admiration at John and Charles Stuart. How
glorious it must be away up there, and preparing for the High School,
too! Miss Hillary was asking names again, "Sammy Martin, John Gordon."
She paused and smiled. She had been growing more genial as the morning
advanced and Forest Glen showed no signs of mutiny.
"There seems to be a Martin and a Gordon for every class," she
remarked, and Elizabeth's heart leaped. Perhaps this was a hint that
instead of two Gordons in the Third class there would be one in the
Junior Fourth. "Charles Stuart MacAllister" was the next name. Miss
Hillary smiled again. "Are you the Pretender?" she asked, and the
Senior Fourth all laughed at Charles Stuart's expense.
"I do not like double names," she added pleasantly. "They are too
cumbersome." Elizabeth stored up the word greedily. "I shall call
you Stuart, as there are four other Charlies here."
When recess was over, so good-humored had Miss Hillary become that she
apparently forgot that Lizzie Gordon was to be taught how to be
mannerly, and sent her to her seat to take part in the examination.
Elizabeth slipped in beside Rosie, breathless with relief. Rosie had
been preparing her welcome. She had sharpened the three pieces of the
broken pencil to points fine and delicate as needles, she had piled all
her friend's books in a neat row, and put a pink tissue-paper frill
like her own around her ink-well. Elizabeth sighed happily. It was
such a privilege to have a Rosie for one's friend.
Miss Hillary had paused in her work to give a little address on the
proper way to wash one's slate, and to Elizabeth's joy and pride she
held up Rosie as a shining example. Rosie had a big pickle bottle of
water, and a little sponge tied to her slate by a string. Everything
about Rosie was always so dainty. Elizabeth had a slate-rag somewhere,
but someone had always borrowed it when she needed it, so she generally
re-borrowed or used Rosie's sponge. Elizabeth wished she had been nice
like Rosie and Miss Hillary had commended her. But somehow she never
had time for scrubbing her desk and decorating it with rows of cards
and frills of colored paper, as Rosie so often did. There were so many
things to do in school. She was thankful, however, that she was not
like big, fat Joel Davis across the aisle there, who spat on his slate
and rubbed it with his sleeve. It was his action, one which Miss
Hillary characterized as disgusting and unsanitary, that had called
forth the little talk. And she ended up with the announcement that
once a week she would give a short talk on "Manners and Morals."
Elizabeth scented a new word. "Disgusting" she knew, Aunt Margaret
often used it. It meant the opposite to genteel. But "insanitary" was
a discovery. She tried to store it in her mind, not daring to move her
tightly folded hands towards her slate. Perhaps it was something like
insanity, and Miss Hillary meant that anyone who didn't use a slate-rag
and water-bottle was crazy.
But the examination was on, and the Senior Thirds, anxious and hopeful,
were soon at work. Arithmetic came first, and only the anticipation of
better things to come, and the forlorn hope that the problem might
somehow turn out right by chance, kept up Elizabeth's spirits. There
were three problems, and she could make nothing of them, though she
added, subtracted, divided, and multiplied, and covered her slate with
figures in the hope of achieving something. She worked in some
statements, too, for Rosie had advised her that written statements
always looked nice, and would probably make the teacher think the
question was well done anyway. So in the complex problem inquiring how
many men would eat how much salt pork in how many days, Elizabeth set
down carefully:
If 18 men eat 36 lbs. in 1 day,
Then 1 men eat 36 lbs. X 18 men.
It might not be right, but it looked well anyway. Rosie telegraphed
her answer on her fingers, but Elizabeth shut her eyes tight and turned
away. Not if she were to be put into Archie's class would she stoop to
such methods to gain marks.
Spelling was not much better. There were ten awful words, all from a
lesson Elizabeth had long ago given up, "Egypt and its Ruins." There
were "pyramids" and "hieroglyphics," and many others quite as bad, and
when she was through with them they presented an orthographical ruin
which might put any of the fallen temples of Egypt to shame.
But all her trials were forgotten when at the end Miss Hillary
announced a composition on "A Summer Day." The joy of it drove away
even the remembrance of the eighteen men and their allowance of pork.
Elizabeth seized a sheet of paper, and doubling up over the desk wrote
furiously.
Rosie sighed at the sight of her flying pen. There was no pleasure for
Rosie in writing essays. She had already written carefully and slowly,
"A summer day is a beautiful time, summer is a nice season," then she
stopped and enviously watched Elizabeth spattering ink. That young
poetess was reveling in birds and flowers and rain-showers and walks
through the woods, with the blue sky peeping at one through the green
branches.
She paused only to consult her dictionary. She was working in the list
of words culled from the morning address. She would show Miss Hillary
that if she hadn't manners, at least she had forethought. She was
compelled very reluctantly to discard some of the list, as they failed
to appear in the dictionary under their new arrangement of letters.
She sighed especially over "contumacious"; it was so beautifully long.
But there were plenty of others. "The flowers do not grow in a
disciplined way," she wrote--the word still innocent of a "c."--"The
birds have high aspirations. Their deportment is very nice, but it is
not always genteel." Here Elizabeth had a real inspiration. A
quotation from Shelley's "Skylark" came into her mind. John and
Charles Stuart had memorized it one evening, and the glorious rhythm of
it had sung itself into her soul. There were some things one could not
help learning. Then, too, as it was from the Fourth Reader, Elizabeth
felt that Miss Hillary would see that she was familiar with that book
and feel assured she was ready for it. So she wrote such stanzas as
she remembered perfectly, commencing:
"_Sound of vernal showers
On the twinkling grass,
Rain-awakened flowers,
All that ever was
Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass._"
There were many misspelled words, but the quotation was aptly inserted,
and she added the note that the skylark was so joyous he often acted in
an insanitary manner.
She was still writing swiftly when Miss Hillary said, "Fold papers."
Elizabeth had barely time to finish her second poetic contribution. It
was from her own pen this time, one verse of a long poem she had
written in secret evenings, after Mary had gone to sleep:
"_Oh beautiful summer thou art so fare,
With thy flours and thy trees that grow everywhere,
The birds on the bows are singing so gay,
Oh how I love them on a bright summer's day!_
"P.S.--This pome is original--that is, made up by the author.
"Lizzie Gordon."
Rosie had finished long ago and had carefully inscribed at the
conclusion of her essay:
"Rosamond Ellen Carrick,
Forest Glen,
Ontario,
Canada,
North America,
Western Hemisphere."
All of which helped to lengthen out her too brief contribution. She
was now ready to assist her friend in her last hasty scramble.
Elizabeth had no blotting-paper--she never had. Rosie provided a piece
and the composition was ready at last. Elizabeth sighed over it.
There were so many clever things she might have put in had she only had
time. There was "viz.," for instance, instead of "that is," in the
last sentence. "Viz." sounded so learned.
When the afternoon recess came, Miss Hillary called Elizabeth to her.
She had an essay before her, and she was looking puzzled, and not
nearly so stern.
"Elizabeth," she said gently, "what were you writing on your slate this
morning when I was speaking?"
Elizabeth's head drooped. In a shamed whisper she confessed that Miss
Hillary's wonderful vocabulary had tempted her. She dared not look up
and did not see that her teacher's pretty mouth twitched.
"Well," she said in a very pleasant tone, "you did not behave so badly
after all. But remember, you must always sit still and listen when I
am talking."
Elizabeth's head came up. Her face was radiant, her gray eyes shone
starlike.
"Oh, Miss Hillary!" she gasped, overcome with gratitude at this giving
back of her self-respect. Miss Hillary picked up the next essay, and
the little girl turned way. But she could not leave without one word
of hope.
"Oh, Miss Hillary," she whispered again, "do you think you could let me
pass? If you'll only not put me in Mary's class, I'll, I'll--I believe
I could learn to spell!" she finally added, as the most extravagant
promise she could possibly make.
Miss Hillary smiled again. She looked kindly at the small, anxious
figure, the pleading face with its big eyes, the slim, brown hands
twisting nervously the long, heavy braid of brown hair with the golden
strand through it.
"Well, I shall do my best," she said. "You can certainly write, even
if you can't do arithmetic. Now run away and play."
And, wild with hope and joy, Elizabeth dashed down the aisle and out of
the door, so noisy and boisterous that for a moment her teacher felt
constrained to call her back and give her another lesson in deportment.
For Miss Hillary did not yet understand.