He could remember that he had wept to be allowed go to school. Even
more vivid was his recollection of the persuasive and persistent tears
which he had shed to be allowed to stay at home.
Most of the joys of school were exhausted after he had submitted to one
hour of dreary discipline.--To be compelled to sit still when every
inch of one's being clamoured to move about; to have to stand up and
stare at a blackboard upon which meaningless white scrawls were
perpetually being drawn, and as perpetually being wiped out to a
master's meaningless, monotonous verbal accompaniment; to have to join
in a chant which began with "a, b, c," and droned steadily through a
complexity of sounds to a ridiculously inadequate "z"--such things
became desperately boring. One was not even let go to sleep, and if
one wept from sheer ennui, then one was clouted. School, he shortly
decided, was not worth anybody's while, but he also discovered that a
torment had commenced which was not by any artifice to be evaded.
Along the road to school there ran a succession of meadows--the path
was really a footway through fields--and how not to stray into these
meadows was a problem demanding the entire of one's attention.
Sometimes a rabbit bolted almost from under one's feet--it flapped away
through the grass, and bobbed up and down in a great hurry. Then his
heart filled with envy. He said to himself--
"That rabbit is not going to school: if it was it wouldn't run so
quickly."
It was paltry comfort to hurl a wad of grass after it.
Through most of the journey there was an immense, lazy bee with a bass
voice, and he droned defiance three feet away from one's cap which
almost jolted to be put over him. He seemed to understand that at such
an hour he was not in any danger, and so he would drop to the grass,
roll on his back, and cock up his legs in ecstasy.
"Bees," said he to himself in amazement and despair, "do not go to
school."
Each bush and tree seemed, for the moment, to be inhabited by a bird
whose song was unfamiliar and the markings on whom he could not
remember to have seen before; and he had no time to stay and note them.
He dragged beyond these objects reluctantly, pondering on the
unreasonable savagery of parents who sent one to school when the sun
was shining.
But the greatest obstacle to getting to school was the river which
danced briskly through the fields. The footpath went for a stretch
along this stream, and, during that piece of the journey, haste was not
possible. There are so many things in a river to look at. The
movement of the water in itself exercises fascinations over a boy.
There are always bubbles, based strongly in froth, sailing gallantly
along.--One speculates how long a bubble will swim before it hits a
rock, or is washed into nothing by an eddy, or is becalmed in a
sheltered corner to ride at jaunty anchor with a navy of similar
delicate tonnage.
Further, if one finds a twig on the path, or a leaf, there is nothing
more natural than to throw these into the river and see how fast or how
erratically they sail. Pebbles also clamour to be cast into the
stream. Perhaps a dragon-fly whirls above the surface of the water to
hold one late from school. The grasses and rushes by the marge may
stir as a grey rat slips out to take to the water and swim low down and
very fast on some strange and important journey. The inspection of
such an event cannot be hurried. One must, if it is possible, discover
where he swims to, and if his hole is found it has to be blocked up
with stones, even though the persistent bell is clanging down over the
fields.
Perhaps a big frog will push out from the grass and go in fat leaps
down to the water--plop! and away he swims with his sarcastic nose up
and his legs going like fury. The strange, very-little-boy motions of
a frog in water is a thing to ponder over. There are small frogs also,
every bit as interesting, thin-legged, round-bellied anatomies who try
to jump two ways at once when they are observed, and are caught so
easily that it is scarcely worth one's trouble to chase them at all.
Just where the path turned there was an arch under which the river
flowed.--It was covered in with an iron grating. Surely it was a place
of mystery. Through the bars the dark, swirling waters were dimly
visible--there were things in there. Black lumps rose out of the
water, and, for a little distance, the slimy, shimmering, cold-looking
walls could be seen. Beyond there was a deeper gloom, and, beyond that
again, a blank, mysterious darkness. Through the grating the voice of
the stream came back with a strange note. On the outside, under the
sun, it was a tinkle and a rush, a dance indeed, but within it was a
low snarl that deepened to a grim whisper. There was an edge of malice
to the sound: something dark and very terrible brooded on the face of
those hidden waters. It was the home of surmise.--What might there not
be there? There might be gully-holes where the waters whirled in wide
circles, and then flew smoothly down, and down, and down. If one could
have got in there to see! To crawl along by the slippery edge in the
darkness and solitude! It was very hard to get away from this place.
A little farther on two goats were tethered. As one passed they would
cease to pluck the grass and begin to dance slowly, such dainty, antic
steps, with their heads held down and their pale eyes looking upwards
with a joke in them. They did not really want to fight; they wanted to
play but were too shy to admit it.
And here the schoolhouse was in sight. The bell had stopped: it was
now time to run.
He gripped the mouth of his satchel with one hand to prevent the lesson
books from jumping out as he ran, he gripped his pocket with the other
hand to prevent his lunch from being jolted into the road.
Another few yards and he was at the gate--some one was glaring out
through a window. It was a big face rimmed with spectacles and
whiskers--a master. He knew that when yonder severe eye had lifted
from him it had dropped to look at a watch, and he also knew exactly
what the owner of the severe eye would say to him as he sidled in.