WHICH TREATS OF THUMB-PAPERS
Bluebell Garde was deep in a discussion with Tildy Banks, and heard not
her name till it was repeated.
The conference had begun while the master was out of doors bidding
adieu to Miss Calder. The afternoon was so hot that little paper-fans,
made of old book leaves and fastened in the middle with pins, were
fluttering all over the house; the long windows and the door were wide
open; still a stifling heat made everybody feel aggressive. And at this
unfortunate time Tildy made a discovery which she imparted to Bluebell
in a harrowing whisper:
“P’rinthy Pancost’s got your thumb-paper!”
Bluebell looked across at Perintha. Then she grasped her own
spelling-book and reader, and turned the leaves with a rapid swish, her
eyes sparkling more at every turn. No thumb-paper reposed in any of
its accustomed places. It was made of a leaf of Joe Hall’s copybook,
and ornamented with birds which seemed to wear pantalettes. Bluebell
was very neat with her books, which she loved as friends; and not one
word was erased by a sweaty little thumb-mark. And P’rinthy Pancost had
_stolen_ her thumb-paper! The school was swarming with thumb-papers.
Every youngster in his hours of idleness employed himself folding bits
of paper into the required shape, and it was an art, I assure you,
which required skill. She could make, or accept from willing hands, a
dozen others in as many minutes. But that was not the point. She had
suffered spoliation, and, menacing Perintha Pancost, she cried out in a
loud whisper:
“You give me back my thumb-paper!”
“’Tain’t yours,” replied Perintha, coolly unfolding it. This was
a crowning insult. To unfold a thumb-paper was to destroy its
individuality and make it a mere square scrap.
“_’Tis_ mine!”
“’Tain’t!”
“The master’ll whip you!”
“Yah-yah!” taunted Perintha, whom the weather was reducing to
impishness.
Bluebell’s tears started, but she staunched them bravely with a corner
of her apron.
“Cry-baby cripsey!” whispered Perintha, leaning towards her.
“I’ll tell my Aunt Melissy on you!” threatened Bluebell, feeling that
this authority must crush her.
But Perintha sniffed.
“Your Aunt Melissy’s nobody’s daddy,” she said quite aloud, copying
from the boys this strong phrase which was calculated effectually to
put down upstarts.
To be told that you were “nobody’s daddy” was to be robbed of all
dignity and consideration in this world; it was a snub which the
meekest and most peaceable must feel. But to have your great-aunt
Melissa called “nobody’s daddy” was not only a family outrage, but an
attack on the infallible dignity of all grown people.
Bluebell shook her auburn head and whispered to Tildy, “I’ll tell the
master what she said!”
But Tildy, constituting herself second in the affair, advised with
head-shakings and dark looks that they deal with her themselves.
“The master would just make her give you the thumb-paper, and he
wouldn’t do anything to her,” said Tildy, remembering how she had
appealed to him against her enemies in vain, and had afterwards taken
ample satisfaction with her nails.
The master came in, and arrangements were made for the spelling-school,
during which Bluebell returned to the grievance on her mind. “Mary’s
lamb” was no wall of separation now. The dark head and the auburn head
rubbed against each other. Perintha looked defiant, and was evidently
making partisans of Minerva Ridenour and the other girls on her seat.
“Bluebell Garde!”
Bluebell started as Joe called her name the second time, and went to
take her place with some pleasure in being chosen first among the good
spellers. Perintha was chosen nearly last on the opposite side. I am
afraid there was exultation over this under the auburn mass of hair.
Joe Hall gave her a handful of wheat from his father’s mill to chew.
Tildy was below the big boys and girls on Joe’s side, so there was
no chance to confer with her, if the spelling code had not forbidden
whispering. Bluebell, therefore, munched her wheat and gave herself up
to the excitement of the occasion.
They spelled across: that is, the schoolmaster, standing between,
pronounced a word first to one side then to the other. Alas that little
words should have slain so many! If he had begun in words of three
syllables, many of them could have rolled the letters glibly. But among
the ie’s and the ei’s Teeny Banks and half a dozen other big girl’s
stranded. The lines thinned rapidly; those who missed, retiring to
central benches and watching the fortunes of their sides with great
anxiety.
Fortune favored Perintha Pancost. Easy words came to her, and she stood
among the last three on her side. Still, with Joe Hall and Bluebell
Garde opposing, though they stood alone, what could her side expect?
The contest waxed very hot; and constantly was Perintha Pancost
favored with words she could spell. Her leader went down; her only
other supporter went down.
Then Bluebell found herself overflowed with a word that had “ation” in
it, and Perintha spelling pertly at it stood an instant longer than she
did. Of course it floored her, but she could now boast that for once
she had out-spelled Bluebell Garde!
Joe Hall stood up three lines longer, spelling tremendous-sounding
words; and when he tripped, there was such a storm coming up that the
master said he would dismiss early that afternoon.
Already the thunder could be heard echoing among the hills. The roll
was hastily called. Tildy waited outside for Bluebell; under her slat
bonnet the hair was clinging to her temples, but the gloom of her eye
and firm pucker of her mouth indicated fullness of purpose.
“When she comes out,” said Tildy.
“Yes,” said Bluebell, piteously, from the depths of defeat and injury
and physical lassitude.
Perintha’s name came away down among the P’s, and she was ranged
accordingly on a bench which never got free as soon as the B’s and G’s
on the girls’ side.
“When she comes out,” repeated Tildy, “we won’t scratch her--”
“Oh, no!” exclaimed Bluebell. She could not bring her mind to that.
“Because the marks would show,” pursued Tildy; “and we won’t whip her
with sticks.”
“The master might whip us!” exclaimed Bluebell in terror. She prided
herself on never having been punished at school. And all teachers were
not like Mr. Pitzer in those days.
“Yes, he might,” assented Tildy, evidently having foreseen that
objection to the sticks; for when Mr. Pitzer had severe cause he could
be strict as the strictest.
“But I tell you what we _will_ do,” said Tildy, leaning forward and
laying the utmost emphasis on every word. She lifted her forefinger,
and her reticule slid down to her elbow:
“WE WILL CHURN HER!”