A remarkable figure was young Sidney Trove, the new teacher in
District No. 1. He was nearing nineteen years of age that winter.
"I like that," he said to the trustee, who had been telling him of
the unruly boys--great, hulking fellows that made trouble every
winter term. "Trouble--it's a grand thing I--but I'm not selfish,
and if I find any, I'll agree to divide it with the boys. I don't
know but I'll be generous and let them have the most of it. If
they put me out of the schoolhouse, I'll have learned something."
The trustee looked at the six feet and two inches of bone and
muscle that sat lounging in a chair--looked from end to end of it.
"What's that?" he inquired, smiling.
"That I've no business there," said young Mr. Trove.
"I guess you'll dew," said the trustee. "Make 'em toe the line;
that's all I got t' say."
"And all I've got to do is my best--I don't promise any more," the
other answered modestly, as he rose to leave.
Linley School was at the four corners in Pleasant Valley,--a low,
frame structure, small and weathered gray. Windows, with no shade,
or shutter, were set, two on a side, in perfect apposition. A
passing traveller could see through them to the rocky pasture
beyond. Who came there for knowledge, though a fool, was dubbed a
"scholar." It was a word sharply etched in the dialect of that
region. If one were to say _skollur-r-r_, he might come near it.
Every winter morning the scholar entered a little vestibule which
was part of the woodshed. He passed an ash barrel and the odour of
drying wood, hung cap and coat On a peg in the closet, lifted the
latch of a pine door, and came into the schoolroom. If before
nine, it would be noisy with shout and laughter, the buzz of
tongues, the tread of running feet. Big girls, in neat aprons,
would be gossiping at the stove hearth; small boys would be chasing
each other up and down aisles and leaping the whittled desks of
pine; little girls, in checked flannel, or homespun, would be
circling in a song play; big boys would be trying feats of strength
that ended in loud laughter. So it was, the first morning of that
winter term in 1850. A tall youth stood by the window. Suddenly
he gave a loud "sh--h--h!" Running feet fell silently and halted;
words begun with a shout ended in a whisper. A boy making
caricatures at the blackboard dropped his chalk, that now fell
noisily. A whisper, heavy with awe and expectation, flew hissing
from lip to lip--"The teacher!" There came a tramping in the
vestibule, the door-latch jumped with a loud rattle, and in came
Sidney Trove. All eyes were turned upon him. A look of rectitude,
dovelike and too good to be true, came over many faces.
"Good morning!" said the young man, removing his cap, coat, and
overshoes. Some nodded, dumb with timidity. Only a few little
ones had the bravery to speak up, as they gave back the words in a
tone that would have fitted a golden text. He came to the roaring
stove and stood a moment, warming his hands. A group of the big
boys were in a corner whispering. Two were sturdy and quite six
feet tall,--the Beach boys.
"Big as a bull moose," one whispered,
"An' stouter," said another.
The teacher took a pencil from his pocket and tapped the desk.
"Please take your seats," said he.
All obeyed. Then he went around with the roll and took their
names, of which there were thirty-four.
"I believe I know your name," said Trove, smiling, as he came to
Polly Vaughn.
"I believe you do," said she, glancing up at him, with half a smile
and a little move in her lips that seemed to ask, "How could you
forget me?"
Then the teacher, knowing the peril of her eyes, became very
dignified as he glanced over the books she had brought to school.
He knew it was going to be a hard day. For a little, he wondered
if he had not been foolish, after all, in trying a job so difficult
and so perilous. If he should be thrown out of school, he felt
sure it would ruin him--he could never look Polly in the face
again. As he turned to begin the work of teaching, it seemed to
him a case of do or die, and he felt the strength of an ox in his
heavy muscles.
The big boys had settled themselves in a back corner side by
side--a situation too favourable for mischief. He asked them to
take other seats. They complied sullenly and with hesitation. He
looked over books, organized the school in classes, and started one
of them on its way. It was the primer class, including a half
dozen very small boys and girls. They shouted each word in the
reading lesson, laboured in silence with another, and gave voice
again with unabated energy. In their pursuit of learning they
bayed like hounds. Their work began upon this ancient and
informing legend, written to indicate the shout and skip of the
youthful student:--
The--sun--is--up--and--it--is--day--day?--day.
"You're afraid," the teacher began after a little. "Come up here
close to me."
They came to his chair and stood about him. Some were confident,
others hung back suspicious and untamed.
"We're going to be friends," said he, in a low, gentle voice. He
took from his pocket a lot of cards and gave one to each.
"Here's a story," he continued. "See--I put it in plain print for
you with pen and ink. It's all about a bear and a boy, and is in
ten parts. Here's the first chapter. Take it home with you
to-night--"
He stopped suddenly. He had turned in his chair and could see none
of the boys. He did not move, but slowly took off a pair of
glasses he had been wearing.
"Joe Beach," said he, coolly, "come out here on the floor."
There was a moment of dead silence. That big youth--the terror of
Linley School--was now red and dumb with amazement. His deviltry
had begun, but how had the teacher seen it with his back turned?
"I'll think it over," said the boy, sullenly.
The teacher laid down his book, calmly, walked to the seat of the
young rebel, took him by the collar and the back of the neck, tore
him out of the place where his hands and feet were clinging like
the roots of a tree, dragged him roughly to the aisle and over the
floor space, taking part of the seat along, and stood him to the
wall with a bang that shook the windows. There was no halting--it
was all over in half a minute.
"You'll please remain there," said he, coolly, "until I tell you to
sit down."
He turned his back on the bully, walked slowly to his chair, and
opened his book again.
"Take it home with you to-night," said he, continuing his talk to
the primer class. "Spell it over, so you won't have to stop long
between words. All who read it well to-morrow will get another
chapter."
They began to study at home. Wonder grew, and pleasure came with
labour as the tale went on.
He dismissed the primer readers, calling the first class in
geography. As they took their places he repaired the broken seat,
a part of which had been torn off the nails. The fallen rebel
stood leaning, his back to the school. He had expected help, but
the reserve force had failed him.
"Joe Beach--you may take your seat," said the teacher, in a kind of
parenthetical tone.
"Geography starts at home," he continued, beginning the recitation.
"Who can tell me where is the Linley schoolhouse?"
A dozen hands went up.
"You tell," said he to one.
"It's here," was the answer.
"Where's here?"
A boy looked thoughtful.
"Nex' t' Joe Linley's cow-pastur'," he ventured presently,
"Will you tell us?" the teacher asked, looking at a bright-eyed
girl.
"In Faraway, New York," said she, glibly.
"Tom Linley, I'll take that," said the teacher, in a lazy tone. He
was looking down at his book. Where he sat, facing the class, he
could see none of the boys without turning. But he had not turned.
To the wonder of all, up he spoke as Tom Linley was handing a slip
of paper to Joe Beach. There was a little pause. The young man
hesitated, rose, and walked nervously down the aisle.
"Thank you," said the teacher, as he took the message and flung it
on the fire, unread. "Faraway, New York;" he continued on his way
to the blackboard as if nothing had happened.
He drew a circle, indicating the four points of the compass on it.
Then he mapped the town of Faraway and others, east, west, north,
and south of it. So he made a map of the county and bade them copy
it. Around the county in succeeding lessons he built a map of the
state. Others in the middle group were added, the structure
growing, day by day, until they had mapped the hemisphere.
At the Linley schoolhouse something had happened. Cunning no
sooner showed its head than it was bruised like a serpent, brawny
muscles had been easily outdone, boldness had grown timid, conceit
had begun to ebb. A serious look had settled upon all faces.
Every scholar had learned one thing, learned it well and
quickly--it was to be no playroom.
There was a recess of one hour at noon. All went for their dinner
pails and sat quietly, eating bread and butter followed by
doughnuts, apples, and pie.
The young men had walked to the road. Nothing had been said. They
drew near each other. Tom Linley looked up at Joe Beach. In his
face one might have seen a cloud of sympathy that had its silver
lining of amusement.
"Powerful?" Tom inquired, soberly.
"What?" said Joe.
"Powerful?" Tom repeated.
"Powerful! Jiminy crimps!" said Joe, significantly.
"Why didn't ye kick him?"
"Kick him?"
"Yes."
"Kick _him_?
"Kick _him_."
"Huh! dunno," said Joe, with a look of sadness turning into
contempt.
"Scairt?" the other inquired.
"Scairt? Na--a--w," said Joe, scornfully.
"What was ye, then?"
"Parr'lyzed--seems so."
There was an outbreak of laughter.
"You was goin' t' help," said Joe, addressing Tom Linley.
A moment of silence followed.
"_You_ was goin' t' help," the fallen bully repeated, with large
emphasis on the pronoun.
"Help?" Tom inquired, sparring for wind as it were.
"Yes, help."
"You was licked 'fore I had time."
"Didn't dast--that's what's the matter--didn't dast," said big Joe,
with a tone of irreparable injury.
"Wouldn't 'a' been nigh ye fer a millyun dollars," said Tom,
soberly.
"Why not?"
"'Twant safe; that's why."
"'Fraid o' him! ye coward!"
"No; 'fraid o' you."
"Why?"
"'Cos if one o' yer feet had hit a feller when ye come up ag'in
that wall," Tom answered slowly, "there wouldn't 'a' been nuthin'
left uv him."
All laughed loudly.
Then there was another silence. Joe broke it after a moment of
deep thought.
"Like t' know how he seen me," said he.
"'Tis cur'us," said another.
"Guess he's one o' them preformers like they have at the circus--"
was the opinion of Sam Beach. "See one take a pig out o' his hat
las' summer."
"'Tain't fair 'n' square," said Tom Linley; "not jest eggzac'ly."
"Gosh! B'lieve I'll run away," said Joe, after a pause. "Ain' no
fun here for me."
"Better not," said Archer Town; "not if ye know when yer well off."
"Why not?"
"Wal, he'd see ye wherever ye was an' do suthin' to ye," said
Archer. "Prob'ly he's heard all we been sayin' here."
"Wal, I ain't said nuthin' I'm 'shamed of," said Sam Beach,
thoughtfully.
A bell rang, and all hurried to the schoolhouse. The afternoon was
uneventful. Those rough-edged, brawny fellows had become serious.
Hope had died in their breasts, and now they looked as if they had
come to its funeral. They began to examine their books as one
looks at a bitter draught before drinking it. In every subject the
teacher took a new way not likely to be hard upon tender feet. For
each lesson he had a method of his own. He angled for the interest
of the class and caught it. With some a term of school had been as
a long sickness, lengthened by the medicine of books and the
surgery of the beech rod. They had resented it with ingenious
deviltry. The confusion of the teacher and some incidental fun
were its only compensations. The young man gave his best thought
to the correction of this mental attitude. Four o'clock came at
last--the work of the day was over. Weary with its tension all sat
waiting the teacher's word. For a little he stood facing them.
"Tom Linley and Joe Beach," said he, in a low voice, "will you wait
a moment after the others have gone? School's dismissed."
There was a rush of feet and a rattle of dinner pails. All were
eager to get home with the story of that day--save the two it had
brought to shame. They sat quietly as the others went away. A
deep silence fell in that little room. Of a sudden it had become a
lonely place.
The teacher damped the fire and put on his overshoes.
"Boys," said he, drawing a big silver watch, "hear that watch
ticking. It tells the flight of seconds. You are--eighteen, did
you say? They turn boys into oxen here in this country; just a
thing of bone and muscle, living to sweat and lift and groan.
Maybe I can save you, but there's not a minute to lose. With you
it all depends on this term of school. When it's done you'll
either be ox or driver. Play checkers?"
Tom nodded.
"I'll come over some evening, and we'll have a game. Good night!"