CHAPTER XIV.

SEWING-SCHOOL.

ETHEL'S hands were now very full of work. Her infant-class had increased beyond the capacity of the room which held it, though she had sent three classes into the large room—a change which was not accomplished without many tears and remonstrances on the part of the promoted infants. A sewing-school had also been started "on the Hill," the chief burden of which fell on Ethel and Anna. It began with Anna's class of girls. Mr. Dalton one evening showed his missionary magic-lantern to the children and parents, with a lecture descriptive of the pictures, and of places and people he had seen in his travels. Of course, all the children were greatly interested, and especially Anna's class. This interest was increased by Anna's borrowing Ethel's book of Eastern photographs to show them, and by her reading them a letter which Miss Beecher had written to the Bible-class, giving an account of the school-girls, and describing their delight at receiving the box of presents sent by the said Bible-class.

"I wish we could send them something from 'this' school," said Matty Brown, the youngest and brightest of the girls. "How nice it would be to get a letter all the way from Persia, wouldn't it?"

"I wish we could," said another. "Do you think we could manage it, Miss Burgers?"

"Perhaps we might," said Anna.

"I'm afraid we couldn't sew good enough to make anything worth while," said Mary Yeager. "I shouldn't want to send things so far unless they were 'nice,' you know."

"Don't you know how to sew, Mary?" asked Anna.

"No, ma'am—not very good," replied Mary.

"I can't, either," said Matty Brown. "Ma is going to teach me to use the sewing-machine, some day when she has time."

"You ought all to know how to sew," said Anna, who had been well taught that old-fashioned accomplishment, and was a proficient in the use of the needle. "You ought to know how to make and mend all your own clothes. Then you can work, not only for yourselves, but for those who are worse off than you are."

"I should like to know how to crochet and work worsted," said Jenny Millar. Jenny's father was rather better off than most of the fathers belonging to the class, and she was in no way inclined to make the worst of that circumstance. "I don't care about plain work."

"Crochet-work and working worsted are all very well in their places," said Anna; "but they are of very little consequence compared to plain sewing and knitting. Nobody ever went cold and ragged for want of worsted work, but a good many do both because they don't know the proper use of a sewing-needle. What would you say to a man who said he did not care to learn reading and writing—he wanted to learn Latin?"

The girls laughed, and Jenny looked rather affronted. "I don't expect to have to work for my living," she said, with a toss of her head. "My father is rich enough to make a lady of me: my mother says so."

"Your father's being rich will never of itself make a lady of you," said Anna. "Neither will the fact of your not working for a living. Riches and fine clothes have little to do with the matter. It takes a great deal more than these to make a lady."

"I am sure Mrs. Fowler is respected, and she works for a living," said Mary Yeager.

"So are a great many other women, who work hard all their lives," replied Anna. "Kindness and good habits and manners, and consideration for the feelings of those about her, make any woman respectable."

"I should like to learn to sew plain work real nicely," said little Christine Murdoch. "Mother often says she is so sorry she cannot teach us."

"Why cannot she teach you?" asked Anna.

"Oh, don't you know? She has a stiff arm," replied Christine.

And Elsie added, "She broke her arm on the ship coming to this country, and it wasn't set right; so, when it got well, the joint was spoiled. But she can do a many things, though she cannot sew," added Elsie, with pride. "Father says he wonders how she keeps everything about the house so nice as she does. Mother says she learned to sew in school; and she can do beautiful work—that is, she could do it in old times, when she had her arm."

"I wish we could have a sewing-school," said Christine.

"Oh, Miss Burgers, how nice it would be!" exclaimed Matty Brown. "Couldn't we have one, don't you suppose? We could come on Saturday afternoons, and you could teach us. I am sure every one would like it; wouldn't you, girls?"

Every one agreed that it would be "perfectly splendid," and one girl added that it would be "awful nice." "Awful" was an adjective and adverb of all-work upon Iron Hill. *

* "Awful," "splendid," and "you know" are common colloquial barbarisms.—EDITOR.

"Well, I will talk to my mother, and see what she says," said Anna, at last. "If she is willing to have me begin, I will see what can be done."

"Why, Miss Burgers, do 'you' have to mind your mother?" asked Mary Yeager, in a tone of great surprise. "A grown-up young lady like you."

"Certainly I mind my mother," replied Anna, not sorry for the odd question. "I mind my mother just as much now as I did when I was three years old."

"And do you ask her every time you want to go anywhere, just as 'we' have to?" continued Mary.

"Just the same, Mary. I never go anywhere or undertake anything of any importance, without asking my mother. I prefer to do it, because I love my mother, and would rather please her than any one in the world."

Mary was evidently much impressed with the idea that a grown-up young lady, who wore flounces, and a hat with a little bird in it, should mind her mother of her own accord; and Anna hoped the lesson would have a good effect.

The project of the sewing class was discussed through the week; and on Sunday, Anna told the girls that they might come the next Saturday, and bring their own work either sewing or knitting.

It was presently found that the school could not be confined to Anna's class. All Ethel's little girls immediately became wild upon the subject, and petitioned so earnestly to be allowed to come, that there was nothing for it but to say that she would see what could be done. Ethel went home, and talked the matter over with Emily.

"It would be an excellent thing for the children," said Emily; "excellent in every way. I have always regretted that the sewing-school at the Home was given up. One gains such a hold, not only on the girls, but on their mothers."

"The chief trouble seems to be to know what to set such little ones about," said Ethel. "Of course, they know nothing of sewing."

"Oh, you will need quantities of patchwork for them; that is the best for the infants," replied Emily. "It is easy and pleasant, and admits of a great many beginnings and leavings off; which are always desirable with young children. I will look over my own and Juliet's piece-trunks, and see what I can find; and I will baste up a quantity for you to begin upon. I only wish I could take hold and help you; but you know—or rather you 'don't' know, but you will soon find out—how much talking such a class involves; and the doctor will not let me use my throat at present."

"I suppose it will be a pretty noisy affair," said Ethel. "That is the worst of it."

"You must not let it be noisy," said Emily, decidedly. "You must begin with establishing strict order, and you must maintain it. Unless you do, your school will be nothing but a nuisance, and the children will be worse for it, instead of better."

Ethel looked a little doubtful. "I know it is so in Sunday-school," said she; "at least in the infant room; but I thought, perhaps the children would not come to the sewing-school if we were too strict with them."

"Then let them stay away," said Emily; "but there is no danger."

"You don't want to let them get the idea that they are doing you a favour by coming to school," said Mr. Dalton, who had entered in time to hear the discussion. "That is a very mischievous notion, and subversive of all good. Make them understand that you are doing them a great kindness and favour by teaching them, and that the continuance of the favour depends upon their good conduct, and they will think a great deal more of their privileges."

"Depend upon it, Henry is right," said Emily. "I remember very well the case of Kitty Fisher!"

"What was that?" asked Ethel.

"It happened when we had the large school at the Home," said Emily. "We had an average attendance of eighty children of the very roughest class—not at all equal in social standing to your Iron Hill pupils; but regular street children. For some little time we had had trouble in the class to which Kitty belonged. The teacher, Miss Edwards, was a gentle little thing, and her scholars walked over her, so that at last she became discouraged and stayed away, and Juliet took the class. The work was given out as usual.

"'I don't want to do that,' said Kitty Fisher, throwing down her work, which was a brown factory-garment. 'I want some white cloth, like that girl's over there!'

"'You must take the work that is given you, Kitty,' answered Juliet, in her quiet, polite way.

"Kitty evidently took the mild tone in which Juliet spoke for a sign of giving way. She was never more mistaken in her life. She gave the work a push, which threw it on the floor, and said, with a toss of her head, 'I sha'n't do that. If I can't have the work I want, I shall just go home—so!'

"In another moment, before she had time even to think of resistance, Kitty found herself put out in the yard, and the door shut in her face. Her bonnet was handed out to her, and she was told to go, and not to show herself again. We never had a more orderly or industrious school than that day. Kitty lingered about, and at recess attempted to come in with the others; but she was sternly repulsed, and departed crying.

"The next Saturday she came again, with a very humble petition, and she was allowed to come in and resume her place, on promising that she would try to be a good girl. She kept her word for that day, taking extraordinary pains with her work. Juliet was careful to praise her as much as she honestly could; and never was a lamb meeker or more quiet than Kitty. When school was out, she lingered around the door, as if she had something to say.

"'Well, Kitty, what is it?' asked Juliet, who was putting up the work. 'Do you want anything?'

"Kitty put up her face, and said, in a sort of scared half-whisper, 'Please, teacher, I want to kiss you.'

"Juliet said she was never more surprised in her life. 'She was not a very agreeable object,' said she; 'but I should have kissed her if she had been twenty times worse.'

"From that time we had no more trouble with Miss Kitty, or her class."

"But suppose she had not come back," said Ethel.

"Then we should have let her stay away," replied Emily. "It is not worth while to endanger the prosperity of the school for the sake of one scholar."

"How I do wish you could help us; you have so much experience!" sighed Ethel. "I am afraid we shall make a great many mistakes."

"I dare say you will make some mistakes,—that is to be expected," said Emily; "but you must remember that neither Juliet nor any of us had any experience when we began at the Home. Don't you remember the direction of the old French teacher? 'If you want to learn to speak, "speak!" If you wish to learn to write, "write!"' It is only by doing things that one learns to do them.

"That is Mrs. Jones's way of teaching," remarked Ethel. "When she taught me to make pie-crust, she made me do everything about it with my own hands, while she sat by and showed me what to do."

"Mrs. Jones has the correct theory and practice of teaching," said Mr. Dalton.

"Well, then, we will just go over and do the best we can," said Ethel; "and when we are puzzled, we will come and ask Emily what comes next."

"There is no particular danger of your making any very serious mistakes, unless you undertake too much at a time," remarked Emily. "When Mrs. Upjohn undertook to oversee our school, she thought the children might as well be learning something else while they were working, and she tried to teach them to repeat hymns and other things. The consequence was what was to be expected. The work was not half done, nor the hymns half learned."

"I thought we might, perhaps, have a little singing," said Ethel.

"There would be no harm in that, provided you took a separate time for it. Indeed, I think it would be a very good plan to stop work once or twice, and sing for five minutes or so."

"I want to learn all the best ways," said Ethel; "because—because I might, some time, have to manage some such thing by myself."

The sewing-school met the next Saturday, and behold, not one girl in the school was absent,—not even Jenny Millar, who, however, declared that she did not come to learn to sew. She wanted to learn how to work worsted, or some such thing.

"We cannot undertake that, at present," said Ethel. "If you all take pains, and behave very well, perhaps we may, by-and-by, teach you some pretty fancy-work as a reward, but not at present. Do you know how to make buttonholes, Jenny?"

No; Jenny did not know how to make buttonholes, nor how to stitch, and it soon appeared that she could not hem or fell neatly.

"You see, you have a great deal to learn before you come to fancy-work," said Anna, smiling. "Let me see how neatly you will do this hem; and when you learn that, we will teach you something else."

Jenny murmured and tossed her head, but finally concluded to stay, "just for once."

On the whole, the first day was a success. Ethel's infants were delighted with the patchwork, and succeeded as well as could be expected. Several of the girls wanted to learn to knit, and these were placed in a class by themselves,—Anna promising to try and find them a teacher as soon as possible.

"I believe I know just the person, if she will consent," said Ethel. "Old Mrs. Trim, Richard Trim's mother, I mean. I noticed, the day we called there, how very fast and skilfully she was knitting."

"What, that nice little old lady, who sits on the front seat in chapel?" asked Anna. "Oh, I should love to have her in the school. Where does she live? Can't we go and see her to-night? It is not late."

Ethel hesitated a moment. She remembered Widow Green's cow and the big dog; but she would not refuse. Her heart beat rather unpleasantly fast as they drew near the house, and she saw that old Lion was lying, as usual, directly across the gate, and looking, from his size, greatly "out of drawing" with the little cottage and garden.

"What an immense dog!" said Anna, who was not herself especially valiant where dogs were concerned. "Do you think he is gentle?"

"Oh, yes, I believe so," replied Ethel. "He seemed quiet enough the other day, where people were concerned, though he runs after cows in rather a startling manner. Come, old fellow," she added, making an heroic effort and speaking to the dog, who lay flapping his big tail against the broad sidewalk in a lazily polite manner—"Come, old fellow, get up, and let us come in, won't you?"

Lion executed a portentous yawn, which made Ethel feel as if she were going to be swallowed, and then rose to make way for them. He evidently thought himself obliged by civility to do the honours of the place in the absence of his master, for he accompanied them to the side door, (front doors on Iron Hill being only used at funerals or other great occasions,) and with divers nods of his head and wags of his tail, made them free of the premises.

The window was open, but Mrs. Trim was not to be seen, though they could hear her moving about up-stairs.

"How neat everything looks!" said Anna. "See what fine balsam-plants."

"Yes, they are larger than Emily's, though they were planted later," replied Ethel. "Those balsams are associated with my first visit to Iron Hill; and a wonderful goose I made of myself. I feel like calling myself names every time I think of it."

"What did you do?" asked Anna.

"I will tell you another time. Here comes Mrs. Trim."

Mrs. Trim received them with her usual chatty cordiality, and insisted on their sitting down to rest themselves, and drinking a glass of her ginger-beer. Ethel had never tasted ginger-beer in her life, but she found the cool, foamy beverage far from disagreeable, and was glad to show that she enjoyed it. Mrs. Trim was evidently very much flattered by the proposition that she should take the knitting class.

"But I rather guess you had better get some of your folks to look after it," said she. "Not but I should like to do it; but then, you see, there are folks about here who mightn't like it if you was to pass over them, and come to me for a teacher. It might make feeling, you see."

"It would be very foolish for any one to be displeased about such a thing as that," said Anna, rather warmly. "There is no question of passing people over. It is only as to who will make the best teacher for the class."

"That's all so," replied Mrs. Trim. "It is very foolish for folks to set themselves up one above another, and have notions about gentility, and all that; but, my dears, 'folks' is 'folks,' all the world over; and if you are going to do any good in the world, you must be content to work in it 'as it is,' and not as it ought to be."

"That is true," said Anna, "but we had quite set our hearts on having you in the sewing-school, Mrs. Trim."

"I am sure it is very good of you, dear; and, as I said, I should like it of all things; but really I don't think it's best. This chapel and mission's a-going to do all the good in the world up here, if it's only managed right; and I don't want to have the least thing happen to set folks against it. There's Millar's folks, now. Millar pretends he don't believe in anything, not even that he's got a soul to be saved; and his wife laughs at pious folks, and says they only pretend to believe the Bible, and all that. I never was so surprised in my life as I was when I heard that they had let their children go to Sunday-school."

"I found Jenny Millar was the most untaught girl in my class, though she was the best dressed," remarked Anna. "All the others knew something about the Bible and the history of our Lord but herself, and I was surprised at her ignorance. What you tell me, explains the matter, and I shall take special pains with her."

"Just so," said Mrs. Trim, earnestly. "Poor little dear, my heart has often ached for her when I have heard her father talking his nonsense before her. Well, Mrs. Millar said, last night, she believed she'd go to chapel Sunday evening, if it was only to hear those girls sing,—meaning you, my dears, I suppose. I couldn't help hoping that the truth might find its way to her heart, poor thing. Now, you see, if you were to set me to teaching her girl, she might not exactly like it, and so I think it Will be better if you can get some of your own friends to take the class."

"I see," said Anna. "I dare say you may be right, Mrs. Trim. How nice your garden looks!"

"Yes; Dick is awful proud of his garden," replied Mrs. Trim. "Some folks say he is silly to spend so much time on his flowers and things; but I don't think so. They help to make it pleasant for him; and when he comes from work, or when they have a holiday, as they do once in a while when the Works is out of order, instead of going to the saloon or the grocery, he goes to work weeding and trimming his vines and things. He thinks an awful sight of the flowers your sister sent him—especially the balsams; but he has put two or three of them in pots for a sick, bed-ridden girl, over there on the other corner. I wish you young ladies would go to see her, some day. It would be a real kindness, for she don't see many people, and she is a great sufferer."

"What is the matter with her?" asked Anna.

"She has got something on her leg," replied Mrs. Trim. "I don't know the nature of it, but it hurts her dreadfully at times. She is fond of reading, but her head is weak, and she can't read long at a time."

"If she likes flowers, I might bring you some for her," said Ethel.

"It would do her twice as much good if you was to go and see her yourself," replied Mrs. Trim. "The very sight of your pretty, nice dresses and hats would do her good,—she sees so few pretty things."

Ethel hesitated. She had, as we have seen, a great horror of severe illness, and especially of anything disgusting or frightful. But a minute's thought decided her.

"I will go, of course," said she. "I will try to come up early next week. Come, Anna, we must go, now. Good-night, Mrs. Trim. Good-night, old Lion," she added, patting the dog's head as he put it up to her. "You and I shall turn out good friends, after all."