CHAPTER III

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_GOING TO SCHOOL._

IT was a good many days before I recovered my spirits after the shock which poor Bose's death had given me.

I suppose I was an odd child. I remember hearing father say that with nine children out of ten one could tell pretty well what they would do, but I was the tenth, of whom there was no saying how I would take anything. The truth was I had got a great shock which threatened seriously to affect my health. I moped about and could not eat, and every little thing made the cry, which was very uncommon with me. I could not bear to see a dog, and I hated the very sight of good, kind-hearted John Schneider, who had killed Bose. He was one of the Hessian soldiers employed by the English government, and at the conclusion of the war, instead of returning home, he concluded to remain in this country, bought a little piece of land, and settled down to earn his living by farming and shoe-making.

Father and mother talked the matter over, and it was finally decided that it would be best for me to go to school. I hardly know how it happened that my schooling had been put off so long, for most of the children began at five, and some a good deal younger. I had lost no time, however. Jeanne taught me my letters, and she or mother used to hear me read every day that winter, so that by spring I could manage words of two syllables pretty well. The summer school was to open the next Monday, and it was decided that I should go.

Accordingly, upon Monday morning I set off; walking demurely by Jeanne's side, my mind divided between joy and awe. I had been at the school as a visitor once or twice, and I had always retained a vast admiration for Miss Temperance Hutchinson, the teacher, ever since the memorable day that she diverted me from my trouble in church by lending me her fan; but then there were the strange girls and boys, of whom I stood a good deal in fear, for I was a shy child and but little used to mix with children of my own age. On the whole, however, I think the joy was the stronger. I remember I was dressed in a dark-red pressed flannel petticoat—home-made, of course, but by no means coarse or ugly—a short gown made of a bit of "new" chintz—a circumstance of which I was rather proud—and a blue checked linen apron. I carried a bag containing my spelling-book, my thread and thimble, and a square of patch-work ready basted, also an apple to be eaten in recess. Jeanne had a similar bag, and carried besides a basket containing our lunch of bread and butter, cheese, and dough-nuts, for we lived too far from the school-house to permit us to return home at noon.

As we came in sight of the school-house, and I saw the large and noisy group of children assembled about the door, my heart sunk considerably, and I dare say that I squeezed Jeanne's hand very tight, for I remember her saying, "Don't be scared, Olive; they won't hurt you."

"I am not scared," I answered, promptly enough; but I rather think I would have given a good deal to be safely at home. However, I was determined to put a good face on the matter, and did not tremble much when Jeanne led me up to Miss Tempy, who welcomed me kindly, and calling a pretty little girl about my own age told me that I should sit beside her.

"Cannot Olive sit with me to-day, Miss Tempy?" asked Jeanne, answering the imploring look that I turned toward her with an encouraging glance. "She is very shy."

Though Miss Tempy could be firm, and even stern, as I soon found out, she knew how to be gentle and yielding on occasion; so she answered, graciously,—

"Yes, she may do so—till recess at least. After that I will see about it."

This concession confirmed my previous notion of Miss Tempy's goodness; and being now seated at my ease, I began to look about me. I remember as if I had seen it yesterday the appearance of the school-room. It was rather a large, low room, with beams running across the ceiling. Almost the whole of one end was taken up by an immense fire-place with a brick hearth capable of receiving a quarter of a cord of wood at once. There was no fire now, however, and the space was occupied by a large broken-handled pitcher filled with green branches. This was a fancy of Miss Tempy's, who liked to have everything neat and pretty about her. The other three sides were taken up by long desks fixed to the wall, having a shelf underneath to hold books. Before these desks stood benches without backs, for the convenience of having the scholars face inward or outward, according as they were writing, studying, or reciting. These desks and benches belonged exclusively to the writing scholars. Inside of these stood another somewhat lower set of benches, and still another, these last being low enough to accommodate the "a, b, c" class. The teacher's chair and table stood in the middle of the room, the latter accommodating an ink-stand, a large work-basket, two or three books, and a ruler—all Miss Tempy's private property—and a small hand-bell. Here also was placed an object which we little ones at least regarded with peculiar veneration—namely, a silver watch which had been given to Miss Tempy's father by the great general Wolfe himself.

Miss Tempy, having consulted the watch, rang her bell, and the scholars came into the room in a very orderly manner, and took their seats according to their rank. The Testaments being produced and the places found, the boys and girls read each a verse. I remember the chapter that morning was the eighth of Matthew. When all had read, Miss Tempy finished the chapter and made a short prayer, and then school was begun.

I do not know that I remember the exact order of exercises, only that the oldest class read first in a reader called the "Third Part" —of what I don't know to this day; I suppose of some series of school-books. It was made up of selections from different English writers, papers from the "Rambler" and "Spectator," some scenes of Shakespeare, and other poetical extracts. Doubtless it contained many things far above the comprehension of its readers and altogether foreign to their experience, but at least it had the advantage of showing the boys and girls who used it that there were other worlds than the little one in which they lived, and also in many cases of waking up a degree of curiosity concerning the books from which these extracts were taken. The lesson this morning was the "Vision of Mirza," to which I listened eagerly, and was quite grieved when the lecture came to an end. I had no time to think about the matter, for the moment the class was dismissed Miss Tempy called me to her side, and opening the spelling-book and pointing with her scissors to the first column of "ba, be," etc., asked me what that was.

Was there ever such an affront? I, that could spell "baker," and even such hard words as "abase" and "abate," to be set to read in "ba!" My eyes fairly filled with tears, and I felt my face grow crimson. Nor was the matter mended by Miss Tempy's saying in the kindest tone,—

"Oh, you must not be frightened; I am sure you can tell what 'ba' spells."

I should have burst out crying in another minute had not Jeanne interposed. She had been watching my first lesson with great anxiety, and now spoke up in my behalf:

"Please, Miss Tempy, Olive can spell in two syllables and read in easy reading."

"Oh, ho! That alters the case," said Miss Tempy; and she turned over to the first reading-lesson, which consisted of such sentences as this: "No man may put off the law of God. My joy is in his law all the day."

My wounded pride being thus healed, I acquitted myself very well, to my own satisfaction, and still more to my sister's. Miss Tempy gave me a spelling-lesson to learn, and I retired to my seat very well pleased with my first experience. I studied diligently till recess, after which I was called up to spell.

"Very good!" said Miss Tempy, when the lesson was finished. "But now you must go to your own seat. Sally Millar and Jane Hyde will make room for you."

I knew Jane Hyde, who lived near us, and was not sorry to have her for a neighbour. She moved obligingly and welcomed me with a pleasant smile, but Sally Millar's lip curled with contempt, and she whispered as I took my place.

"Why don't she sit with the babies, where she belongs?"

"What did you say, Sally?" asked Miss Tempy, mildly, but at the same time placing her hand on the ruler which lay on the table.

Sarah did not answer at first; but on the question being repeated with a little more emphasis, she replied, sulkily enough,—

"I didn't say nothing."

"Is there no room for Olive?" was the next question.

Sarah did not reply in words, but she moved to accommodate me, which she had declined to do before.

"Very well," said Miss Tempy. "If you are crowded, Sarah, you can take that stool by the door."

Sarah did not answer; but taking advantage of a moment when Miss Tempy's back was turned, she whispered to me,—

"See if I don't pay you off, miss."

I did not answer except by a glance as full of contempt as her own, and taking out my patch-work began to sew very busily, though my attention was considerably diverted from my work by what went on around me.

I don't think any teacher in these days is kept so constantly busy as Miss Tempy used to be. There were no steel pens or copperplate copies, and consequently the scholars all wrote with quills, which required constant mending, and from written copies, which the teacher must supply. Then all the girls brought their sewing to school. Miss Tempy was renowned for her skill in all that pertained to the needle. No lace stitches were too fine, no patterns too intricate, for her keen eyes and skilful fingers, and she could teach the mystery of marking in all the known forms of the alphabet. If she had any favourites, it was certainly among those who were skilful with their needles, and she was said to show considerable partiality to my sister Jeanne on that account.

But she was an excellent teacher in every respect. I do not know that I have ever met with a better. She commanded to a remarkable degree the love and respect of those under her care. I never knew more than two or three who did not like her, and they were among the worst and lowest with whom she had to deal. She had several times taught the winter school when a suitable master could not be procured, and it was remarkable that, though a frail little woman, she kept better order among the big boys and girls who attended at that season than any master had ever been able to do.

Our would have supposed that, her school-duties over, Miss Tempy might have considered herself entitled to rest, but nobody in the whole town was more ready with neighbourly service to the sick and the afflicted; and amid all her other employments she had found time to teach poor Elnathan Crum to read, write, and cipher, and many of her evening hours were spent in beguiling the sick boy of his weariness by reading aloud to him. The Cruets thought her perfect, and I suppose she was really as nearly so as poor feeble mortals ever become in this life.

I must not dwell too long on this part of my history. Suffice it to say that I was soon quite at my ease in the school, and able to go by myself whenever Jeanne was detained at home to help mother. Before the end of the summer I was promoted to the Testament class; for in those days the New Testament was used in all the schools as a regular class-book. This plan had its advantages and its drawbacks; for if; on the one hand, we gained a very familiar acquaintance with the text of Scripture, there was danger, on the other, that this very familiarity might destroy some of our regard for the same. I was also placed in a spelling-class composed, for the most part, of girls older than myself; where I kept my place at the head for a fair share of the time.

My first downfall in the class was connected with a lesson which I never forgot. I had been at the head of the class for more than a week, and was straining every nerve to keep my position, carrying home my book, and even studying on my way to school. One day, however—one dreadful day—I missed—missed a word which I knew perfectly well; and Jenny Hyde went above me. This was bad enough, but it was not all; for owing to the disturbance of my spirit, I missed again, and actually went down two places.

Here was a misfortune. I returned to my place crying and declining to be comforted; and when noon came, I refused to either go out or eat my luncheon. Jeanne was trying in vain to persuade me, when Miss Tempy said gently,—

"Run away, Jeanne; I wish to talk with Olive myself."

The teacher's lightest word was law, and Jeanne had no choice but to obey; so she went away, and I prepared myself to resist Miss Tempy's comfortings as I had done those of my sister.

"Olive," said Miss Tempy, rather severely, "don't you know that you are showing a very wrong spirit?"

I looked up in such amazement that I quite forgot to cry. To be blamed for my grief was the very last thing I expected.

"You are very selfish," proceeded Miss Tempy. "Don't you think the other children like to be at the head as well as you? Why should you wish to have the best place all the time?"

This was an entirely new view of the matter, and I did not know what to say to it. Miss Tempy followed up her advantage:

"Only this morning you were reading in the New Testament that we are not to desire the highest places, but it seems you cannot be suited with any other. You pretend to love Jenny Hyde very much, but you could not cry any more if she were dead than you do because she is a little better off than yourself."

"I—I didn't mean that," I stammered.

"What did you mean?" asked Miss Tempy, severely.

But in truth I was not prepared to say what I meant. In my own heart I had thought I was doing a very fine thing in thus grieving over my downfall, but Miss Tempy had opened my eyes and made me feel very small indeed.

"Now," continued Miss Tempy, "I advise you to stop crying, wash your face, and eat your dinner; and when Jenny comes back this afternoon, tell her you are sorry you were so cross to her."

For I forgot to say that I had utterly refused to speak to Jenny when school was out.

Very much humbled, I obeyed. Jenny was a gentle-spirited little thing, and we were soon as good friends as ever; but the lesson was one I never forgot.

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