THE LAST DAY OF SCHOOL
Peace was panic stricken. Almost at the last minute Miss Peyton had
changed her mind about the poem which she was to speak, and had given
her instead of "The Children's Hour" which she had so carefully learned,
those other lines called "Children"; and there were only five days in
which to learn them. Memorizing poetry, particularly when she could not
quite understand its meaning, was not Peace's strong forte, and it was
small wonder that she was dismayed at this change of program; but it was
useless to protest. When Miss Peyton decided to do a certain thing, "all
the king's horses and all the king's men" could not alter her decision.
Peace had learned this from bitter experience and many hours in the dark
closet behind the teacher's desk. So, inwardly raging, though outwardly
calm, she accepted her fate, and marched home to air her outraged sense
of justice before the little parsonage family, sure of sympathy and help
in that quarter. Nor was she disappointed.
Elizabeth recognized the small maid's failings as a student, and was
much provoked at Miss Peyton's want of understanding, but very wisely
kept these sentiments to herself, and set about to help Peace in her
difficult task. At her suggestion, the young elocutionist waited until
the following morning before beginning her study of the new lines, and
with the teacher's copied words in her hand, went out to the hammock
under the trees to be alone with her work. There she sat swinging
violently to and fro, gabbling the stanzas line by line, while she
ferociously jerked the short curls on her forehead and frowned so
fiercely that Elizabeth, busy with her Saturday baking, could not resist
smiling whenever she chanced to pass the door, through which she could
see the familiar figure.
Slower and slower the red lips moved, lower and lower the hammock swung,
and finally with a gesture of utter despair, Peace cast the paper from
her, and dropped her head dejectedly into her hands.
"Poor youngster," murmured the flushed cook from the window where she
sat picking over berries. "John, have you a minute to spare? Peace is in
trouble--Oh, nothing but that new poem, but I thought perhaps you might
invent some easy way for her to memorize it. You were always good at
such things, and I can't stop until my cake is out of the oven and the
pies are made."
He assented promptly, and strolling out of the door as if for a breath
of fresh air, wandered across the grass to the motionless figure in the
hammock. "What seems to be the matter, chick?" he inquired cheerfully,
rescuing the discarded paper from the dirt and handing it back to its
owner.
"Oh, Saint John, this is a perfectly _dreadful_ poem! I don't b'lieve
Longfellow ever wrote it, and even if he did, I know I can _never_ learn
it. The verses haven't _any_ sense at _all_. Just listen to this!" She
seized the sheet with an angry little flirt, and read to the amazed man:
"'Ye open the eastern windows,
That look toward the sun,
Where shots are stinging swallows
And the brooks in mourning run.
"'What the leaves are to the forest,
Where light and air are stewed,
Ere their feet and slender juices
Have been buttoned into food,--
"'That to the world are children;
Through them it feels the glow
Of a brighter and stunnier slimate
Than scratches the trunks below.
"'Ye are better than all the ballots
That ever were snug and dead;
For ye are living poets,
And all the blest ate bread.'"
With difficulty the preacher controlled his desire to shout, and mutely
held out his hand for the paper, which he studied long and carefully,
for even to his experienced eyes, the hastily scribbled words were hard
to decipher. But when he had finished, all he said was, "You have
misread the lines, Peace. Wait and I will get you the book from the
library. Then you will see your mistake."
Shaking with suppressed mirth he went back to his study, found the
volume in question, and returned to the discouraged student with it open
in his hands. Half-heartedly Peace reached up for it, but he shook his
head, knowing how easy it was for her to misread even printed words and
what ludicrous blunders it often led to, and gravely suggested, "Suppose
I read it to you first. Then if there is anything you do not understand,
perhaps I can explain it so it will be easier to memorize."
"Oh, if you just would!" Peace exclaimed gratefully. "I never could read
Miss Peyton's writing, and then she marks me down for her own mistakes."
So in sonorous tones, the preacher read the poet's beautiful tribute to
childhood:
"'Come to me, O ye children!
For I hear you at your play,
And the questions that perplexed me
Have vanished quite away.
"'Ye open the eastern windows,
That look towards the sun,
Where thoughts are singing swallows
And the brooks of morning run.
"'In your hearts are the birds and the sunshine,
In your thoughts the brooklet's flow,
But in mine is the wind of Autumn
And the first fall of the snow.
"'Ah! what would the world be to us
If the children were no more?
We should dread the desert behind us
Worse than the dark before.
"'What the leaves are to the forest,
With light and air for food,
Ere their sweet and tender juices
Have been hardened into wood,--
"'That to the world are children;
Through them it feels the glow
Of a brighter and sunnier climate
Than reaches the trunks below.
"'Come to me, O ye children!
And whisper in my ear
What the birds and the winds are singing
In your sunny atmosphere.
"'For what are all our contrivings,
And the wisdom of our books,
When compared with your caresses,
And the gladness of your looks?
"'Ye are better than all the ballads
That ever were sung or said;
For ye are living poems,
And all the rest are dead.'"
"Well," breathed Peace in evident relief, as he lingeringly repeated the
last stanza, "that sounds a little more like it. Maybe with that book I
can learn her old poem now."
"Those are beautiful verses, Peace," he rebuked her.
"Yes, I 'xpect they are. I haven't got any grudge against the verses,
but it takes a beautifully long time for me to learn anything like that,
too." She seized the fat volume with both hands, tipped back among the
hammock cushions, and with her feet swinging idly back and forth, began
an animated study of the right version of the words, while the minister
strolled back to the house to enjoy the joke with Elizabeth.
But though Peace studied industriously and faithfully during the
remaining days, she could not seem to master the lines in spite of all
the minister's coaching, and in spite of Miss Peyton's struggle with her
after school each day.
"There is no sense in making such hard work of a simple little poem like
that," declared the teacher, closing her lips in a straight line and
looking very much exasperated after an hour's battle with the child
Tuesday afternoon. "You have just made up your mind that you will learn
it, and that is where the whole trouble lies."
"That's where you are mistaken," sobbed Peace forlornly, though her eyes
flashed with indignation as she wiped away her tears. "It's you which
has got her mind made up, and you and me ain't the same people. I just
can't seem to make those words stick, and I might as well give up trying
right now."
"You will have that poem perfectly learned tomorrow afternoon, or I
shall know the reason why."
"Then I 'xpect you'll have to know the reason why," gulped the unhappy
little scholar, who found the hill of knowledge very steep to climb.
"You can't make a frog fly if you tried all your life. It takes me a
_month_ to learn as big a poem as that, and you never gave it to me
until Friday afternoon."
"Nine four-line stanzas!" snapped the weary instructor, privately
thinking Peace the greatest, trial she had ever had to endure.
"It might as well be ninety," sighed the child. "If Elizabeth was my
teacher, or the Lilac Lady, I could get it in no time, but I never could
learn anything for some people. Just the sight of them knocks everything
I know clean out of my head."
Longfellow slammed shut with a terrific bang, and Miss Peyton rose from
her chair, choking with indignation. "You may go now, Peace
Greenfield," she said icily, "but that poem must be perfect by tomorrow
afternoon, remember."
So with a heavy heart Peace trudged home and took up her struggle once
more in the hammock; but was at last rewarded by being able to say every
line perfectly and without much hesitation. Elizabeth and her spouse
both heard her repeat it many times that evening and again the next
morning, and sent her on her way rejoicing to think the task was
conquered.
But when it came to the afternoon's rehearsal, poor Peace could only
stare at the ceiling, and open and shut her lips in agony, waiting for
the words which would not come, while Miss Peyton impatiently tapped the
floor with her slippered toe and frowned angrily at the miserable
figure. Finally Peace blurted out, "P'raps if you'd go out of the room,
I could say it all right."
"You will say it all right with me in the room!" retorted the woman
grimly.
"Then s'posing you look out of the window and quit staring so hard at
me. All I can think of is that scowl, and it doesn't help a bit."
The dazed teacher shifted her gaze, and Peace slowly began, "'Come to
me, O ye children!'" speaking very distinctly and with more expression
than Miss Peyton had thought possible.
"There!" exclaimed the woman, much mollified, when the child had
finished. "I knew you could say it if you wanted to. Now try it again."
So with the teacher staring out of the window, and Peace gazing at the
ceiling, the poem was recited without a flaw six times in succession,
and she was finally excused to put in some more practice at home.
Elizabeth thought the day was won, but poor Peace took little comfort in
the knowledge that she had acquitted herself creditably at the last
rehearsal. "It would be different if that was tomorrow afternoon," she
sighed. "But I just know she'll look at me when I get up to speak, and
with her eyes boring holes through me, I'll be sure to forget some part
of it. None of my other teachers were like her a bit. Miss Truesdale and
Miss Olney and Miss Allen all liked children; but I don't b'lieve Miss
Peyton does. There's lots of the scholars that she ain't going to let
pass, and the only reason they didn't have better lessons is 'cause she
scares it out of 'em. Oh, dear, school is such a funny thing!"
"Would you like to have me come to visit you tomorrow?" suggested
Elizabeth, who dreaded the ordeal almost as much as did Peace.
"No, you needn't mind. S'posing I should make a _frizzle_ of everything,
you'd feel just terribly, I know, and I should, too. I guess it will be
bad enough with all the other mothers there. But I wish there wasn't
_going_ to be any exercises. I'm sick of 'em already. And what do you
think now! She told us only this afternoon that we must all have an
_antidote_ for some of the Presidents to tell tomorrow for General
Lesson."
"A what!"
"An _antidote_. A short story about some of the Presidents of the United
States."
"You mean anecdote, child. I didn't suppose you were old enough to be
studying history in your room."
"Oh, this ain't hist'ry! We have a calendar each month telling what big
men or women were born and why. Then teacher tells us something about
their lives. Lots of 'em are very int'resting, but I can't remember
which were Presidents and which were only _manner-fracturers_. That's my
trouble."
"Well, it just happens that I can help you out there, my girlie," smiled
Elizabeth, smoothing the damp curls back from the flushed cheeks. "John
has a book in his library of just such things as that. We'll get it and
hunt up some nice, new stories that aren't hoary with age."
The volume was quickly found, and several quaint anecdotes were selected
for the next day's program, so if by chance other pupils had come
prepared with some of them, there would be still others for Peace to
choose from. And when school-time came the next day, she departed almost
happily, with the Presidential book tucked under one arm and the
well-fingered Longfellow under the other; for she meant to make sure
that the words were fresh in her mind before her turn came to recite.
The session began very auspiciously with some happy songs, and Peace's
spirits rose. Then came the drawing lesson. Peace was no more of an
artist than she was an elocutionist, but she tried hard, and was working
away industriously trying to paint the group of grape leaves Miss Peyton
had arranged on her desk, when one of the little visitors slipped from
his seat in his mother's lap and wandered across the room to his
sister's desk, which chanced to be directly in front of Peace; so he
could easily see what she was doing. He watched her in silence a moment,
and then demanded in a stage whisper, "What you d'awing?"
"Grape leaves," Peace stopped chewing her tongue long enough to answer.
"No, they ain't neither. They's piggies."
The brown head was quickly raised from her task, and the would-be artist
studied her work critically. The boy was right. They did look somewhat
like a litter of curly-tailed pigs. All they needed were eyes and
pointed ears. Mechanically Peace added these little touches, made the
snouts a little sharper, drew in two or three legs to make them
complete, and sat back in her seat to admire the result of her work.
"Ah," simpered Miss Peyton, who had chanced to look up just that
minute, "Peace has finished her sketch. Bring it to the desk, please, so
we may all criticize it."
Peace had just dipped her brush into the hollow of her cake of red
paint, intending to make the piggies' noses pink, but at this startling
command from the teacher, she seemed suddenly turned to an icicle. What
could she do? She glanced around her in an agony of despair, saw no
loophole of escape, and gathering up the unlucky sketch, she stumbled up
the aisle to the desk, still holding her scarlet-tipped paint brush in
her hand.
Usually Miss Peyton examined the drawings herself before calling upon
the scholars to criticise; but this was the last day of school, and the
program was long; so she smiled her prettiest, and said sweetly, "Hold
it up for inspection, Peace."
Miserably Peace faced the roomful of scholars and parents, and extended
the drawing with a trembling hand. There was an ominous hush, and then
the whole audience broke into a yell of laughter. Miss Peyton's face
flushed scarlet, and holding out her hand she said sharply, "Give it to
me."
Peace wheeled about and dropped the sheet of pigs upon the desk, but at
that unfortunate moment, the paint-brush slipped from her grasp and
spilled a great, scarlet blot on the teacher's fresh white waist.
Dismayed, Peace could only stare at the ruin she had wrought, having
forgotten all about her drawing in wondering what punishment would
follow this second calamity; and Miss Peyton had to speak twice before
she came to her senses enough to know that she was being ordered to her
seat.
"Oh," she gasped in mingled surprise and relief, "lemon juice and salt
will take that stain out, if it won't fade away with just washing."
Again an audible titter ran around the room, and the teacher, furiously
red, repeated for the third time, "Take your seat, Peace Greenfield!"
Much mortified and confused, the child subsided in her place and tried
to hide her burning cheeks behind the covers of her volume of anecdotes,
but fate seemed against her, for Miss Peyton promptly ordered the paint
boxes put away, the desks cleared, and the scholars to be prepared to
tell the stories they had found. Now it happened that generous-hearted
Peace had lent her book of Presidential reminiscences to several of her
less lucky mates that noon, and as she was one of the last to be called
upon, she listened with dismay as one after another of the tales she had
taken so much pains to learn were repeated by other scholars.
In order that all might hear what was said, each pupil marched to the
front of the room, told his little story and returned noiselessly to
his seat; so when it came Peace's turn, she stalked bravely up the
aisle, faced the throng of scared, perspiring children and beaming
mothers, made a profound bow, and said, "George Washington was
pock-marked."
She was well on her way to her seat again, when Miss Peyton's crisp
tones halted her: "Peace, you surely have something more than that. Have
you forgotten?"
"No, ma'am. I lent my stories to the rest of the scholars this noon and
they have already spoke all I knew, 'xcept those that are _hairy_ with
age. Everyone knows that George Washington was bled to death by
over-_jealous_ doctors."
The harder Peace tried to do her best, the more blundering she became;
and now, feeling that the visitors were having great fun at her expense,
she sank into her seat and buried her face in her arms, swallowing hard
to keep back the tears that stung her eyes.
Directly, she heard Patty Fellows reciting, "The Psalm of Life," and
Sara Gray answer to her name with, "The Castle-Builder." Next, the
children sang another song, and then--horror of horrors!--Miss Peyton
called her name. It was too bad! Any other teacher would have excused
her, but she knew Miss Peyton never would. So with a final gulp, she
struggled to her feet and advanced once more to the platform.
Her heart beat like a trip-hammer, her breath came in gasps, and her
mind seemed an utter blank. "'Come to me,'" prompted the teacher,
perceiving for the first time the child's panic and distress; but Peace
did not understand that this was her cue, and with a despairing glance
at the immovable face behind the desk, she cried hastily, "Oh, not this
time! I've thunk of it now. Here goes!
"'Between the dark and the daylight
When the night is beginning to lower,
Comes a pause in the day's occupation,
That is known as the Children's Hour.'"
Verse after verse she repeated glibly, racing so rapidly that the words
fairly tumbled out of her mouth. Suddenly the dreadful thought came to
her. She had begun the wrong poem! Her voice faltered; she turned
pleading, glassy eyes toward the teacher; and Miss Peyton,
misunderstanding the cause of her hesitation, again prompted, "'They
climb--'"
Peace was hopelessly lost.
"'They climb up onto the target,'"
She recited in feverish tones:
"'O'er my arms and the back of my hair;
If I try to e-scrape, they surround me;
They scream to me everywhere,'"
Someone tittered; the ripple of mirth broke into a peal of laughter; and
with a despairing sob, Peace cried, "Oh, teacher, I've got the
stage-_strike_! I can't say another word!" And out of the room she
rushed like a wounded bird.
Usually Elizabeth was her comforter, but this day some blind instinct
led her to take refuge in the Enchanted Garden, and she sobbed out her
sorrow and humiliation in the skirts of her beloved Lilac Lady.
Peace in tears was a new sight for the invalid, and she was alarmed at
the wild tempest of grief. But the small philosopher could not be
unhappy long, and after a few moments the tears ceased, the storm was
spent, a flushed, swollen face peeped up at the anxious eyes above her,
and with a familiar, queer little grimace, she giggled, "I made 'em all
laugh, anyway, and they did look awful solemn and _funerally_ lined up
there against the wall. But I s'pose teacher won't let me pass now, and
I'll have to take this term all over again."
"Tell me about it," said the lame girl gently, stroking the damp curls
on the round, brown head in her lap.
So Peace faithfully recounted the day's events to the amusement and
indignation of her lone audience; but when she had finished, she sighed
dolefully. "The worst of it is, I've got to go back to school tomorrow
for my books and dismissal card. Oh, mercy, yes! And Miss Peyton has
got my Longfellow. I don't b'lieve I can ever ask her for it, even if
it is Saint John's."
"Oh, yes, you can," assured the Lilac Lady. "By the time tomorrow comes,
the teacher will have forgotten all about the mistakes of today."
"It's very plain that you don't know Miss Peyton," was the disconcerting
reply. "There's nothing she ever forgets. My one comfort is I won't have
to go to school to her next year even if she doesn't let me pass now,
'cause by that time the girls will all be well and I can go home again.
There's always a grain of comfort in every bit of trouble, grandma
says."
"Sca-atter sunshine, all along the wa-ay," sang the lame girl, surprised
out of her long silence in her anxiety to cajole her little playmate
into her happy self again; but Peace did not even hear the rich
sweetness of the voice, so surprised was she to have her motto turned
upon her in that manner, and for a few moments she sat so lost in
thought that the lame girl feared she had offended her, and was about to
beg her forgiveness when the round face lifted itself again, and Peace
exclaimed, "That's what I'll do! Tomorrow, when I have to go back for my
card, I'll offer to kiss her good-bye, and I'll tell her I'm sorry I've
been such a bother to her all these weeks. I never thought about it
before, but I s'pose she's just been in _ag-o-ny_ over having me upset
all her plans like I've managed to do, though I never meant to. The
worse I try to follow what she tells us to do, the bigger chase I lead
her. My, what a time she must have had! Do you think she she'd like to
hear I'm sorry?"
"What a darling you are!" thought the lame girl. "I don't wonder
everyone loves you so much." But aloud she merely answered heartily, "I
think it is a beautiful plan, dear. When she understands that you have
tried your best to please her, I am sure she will be kind to my little
curly-head."
So it happened that when Peace received her dismissal card from Miss
Peyton the next morning, she lifted her rosy mouth for a kiss, and
murmured contritely, "I'm very sorry you have caused me so much bother
since I came here to school, but next term I won't be here, for which
you bet I'm thankful." She had rehearsed that little speech over and
over on her way to school; but, as usual, when she came to say it to
this argus-eyed teacher, she juggled her pronouns so thoroughly that no
one could have been sure just what she did mean.
However, Miss Peyton had done some hard thinking since the previous
afternoon, and a little glimmer of understanding was beginning to
penetrate her methodical, order-loving soul, so she stooped and kissed
the forgiving lips raised to hers, as she said heartily, "That is all
right, my child. I wish I could erase all the troubles that have marred
these days for you. I am sorry I did not know as much three months ago
as I do now."
"I am, too, but folks are never too old to learn, grandpa says," Peace
answered happily, and departed with beaming countenance, for Miss Peyton
had "passed her" after all.