NOVEMBER SNOWSTORM.
When November had fairly begun, the grove was leafless; the boats
taken out of the little lake and stored carefully away, to await the
return of birds and leaves; the days grown short, dark, and cold; the
"constitutionals" matters of dire necessity, but not in the least of
pleasure; study assumed new interest, and the worried teachers,
relieved for a time of their anxieties over half-learned lessons,
began to enjoy their arduous work, finding it really pleasant to teach
such bright girls.
The girl who made the best recitation was the heroine of the hour,
rules were observed more faithfully, a tender spirit went with them
into the morning and evening devotions, Faculty meetings became
cheerful. This seemed to Miss Ashton one of the most prosperous and
successful fall terms she had ever known; she congratulated herself
constantly on its benign influences, and often said, "I have fewer
black sheep in my flock than I have ever gathered together before."
There was one reason for this prosperity which she fully realized.
Thanksgiving was not far distant, and on that happy New England
festival, the school had a holiday of three or four days.
It was a practice to send then to the parents or guardians of the
pupils an account of their progress in their studies. The system of
marking had not been abandoned in the school; and many a lazy scholar,
whom neither intreaties nor scolding seemed to touch, was alarmed at
the record which she was to carry home. Such a thing had been known as
girls refusing to leave the academy even for Thanksgiving, rather than
to face what they knew awaited them with their disappointed parents.
But from whatever cause the change had come, it was destined to have a
severe shock before the festival day came.
Montrose Academy had been purposely built within a few miles of the
old and famous school for boys in Atherton. The reasons for this were,
the ease with which the best lecturers could be obtained from there in
many departments (a competent man finding plenty of time to lecture in
both academies), and the general literary atmosphere which a social
acquaintance engendered.
Of course this social acquaintance was not without its drawbacks, and
it had been found necessary for both principals to require written
permits for the visits which the boys were inclined to make upon the
girls at Montrose.
So far, during this term, the boys had been fully occupied by their
athletic games; but as the ground became one series of frozen humps,
hands grew numb, and feet cold, the interest in them subsided; and yet
the love of misrule, so much stronger in a boys' than in a girls'
school, grew more active and troublesome.
Jerry Downer, a brother of Susan Downer, was a member of this famous
school; and it soon became known among a class of boys who studied the
Montrose catalogue more faithfully than they did their Livy, that he
had a sister there, that she was a lively girl, not too strict in
obeying rules, fond of fun, "up to everything," as they described her;
so it not infrequently happened that Jerry was invited by a set, with
whom at other times he had little to do, to ride over with them to
Montrose, he calling on his sister and cousins, while they apparently
were waiting for him.
In this way Jerry had been quite frequently there, no objection being
made by Miss Ashton, as a note from her to the principal of Atherton
Academy brought back a flattering account of Jerry as a scholar, and
as a boy to be fully trusted.
Jerry had improved in every respect since he went to Atherton. He was
now a tall, broad-shouldered, active, well-dressed young man, who rang
the doorbell of the majestic porch at the Montrose Academy with that
unconsciousness which is the perfection of good manners, and which
came to him from his simplicity, and went in among the crowd of girls,
neither seeing nor thinking of any but those he had come to visit.
Susan, in her own selfish way, was proud of him, so he was always sure
of a reception that sent him back to his studies ambitiously happy.
On the fifteenth of November there fell upon Massachusetts such a
snowstorm as the rugged old State never had known before. It piled
itself a foot deep on the level ground, heaped up on fence and wall,
covered the trees with ermine, until even the tenderest twig had its
soft garment; bent telegraph poles as ruthlessly as if communication
was the last thing to be cared for, blotted telephoning out of
existence, delayed trains all over the north, turned electric and
horse cars into nuisances, filled the streets and the railroad
stations with impatient grumblers, had only one single redeeming
thing, the beauty of its scenery, and a certain weird, uncanny feeling
it brought of being suddenly taken out of a familiar world and dropped
into one the like of which was never even imagined before.
There was one part of the community, however, that looked upon it with
great favor.
"Now for the jolliest of sleigh-rides!" said a clique of Atherton
boys. "Hurra for old Jerry Downer! We'll make him turn out this
time!"
The roads between the two places were soon well worn, and not two days
after the astonished world had waked to its surprise, Samuel Ray's
best sleigh was hired, four extra sets of bells promised for the four
horses, and a thoroughly organized "spree" was decided upon.
It was no use to ask Jerry to help them in any thing contrary to the
rules; but through him they might convey to certain girls there the
knowledge of their coming, and their plans for the evening. They would
give Jerry a note to his sister; she would hand it to Mamie Smythe;
and, once in her possession, the whole thing would take care of
itself.
The bells were taken off from the horses and put carefully away in the
bottom of the sleigh before it left the stable; the boys did not have
it driven to the dormitories, as it did when they had a licensed ride,
but met it at Wilbur's Corner.
They had a ready reason for this, and for the absence of the bells
when Jerry noticed and inquired about them. It would not do to give
him the least occasion to suspect them.
It was a beautiful night, with a bright moon making the cold landscape
clearer and colder. There wasn't a young heart in either of these two
educational towns that would not have leaped with joy over the
pleasure of a sleigh-ride then and there.
A very merry ride the boys had as soon as they had cleared the thickly
settled part of the town, breaking out into college songs, glees,
snatches of wild music that the buoyant air caught up and carried on
over the long reaches of the ghost-like road before them.
Jerry had a fine baritone voice, and he loved music. How he led tune
after tune was a marvel and a delight. As they passed solitary
farmhouses, where only a light shone from a back kitchen window, the
quiet people there would drop their work and listen as the sleigh
dashed by.
When the party reached Montrose, Jerry was told that "while he was
making his visit they would drive on, and if they were not back in
time he had better go home by the train, as they knew he would not
like to be out late."
"And by the way," said Tom Lucas, taking a ticket out of his pocket,
"here is a railroad ticket I bought the other day; you'd better use
it, old fellow. I shall never want it--that is, if we are not back in
time for you."
The boys knew Jerry worked hard for every cent he had, and Tom would
have felt mean if he had let a ride to which he had invited him be an
expense.
The first thing he did when Susan came into the room was to give her
the note intrusted to him; and Susan, understanding only too well what
it meant, delivered it without any delay to Mamie Smythe.
Jerry's call was always a treat to his friends; and to-night, Marion
coming with them, he had an evening the pleasure of which, in spite of
what followed, he did not soon forget.
When it came time for him to leave, he saw with surprise that he could
only by running catch his train, and, as the boys had not come back
for him, he hurried away.
He found when he reached Atherton that the study hour had already
passed, and, going to his room, he was met with,--
"I say, Jerry; Uncle John don't expect _you_ to go stealing off on
sleigh-rides without leave. Give an account of yourself."
"The party had leave, and when that is given, Uncle John don't trouble
himself to single out every boy, and call him up to ask if he had his
permission to go. It's all right."
But, in spite of this assertion, Jerry began to have suspicions that,
as the boys had failed to come for him to return with them, it might,
after all, be not quite in order; and with these doubts he did not
find committing his lesson an easy task.