THEY CHURN
A flare of lightning in the northern sky may have frightened Perintha
as she stepped over the sill; or she may have suspected an ambush at
each side of the school-house. At any rate, a strong desire to be once
more under her father’s roof, gave swiftness to the little bare feet,
and her pantalettes danced at a lively pace through the dog-fennel.
Her black eyes gave one quick look behind, and after that look her
reticule, like a swelling sail, stood straight backwards in the wind.
But Tildy had her before she was more than screened by the fence of
Martin’s wheat-field.
“Take hold of her other arm!” commanded Tildy. And Bluebell, panting,
took hold.
“Now churn!”
And they churned. Up and down they churned until it seemed all the
buttermilk of Perintha’s nature must go to the bottom and the pure
butter of repentance stand up to be gathered by their correcting hands.
So interested in their undertaking were the reformers that Perintha’s
cries and struggles seemed to make no impression on their senses.
Their sun-bonnets hung by the strings around their throats, and their
loosened hair switched up and down, keeping time to the churning. It
was so absorbing a gymnastic performance that Bluebell felt Perintha
must almost enjoy it, if she did strain to get away.
The churners were brought to a pause by hands laid on their shoulders,
and lo! there stood Mr. Pitzer with a following of half the school.
Perintha’s face came out of the crown of her sun-bonnet, all smeared
with tears and curly hair, and the black-eyed, piteous look she threw
up to the schoolmaster, cut Bluebell to the heart.
Doctor Garde’s little girl was terrified to find herself in the
position of a culprit; but this was endurable compared to the sudden
rush of remorse caused by Perintha’s helpless look. She had been
churning a malicious little imp, and behold here was the grieved face
of her daily playmate! All the pretty things Perintha had ever done,
flashed before her. Perintha sent some tissue-paper birds to Rocco
when Rocco was sick; yes, and she made the baby a set of pasteboard
chairs in a box house. And what fragrant apples had come to Bluebell’s
teeth from Perintha’s reticule! She would always let you have the first
swing, too; and what did that old thumb-paper amount to?
“She didn’t act so till I got mad to her first,” thought Bluebell,
making one of the principal figures in a procession to the
school-house, the master’s finger and thumb carrying the lobe of
her ear. Tildy walked on the other side of him, her ear similarly
supported. Perintha, bidden to follow, sobbed as mourner behind them,
and a sympathetic though silent crowd supported her.
This, however, was dispersed at the door. The master waved all
hangers-on away; and the nearer-rolling thunder gave them additional
warning. Even Teeny, after wavering with a concerned face around the
windows, was obliged to take to the foot-log and leave these culprits
to their fate.
[Illustration: THE PRINCIPAL FIGURES IN A PROCESSION TO THE
SCHOOL-HOUSE.--_Page 110._]
“Now, sir!” said Mr. Pitzer, taking his judgment-seat. And the thunder
rolled directly overhead. When Mr. Pitzer said “Now, sir,” to a girl,
he had forgotten she was anything but a culprit. He took out the Rules
of the School, and putting on his spectacles, and peering through the
darkening air, read Article Ninth:
“ARTICLE NINTH: _Pupils are under the jurisdiction of their parents
from the time they leave home until they appear upon the play-ground.
But from the time they enter the school-house until they enter their
parents’ door at night they are under the jurisdiction of the master,
and accountable to him for all misdemeanors._”
His spectacles flared at the three.
“They ketched me and shook me up and down, and I wasn’t doin’ anything
to them!” burst out Perintha with a sob, leaving Article Ninth entirely
aside from the question.
“She stole Bluebell Garde’s thumb-paper,” said Tildy, somber but
collected. Her reticule dangled from her elbow, and her bare toes
squirmed along a crack in the floor. Her face expressed determination
coupled with a gloomy distrust in Mr. Pitzer’s ability to deal out
justice. A brisk rush of air came through the open window, which made
the dear old man sneeze and take off his spectacles. Bluebell was
weeping in the bottom of her apron, which she lifted to her face.
“I thought I was sh-showin’ my Irish pluck,” she broke out, wringing
her small pink nose; “but I guess I wasn’t! and it makes me feel so bad
to think I hurt her!”
The master laid his hand on her head. The other hand he laid on
Perintha’s. Tildy stepped back as if she feared he might have a third
hand for her.
“P’rinthy can have my thumb-paper,” continued Bluebell; “and I don’t
care for the other things, ’cause she was good to my little sister when
my little sister was sick--and I got mad first.”
There was now a hearty duet of sobs performed by Bluebell and Perintha.
The latter thrust her arm up to the elbow in her pocket and drew out
the most crumpled and defaced of thumb-papers, which she held out to
Bluebell.
Tildy put her nose up. She’d like to see herself “knucklin’ under, that
way, to P’rinth’ Pancost or anybody else!”
But the master’s face glowed in the gathering dimness:
“Let dogs delight to bark and bite,
For ’tis their nature to;
Let bears and lions growl and fight,
For God hath made them so:
But children, you should never let
Your angry passions rise--”
One jagged knife of lightning, reflected on the school-house door, cut
short his exhortation.
“It’s going to storm,” he said, looking up as if the fact had just
presented itself to him. “You better all run home now, and try to be
good friends hereafter.” He put up the Articles, took down his hat, and
busied himself shutting the windows. He paused to say, “Good-evening,”
three separate times as the three went out curtsying to him for the
second time that evening.
Tildy stalked straight toward the foot-log. Perintha paused after
turning her bonnet’s mouth homeward, and twisted back, looking at the
ground.
“Good-by, Bluebell. I’m going to bring you some pippins to take to your
Aunt Melissy to-morrow.”
This was equivalent to a full apology, and Bluebell hastened to
acknowledge it.
“Goody! will you?”
“Yes,” said Perintha, lifting her still wet lashes.
The two little girls looked into each other’s eyes and smiled. It was a
treaty of peace. Then a cloud of dust travelling up the road enveloped
them; Perintha scudded away with it, and Bluebell, her mouth and eyes
filled, ran towards the Rocky Fork after Tildy’s retreating figure.