AMANDA REIST, TEACHER
Amanda had no desire to teach far from her home. "I want to see the
whole United States if I live long enough," she declared, "but I want
to travel through the distant parts of it, not settle there to live.
While I have a home I want to stay near it. So I wish I could get a
school in Lancaster County."
Her wish was granted. There was an opening in Crow Hill, in the little
rural school in which she had received the rudiments of her education.
Amanda applied for the position and was elected.
She brought to that little school several innovations. Her love and
knowledge of nature helped her to make the common studies less
monotonous and more interesting. A Saturday afternoon nutting party
with her pupils afforded a more promising subject for Monday's original
composition than the hackneyed suggestions of the grammar book's "Tell
all you know about the cultivation of coffee." Later, snow forts in the
school-yard impressed the children with the story of Ticonderoga more
indelibly than mere reading about it could have done. During her last
year at Normal, Amanda had read about a school where geography was
taught by the construction of miniature islands, capes, straits,
peninsulas, and so forth, in the school-yard. She directed the older
children in the formation of such a landscape picture. When a
blundering boy slipped and with one bare foot demolished at one stroke
the cape, island and bay, there was much merriment and rivalry for the
honor of rebuilding. The children were almost unanimous in their
affection for the new teacher and approval of her methods of teaching.
Most of them ran home with eager tales concerning the wonderful, funny,
"nice" ways Miss Reist had of teaching school.
However, Crow Hill is no Eden. Some of the older boys laughed at the
"silly ideas" of "that Manda Reist" and disliked the way she taught
geography and made the pupils "play in the dirt and build capes and
islands and the whole blamed geography business right in the school-
yard."
It naturally followed that adverse criticism grew and grew, like
Longfellow's pumpkin, and many curious visitors came to Crow Hill
school. The patrons, taxpayers, directors were concerned and considered
it their duty to drop in and observe how things were being run in that
school. They found that the three R's were still taught efficiently,
even if they were taught with the aid of chestnuts, autumn leaves and
flowers; they were glad to discover that an island, though formed in
the school-yard from dirt and water, was still being defined with the
old standard definition, "An island is a body of land entirely
surrounded by water."
If any other school had graduated Amanda, her position might have been
a trifle precarious, but Millersville Normal School was too well known
and universally approved in Lancaster County to admit of any
questionable suggestions about its recent graduate. Most of the people
who came to inspect came without any antagonistic feeling and they left
convinced that, although some of Amanda Reist's ways were a little
different, the scholars seemed to know their lessons and to progress
satisfactorily.
Later in the school year she urged the children to bring dried corn
husk to school, she brought brightly colored raffia, and taught them
how to make baskets. The children were clamorous for more knowledge of
basket making. The fascinating task of forming objects of beauty and
usefulness from homely corn husk and a few gay threads of raffia was
novel to them. Amanda was willing to help the children along the path
of manual dexterity and eager to have them see and love the beautiful.
Under her guidance they gathered and pressed weeds and grasses and the
airy, elusive milkweed down, caught butterflies, and assembled the
whole under glass, thus making beautiful trays and pictures.
On the whole it was a wonderful, happy year for the new teacher of the
Crow Hill school. When spring came with all the alluring witchery of
the Garden Spot it seemed to her she must make every one of her pupils
feel the thrill of the song-sparrow's first note and the matchless
loveliness of the anemone.
One day in early April, the last week of school, as she locked the door
of the schoolhouse and started down the road to her home an unusual
glow of satisfaction beamed on her face.
"Only two more days of school, then the big Spelling Bee to wind it up
and then my first year's teaching will be over! I have enjoyed it but
I'm like the children--eager for vacation."
She hummed gaily as she went along, this nineteen-year-old school
teacher so near the end of her first year's work in the schoolroom. Her
eyes roved over the fair panorama of Lancaster County in early spring
dress. As she neared the house she saw her Uncle Amos resting under a
giant sycamore tree that stood in the front yard.
"Good times," she called to him.
"Hello, Manda," he answered. "You're home early."
"Early--it's half-past four. Have you been asleep and lost track of the
time?"
He took a big silver watch from a pocket and whistled as he looked at
it. "Whew! It is that late! Time for me to get to work again. Your Aunt
Rebecca's here."
"Dear me! And I felt so happy! Now I'll get a call-down about something
or other. I'm ashamed of myself, Uncle Amos, but I think Aunt Rebecca
gets worse as she grows older."
"'Fraid so," the man agreed soberly. "Well, we can't all be alike. Too
bad, now, she don't take after me, eh, Amanda?"
"It surely is! You're the nicest man I know!"
"Hold on now," he said; "next you make me blush. I ain't used to
gettin' compliments."
"But I mean it. I don't see how she can be your sister and Mother's! I
think the fairies must have mixed babies when she was little. I can see
many good qualities in her, but there's no need of her being so
contrary and critical. I remember how I used to be half afraid of her
when I was little. She tried to make Mother dress me in a plain dress
and a Mennonite bonnet, but Mother said she'd dress me like a little
girl and if I chose I could wear the plain dress and bonnet when I was
old enough to know what it means. Oh, Mother's wonderful! If I had Aunt
Rebecca for a mother--but perhaps she'd be different then. Oh, Uncle
Amos, do you remember the howl she raised when we had our house wired
for electricity?"
"Glory, yes! She was scared to death to come here for a while."
"And Phil wickedly suggested we scare her again! But she was afraid of
it. She was sure the house would be struck by lightning the first
thunder-storm we'd have. And when we put the bath tub into the house--
whew! Didn't she give us lectures then! She has no use for 'swimmin'
tubs' to this day. If folks can't wash clean out of a basin they must
be powerful dirty! That's her opinion."
Both laughed at the remembrance of the old woman's words. Then the girl
asked, "What did she have to say to you to-day? Did she iron any
wrinkles out of you?"
"Oh, I got it a'ready." The man chuckled. "I was plantin' potatoes till
my back was near broke and I came in to rest a little and get a drink.
She told me it's funny people got to rest so often in these days when
they do a little work. She worked in the fields often and she could
stand more yet than a lot o' lazy men. I didn't answer her but I came
out here and got my rest just the same. She ain't bossin' her brother
Amos yet! But now I got to work faster for this doin' nothin' under the
tree."
When Amanda entered the kitchen she found her mother and the visitor
cutting carpet rags. Old clothes were falling under the snip of the
shears into a peach basket, ready to be sewn together, wound into balls
and woven into rag carpet by the local carpet weaver on his hand loom.
"Hello," said the girl as she laid a few books on the kitchen table.
"Books again," sniffed Aunt Rebecca. "I wonder now how much money gets
spent for books that ain't necessary."
"Oh, lots of it," answered the girl cheerfully.
"Umph, did you buy those?"
"Yes, when I went to Millersville."
"My goodness, what a lot o' money goes for such things these days!
There's books about everything, somebody told me. There's even some
wrote about the Pennsylvania Dutch and about that there Stiegel glass
some folks make such a fuss about. I don't see nothin' in that Stiegel
glass to make it so dear. Why, I had a little white glass pitcher,
crooked it was, too, and nothin' extra to look at. But along come one
of them anteak men, so they call themselves, the men that buy up old
things. Anyhow, he offered to give me a dollar for that little pitcher.
Ach, I didn't care much for it, though it was Jonas's granny's still. I
sold it to that man quick before he'd change his mind and mebbe only
give me fifty cents."
"You sold it?" asked Amanda. "And was it this shape?"
She made a swift, crude sketch of the well-known Stiegel pitcher shape.
"My goodness, you drawed one just like it! It looked like that."
"Then, Aunt Rebecca, you gave that man a bargain. That was a real
Stiegel pitcher and worth much more than a dollar!"
"My goodness, what did I do now! You mean it was worth _more_ than
that?" The woman was incredulous.
"You might have gotten five, perhaps ten, dollars for it in the city.
You know Stiegel glass was some of the first to be made in this
country, made in Manheim, Pennsylvania, way back in 1760, or some such
early date as that. It was crude as to shape, almost all the pieces are
a little crooked, but it was wonderfully made in some ways, for it has
a ring like a bell, and the loveliest fluting, and some of it is in
beautiful blue, green and amethyst. Stiegel glass is rare and valuable
so if you have any more hold on to it and I'll buy it from you."
"Well, I guess! I wouldn't leave you pay five dollars for a glass
pitcher! But I wish I had that one back. It spites me now I sold it. My
goodness, abody can't watch out enough so you won't get cheated. Where
did you learn so much about that old glass?"
"Oh, I read about it in a _book_ last year," came the ready
answer.
Aunt Rebecca looked at the girl, but Amanda's face bore so innocent an
expression that the woman could not think her guilty of emphasizing the
word purposely.
"So," the visitor said, "they did put something worth in a book once!
Well, I guess it's time you learn something that'll help you save
money. All the books you got to read! And Philip's still goin' to
school, too. Why don't he help Amos on the farm instead of runnin' to
Lancaster to school?"
"He wants to be a lawyer," said Mrs. Reist. "I think still that as long
as he has a good head for learnin' and wants to go to school I should
leave him go till he's satisfied. I think his pop would say so if he
was livin'. Not everybody takes to farmin' and it is awful hard work.
Amos works that hard."
"Poof," said Aunt Rebecca, "I ain't heard tell yet of any man workin'
himself to death! It wouldn't hurt Philip to be a farmer. The trouble
is it don't sound tony enough for the young ones these days. Lawyer--
what does he want to be a lawyer for? I heard a'ready that they are all
liars. You're by far too easy!"
"Oh, Aunt Rebecca," said Amanda, "not all lawyers are liars. Abraham
Lincoln was a lawyer."
"Ach, I guess he was no different from others, only he's dead so abody
shouldn't talk about him."
Amanda sighed and turned to her mother. "Mother, I'm going up to put on
an old dress and when Phil comes we're going over to the woods for
arbutus."
"All right."
But the aunt did not consider it all right. "Why don't you help cut
carpet rags?" she asked. "That would be more sense than runnin' out
after flowers that wither right aways."
"If we find any, Millie is going to take them to market to-morrow and
sell them. Some people asked for them last week. It's rather early but
we may find some on the sunny side of the woods."
"Oh," the woman was mollified, "if you're goin' to sell 'em that's
different. Ain't it funny anybody _buys_ flowers? But then some
people don't know how to spend their money and will buy anything, just
so it's buyin'!"
But Amanda was off to the wide stairs, beyond the sound of the
haranguing voice.
"Glory!" she said to herself when she reached her room. "If my red hair
didn't bristle! What a life we'd have if Mother were like that! If I
ever think I have nothing to be thankful for I'm going to remember
that!"
A little while later she went down the stairs, out through the yard and
down the country road to meet her brother. She listened for his
whistle. In childhood he had begun the habit of whistling a strain from
the old song, "Soldier's Farewell" and, like many habits of early
years, it had clung to him. So when Amanda heard the plaintive melody,
"How can I leave thee, how can I from thee part," she knew that her
brother was either arriving or leaving.
As she walked down the road in the April sunshine the old whistle
floated to her. She hastened her steps and in a bend in the road came
face to face with the boy.
At sight of her he stopped whistling, whipped off his cap and greeted
her, "Hello, Sis. I thought that would bring you if you were about. Oh,
don't look so tickled over my politeness--I just took off my hat
because I'm hot. This walk from the trolley on a day like this warms
you up."
His words brought a light push from the girl as she took her place
beside him and they walked on.
"That's a mournful whistle for a home-coming," Amanda told him. "Can't
you find a more appropriate one?"
"My repertoire is limited, sister--I learned that big word in English
class to-day and had to try it out on some one."
"Phil, you're crazy!" was the uncomplimentary answer, but her eyes
smiled with pride upon the tall, red-haired boy beside her. "I see it's
one of your giddy days so I'll sober you up a bit--Aunt Rebecca's at
the house."
"Oh, yea!" He held his side in mock agony.
"Again? What's the row now? Any curtain lectures?"
"Be comforted, Phil. She's going home to-night if you'll drive her to
Landisville."
"Won't I though!" he said, with the average High School boy's disregard
of pure English. "Surest thing you know, Sis, I'll drive her home or
anywhere else. What's she doing?"
"Helping Mother cut carpet rags."
"Well, that's the only redeeming feature about her. She does help
Mother. Aunt Rebecca isn't lazy. I'm glad to be able to say one nice
thing about her. Apart from that she's generally as Millie says,
'actin' like she ate wasps.' But she can't scare me. All her ranting
goes in one ear and out the other."
"Nothing there to stop it, eh, Phil?"
"Amanda! That from you! Now I know how Caesar felt when he saw Brutus
with the mob."
"It's a case of 'Cheer up, the worst is yet to come,' I suppose, so you
might as well smile."
In this manner they bantered until they reached the Reist farmhouse.
There the boy greeted the visitor politely, as his sister had done.
"My goodness," was the aunt's greeting to him, "you got an armful of
books, too!"
"Yes. I'm going to be a lawyer, but I have to do a lot of hard studying
before I get that far."
"Umph, that's nothin' to brag about. I'd think more of you if you
stayed home and helped Amos plant corn and potatoes or tobacco."
"I'd never plant tobacco. Chewing and smoking are filthy habits and I'd
never have the stuff grow on any farm I owned."
"But the money, Philip, just think once of the money tobacco brings!
But, ach, it's for no use talkin' farm to you. You got nothin' but
books in your head. How do you suppose this place is goin' to be run
about ten years from now if Amanda teaches and you turn lawyer? Amos is
soon too old to work it and you can't depend on hired help. Then what?"
"Search me," said the boy inelegantly. "But I'm not worrying about it.
We may not want to live here ten years from now. But, Mother," he
veered suddenly, "got any pie left from dinner? I'm hungry. May I
forage?"
"Help yourself, Philip. There's a piece of cherry pie and a slice of
chocolate cake in the cellar."
"Hurray, Mother! I'm going to see that you get an extra star in your
crown some day for feeding the hungry."
"But you spoil him," said Aunt Rebecca as Phil went off to the cellar.
"And if that boy ain't always after pie! I mind how he used to eat pie
when he was little and you brought him to see us. Not that I grudged
him the pie, but I remember how he always took two pieces if he got it.
And pie ain't good for him, neither, between meals."
"I guess it won't hurt him," said Mrs. Reist; "the boy's growin' and he
has just a lunch at noon, so he gets hungry till he walks in from the
trolley. Boys like pie. His father was a great hand for pie."
"Well," said the aunt decisively, "I would never spoiled children if I
had any. But I had none."
"Thank goodness!" Amanda breathed to herself as she went out to the
porch to wait for her brother.
"Um, that pie was good," was his verdict as he joined her. "But say,
Sis, didn't you hear the squirrels chatter in there?"
"Come on." Amanda laughed as she swung the basket to her arm and pulled
eagerly at the sleeve of the boy's coat. "Let's go after the flowers
and forget all about her."
Along the Crow Hill schoolhouse runs a long spur of wooded hills
skirting the country road for a quarter of a mile and stretching away
into denser timberland. In those woods were the familiar paths Amanda
and Phil loved to traverse in search of flowers. In April, when the
first warm, sunshiny days came, the ground under the dead leaves of the
overshadowing oaks was carpeted with arbutus. Eager children soon found
those near the crude rail fence, but Amanda and Phil followed the
narrow trails to the secluded sheltered spots where the May flowers had
not been touched that spring.
"No roots, Phil!" warned the girl as they knelt in the brown leaves and
pushed away the covering from the fragrant blossoms.
"Sure thing not, Sis! We don't want to exterminate the trailing arbutus
in Crow Hill. Say, I passed two kids this morning as I was going to the
trolley. They had a bunch of arbutus, roots and all. Believe me, I
acted up like Aunt Rebecca for about two minutes. But it's a shame to
take the roots. I almost hate to pick the flowers--seems as if they're
at home here in the woods--belong here, in a way."
"I know what you're thinking about, Phil; that little verse:
'Hast thou named all the birds without a gun?
Loved the wood-rose and left it on its stalk?
Oh, be my friend, and teach me to be thine.'
I agree with the first half of the requirement, but the latter half
can't always be followed. At any rate, the wild rose is better left on
the stem, for it withers when plucked. But with arbutus it's different.
Why, Phil, some of the people who come to market and buy our wild
flowers would never see any if they could not buy them in the city.
Imagine, if you can, yourself living in a big city, far away from Crow
Hill, where the Mayflowers grow--Philadelphia or New York, or some such
formidable-sounding place. The city might engross your attention so
you'd be happy for months. But along comes spring with its call to the
woods and meadows. Still the city and its demands grip you like a vise,
and you can't run away to where the wild green things are pushing to
the light. Suppose you saw a flower-stand and a tiny bunch of arbutus--"
"I'd pay my last dollar for them!" declared Philip. "Guess you're
right. According to your reasoning, we're as good as missionaries when
we find wild flowers and take or send them to the city market to sell.
Aunt Rebecca wouldn't see that. She'd see the money end of it. Poor
soul! I'm glad I'm not like her."
"Pharisee," chided his sister.
"Well, do you know, Manda, sometimes I think there's something to be
said in favor of the Pharisee."
The girl gave him a quizzical look.
The serious and the light were so strangely mingled in the boy's
nature. Amanda caught many glimpses into the recesses of his heart,
recesses he knew she would not try to explore deeper than he wished.
For the natures of brother and sister were strongly similar--light-
hearted and happy, laughing and gay, keen to enjoy life, but reading
some part of its mysteries, understanding some of its sorrows and
showing at times evidences of searching thought and grave retrospect.
"How many dollars' worth do we have?" the boy asked in imitation of
Aunt Rebecca's mercenary way.
"Oh, Phil! You're dreadful! But I bet the flowers will be gone in no
time when Millie puts them out."
"I'd wager they'd go faster if you sold them," he replied, looking
admiringly at the girl. "You'd be a pretty fair peddler of flowers,
Sis."
"Oh, Phil, be sensible."
"I mean it, Amanda. You're not so bad looking. Your hair isn't common
red, it's Titian. And it's fluffy. Then your eyes are good and your
complexion lacks the freckles you ought to have. Your nose isn't
Grecian, but it'll do--we'll call it retroussť, for that sounds nicer
than pug. And your mouth--well, it's not exactly a rosebud one, but it
doesn't mar the general landscape like some mouths do. Altogether,
you're real good-looking, even if you are my sister."
"Philip Reist, you're impertinent! But I suppose you are truthful.
That's a doubtful compliment you're giving me, but I'm glad to say your
veracity augurs well for your success as a lawyer. If you are always as
honest as in that little speech you just delivered, you'll do."
"Oh, I'll make grand old Abe Lincoln look to his laurels."
And so, with comradely teasing, threaded with a more serious vein, an
hour passed and the two returned home with their baskets filled with
the lovely pink and white, delicately fragrant, trailing arbutus.
They found the supper ready, Uncle Amos washed and combed, and waiting
on the back porch for the summons to the meal.
Mrs. Reist peeped into the basket and exclaimed in joy as she breathed
in the sweet perfume of the fresh flowers. Millie paused in the act of
pouring coffee into big blue cups to "get a sniff of the smell," but
Aunt Rebecca was impatient at the momentary delay. "My goodness, but
you poke around. I like to get the supper out before it gets cold."
There was no perceptible hurry at her words, but a few minutes later
all were seated about the big table in the kitchen with a hearty supper
spread before them.
Uncle Amos was of a jovial, teasing disposition, prone to occasional
shrewd thrusts at the idiosyncrasies of his acquaintances, but he held
sacred things sacred and rendered to reverent things their due
reverence. It was his acknowledged privilege to say grace, at the meals
served in the Reist home.
That April evening, after he said, "Amen," Philip turned to Amanda and
said, "Polly wants some too."
The girl burst into gay laughter. Everybody at the table looked at her
in surprise.
"What's funny?" asked Aunt Rebecca.
"I'll tell you," Phil offered. "Last Saturday we were back at Harnly's.
They have two parrots on the porch, and all morning we tried to get
those birds to talk. They just sat and blinked at us, looked wise, but
said not a word. I forgot all about them when we went in to dinner, but
we had just sat down and bowed our heads for grace when those birds
began to talk. They went at it as though some person had wound them up.
'Polly wants some dinner; Polly wants some, too. Give Polly some too.'
Well, it struck me funny. Their voices were so shrill and it was such a
surprise after they refused to say a word, that I got to laughing. I
gave Amanda a nudge, and she got the giggles."
"It was awful," said Amanda. "If Phil hadn't nudged me I could have
weathered through by biting my lips."
"I don't see anything to laugh about when two parrots talk," was Aunt
Rebecca's remark. "Anyhow, that was no time to laugh. I guess you'll
remember what I tell you, some day when you got to cry for all this
laughin' you do now."
"Ach," said the mother, "let 'em laugh. I guess we were that way too
once."
"Bully for you, Mother," cried the boy; "you're as young as any of us."
"That's what," chimed in Millie.
"Oh, say, Millie," asked Philip, "did you make that cherry pie I
finished up after school to-day?"
"Yes. Was it good?"
"Good? It melted in my mouth. When I marry, Millie, I'm going to borrow
you for a while to come teach my wife how to make such pies."
"Listen at him now! Ain't it a wonder he wouldn't think to get a wife
that knows how to cook and bake? But, Philip Reist, you needn't think
I'll ever leave your mom unless she sends me off."
"Wouldn't you, now, Millie?" asked Uncle Amos.
"Why, be sure, not! I ain't forgettin' how nice she was to me a'ready.
I had hard enough to make through before I came here to work. I had a
place to live out in Readin' where I was to get big money, but when I
got there I found I was to go in the back way always, even on Sunday,
and was to eat alone in the kitchen after they eat, and I was to go to
my room and not set with the folks at all. I just wouldn't live like
that, so I come back to Lancaster County and heard about you people
wantin' a girl, and here I am."
Amanda looked at the hired girl. In her calico dress and gingham apron,
her hair combed back plain from her homely face, she was certainly not
beautiful, and yet the girl who looked at her thought she appeared
really attractive as the gratitude of her loyal heart shone on her
countenance.
"Millie's a jewel," thought Amanda. "And Mother's another. I hope I
shall be like them as I grow older."
After the supper dishes were washed, Aunt Rebecca decided it was time
for her to go home.
"Wouldn't you like to go in the automobile this time?" suggested
Philip. "It would go so much faster and is easier riding than the
carriage."
"Faster! Well, I guess that horse of yourn can get me anywhere I want
to go fast enough to suit me. I got no time for all these new-fangled
things, like wagons that run without horses, and lights you put on and
off with a button. It goes good if you don't get killed yet with that
automobile."
"Then I'll hitch up Bill," said the boy as he went out, an amused smile
on his face.
Amanda was thoughtful as she bunched the arbutus for the market next
day. "I wonder how Uncle Jonas could live with Aunt Rebecca," she
questioned. Ah, that was an enlightening test. "Am I an easy, pleasant
person to live with?" Making full allowance for differences in
temperament and dispositions, there was still, the girl thought, a
possible compatibility that could be cultivated so that family life
might be harmonious and happy.
"It's that I am going to consider when I get married, if I ever do,"
she decided that day. "I won't marry a man who would 'jaw' like Aunt
Rebecca. I'm fiery-tempered myself, and I'll have to learn to control
my anger better. Goodness knows I've had enough striking examples of
how scolding sounds! But I won't want to squabble with the man I really
care for--Martin Landis, for instance--" Her thoughts went off to her
castles in Spain as she gathered the arbutus into little bunches and
tied them. "He offered to help me fix my schoolroom for the Spelling
Bee on Saturday. He's got a big heart, my Sir Galahad of childhood."
She smiled as she thought of her burned hand and his innocent kiss.
"Poor Martin--he's working like a man these ten years. I'd like to see
him have a chance at education like Lyman Mertzheimer has. I know he'd
accomplish something in the world then! At any rate, Martin's a
gentleman and Lyman's a--ugh, I hate the very thought of him. I'm glad
he's not at home to come to my Spelling Bee."