CHAPTER VIII.

NEW LABORS AND NEW PLEASURES.

THE next day Edah went over to see her fast friend Mr. Bell, who was one of the school committee. He was much astonished by her offer to take the school at sixteen dollars a month, and at first could hardly believe she was serious; but when she assured him that she was really desirous to undertake it, and that she was ready to begin immediately, he promised to use all his influence in her favor; and with this promise Edah was quite content, for she well knew that his voice was all-powerful with the school committee.

Accordingly the next morning after breakfast, Mr. Bell dropped in.

"Well, Miss Champlin," said he, "we had a meeting last night, and talked it over, and we agreed to let you have the school, but they want you to begin right away next Monday. I told them I didn't know how that would be."

"I am willing to begin at once," replied Edah.

"There's another thing," said Mr. Bell; "you don't know any Latin, do you?"

"Yes," replied Edah; "I have read Virgil, and I have been well drilled in the Latin Grammar."

"There now—I told them it was probable you did. You see there are Bostwick's boy and girls, and my nephew, Bob Raymond: their folks want them to learn Latin. Now if you'd teach them maybe half or three quarters of an hour after school, they'd be perfectly willing to give you a dollar a week more."

"Very well!" said Edah. "I presume I can teach them all they want to know."

"Well then," said Mr. Bell, rising, "I don't see but it's all settled out fair and square. Some of them wanted you to board round; but I told 'em you couldn't do that, on account of your ma's health. You'll find some of the children rather rough customers, but I reckon you will get along. There's Bob Raymond—his folks have nations of trouble with him, but there ain't any need of it. He'll stay three months at a time with me, as good a boy as you'd wish to see. It is with children just as it is with horses: some folks seem as if they put Ned into them the minute they touch them—'tain't so much in the horses as it is in the driving."

Edah had now the hardest task of all on her hands, and that was to communicate to her mother the intelligence that she had engaged as a district school teacher. At first, Mrs. Champlin would hardly believe her, and when she assured herself that it was really so, she was indignant beyond measure.

"You, the daughter of Frederick Champlin, and the niece of John Liston, to be teaching ragged children in a district school! A fine occupation to be sure! And what am I to do while you are away from morning till night, with no one to speak to, and not a soul to do any thing for me?"

"There will be Susan and Ruby-Anne, you know," said Edah gently.

"Susan indeed! Susan is a child, a perfect child! She is no company for me at all. But you all of you think of every thing else before you do of me."

"I don't suppose Edah would teach a district school for the pleasure of it, mother," said Susan, unable to keep silence any longer; "it would be a great deal pleasanter for her to stay at home, and study her Spanish and draw."

"Why doesn't she do it then? You don't pretend to tell me that with all the money your father sent home before he sailed, there is any necessity for it."

This was one of Mrs. Champlin's favorite ideas; she considered the meager supply sent by her husband perfectly inexhaustible. "But you must do as you please. I shall say no more about it, only I do think it is rather hard that I am made a perfect cypher in my own house, and that my own children rebel against me."

Upon this complaint Mrs. Champlin rung the changes for the whole day, till Edah's ears and heart ached with hearing it. Had she not been perfectly satisfied that she was taking the right course, she would have found this state of things perfectly intolerable.

Mrs. Champlin commonly slept all the afternoon, and while she was asleep, Edah took her work and went down to Miss Gilmore's, hoping to find a little rest and refreshment in the society of her kind and sensible friend. Miss Gilmore was sitting in the kitchen cutting carpet-rags, and though rather distressed at the litter around her, she made Edah cordially welcome.

"Do tell if it is really true that you are going to take the school?" she asked. "I heard it for certain, but I can hardly believe it."

"It is really true," replied Edah; "I am going to begin next Monday, and I want you to advise me about it, for I know you have taught."

"The best advice I can give you," said Miss Gilmore, "is to do the very best you can, and then trust to Providence for the result. But if you want to know how to make the most of your time, I can tell you how I used to do."

She then went on with a detailed account of her mode of proceeding, to which Edah listened with great interest.

"You see I am old-fashioned in my notions," she said in conclusion; "but after all, it seems to me that children learned as much when I was young, as they do now. I know when I was thirteen years old, I could read and write, and had been through Murray's Grammar and Pike's Arithmetic, and understood them too, and that is more than many children can my now-a-days."

"I wanted to ask you about one thing," said Edah—"having prayers in school. It seems to me the only right way, but I believe they have not usually done it here."

"About that I would do just as I thought right. I don't think any one would object to it. You could read prayers, I suppose?"

"I think so," replied Edah; "the plan I had in mind was this: first to have all that are able read a chapter in the Testament, and then join in the Lord's Prayer, followed by some short form of prayer. What do you think of it?"

"It seems a good plan enough, unless they would get so tired of a form as not to attend to it, and I don't think there is much danger of that. I don't doubt, my dear, but you will do very well, and be the means of good in this place. Your little Sunday School has done much already: the children all talk about it, and I presume a great many more would like to come, only they are shy."

"I almost wonder that no such thing has been done here before," said Edah.

"It is rather singular; but the fact is, there has been no one to take hold of it. There are hardly any pious people here, for one thing: not more than eight families in the place make any pretensions to religion, and they are very lukewarm, and take but little interest in it. There has never been any thing like a church here. Sometimes Mr. Willson, or some Methodist minister, preaches in the school-house, but not often. I wish it was different, with all my heart; and now that a Sunday School is really started, and the few that go take so much interest, I should not wonder if it was the beginning of better days: at any rate, we will hope and pray that it may be so."

The next Monday morning Edah was ready early, and went over to the school-house in good season. It was beautifully situated, being built just upon the side of a hill, shaded by large trees on one side, while upon the other, the ground descended abruptly to the bed of a brawling mountain stream, which almost made an island of the village in its circuitous course. The deep hollow, as it was called, was a favorite play place with the children, who found the earliest spring flowers on its precipitous sides, birds' nests in the bushes, and curious pebbles and small petrifactions in the bed of the stream. About half-way down the bank, one of the copious springs, so common in that part of the country, issued from under the roots of an old cedar, and ran gaily down into the brook below.

The school-house itself was built of stone, and with its surroundings of trees and rocks formed a very pretty picture. There was no one in the room when she entered, but it had been carefully swept and dusted, and a bunch of late flowers in a broken flower-pot was placed upon the desk. Standing by that desk, Edah offered a silent prayer that she might have grace to fulfil all her duties, and that she might be made the instrument of much good to those under her care.

The children dropped in, one after the other, or three or four at a time, all shy and awkward enough, and replying in monosyllables to the questions put to them by the new school-ma'am. The greater part of them were young, but there was quite a class of great grown-up boys and girls, some of whom looked older than their teacher.

When nine o'clock came, Edah took her place on the platform, and rang the bell, and the little crowd immediately took their seats in a kind of disorderly order. She waited a few minutes till all was perfectly still, and then said—

"I am very glad to meet so many pleasant faces here this morning. I hope and believe that you have all come prepared to do your best, to learn your lessons well, and behave well. I am pleased too, to see so many large boys and girls, and I presume I shall find them a great assistance. But as no undertaking can be expected to prosper which is not commenced with the blessing of God, we will begin all our mornings with prayer. I wish all present who have Testaments would open to the second chapter of St. Matthew's Gospel."

There were a few glances of surprise interchanged, but the books were produced, and the places found.

"We will read round once two verses to each," continued Edah, "and then you will all kneel and join with me in repeating the Lord's Prayer."

The verses were read round accordingly, and all knelt in a very orderly manner, but only a few voices joined in the prayer: these were Edah's Sunday scholars, one of the older girls, and Bob Raymond.

She was not unprepared for this result; but she had resolved beforehand to persevere till the experiment was fairly tried. She knew she could depend upon her Sunday scholars, and she hoped the rest would fall in by degrees. The oldest girl in the school, whose name was Martha Cowles, was a communicant of the church at Raeburn, a pleasant, unassuming young woman, with mild dark eyes, and very prepossessing in her appearance.

The first day was spent in arranging classes, ascertaining the acquirements of the pupils, and making acquaintance with them. In one of the boys Edah was especially interested, not from any personal beauty, or attractiveness of appearance, but quite the reverse. John Downing was a pale, sullen, dark-haired boy, about fourteen years old. He had good features, and might have been called handsome, but for the settled expression of discontent and ill-humor which deformed his countenance: he seldom smiled or looked up, and Edah could not help thinking that with his sullenness there was also an expression of habitual unhappiness. He seemed rather backward in his studies, and when he was placed in a lower class than the other boys of his own age, the gloom on his face deepened till it was painful to look at him.

Edah resolved to take the first opportunity to attract his confidence, and win his love. The opportunity soon presented itself, though in rather an unexpected manner. One afternoon Jack was complained of by the little ones for pinching them, pulling their hair, and otherwise annoying them. He denied these accusations at once; but Edah was very quick-sighted, and soon saw with her own eyes the offence repeated.

"You will stay a little while after school to-night, John," said she. "I must have a talk with you about this matter."

Accordingly, when the other children were dismissed, John remained in his seat, looking tenfold more dogged and sullen than ever.

When all were gone, Edah turned the key in the door, and took a seat beside him.

"It seems to me, Jack," she said, gently, "that you are a very unhappy boy."

Jack looked up in some astonishment at this address, so different from what he had expected, but dropped his eyes again on meeting Edah's serious but kindly glance.

"It seems to me that you are very unhappy," she went on. "I hardly ever see you smile or laugh, and you seem to have no friends. Why is it?"

"Nobody likes me," replied Jack, speaking suddenly, after a pause of some minutes. "There ain't anybody in the world that can bear me. The boys all hate me, and my father treats me worse than a dog. He wishes I was dead, I know, and I wish so too, I do," he concluded; and bursting into a passion of tears, he laid his head down on his folded arms, and sobbed almost hysterically.

Edah put her arm round his neck, stroked his head, and tried by caresses and kind words to compose and reassure him.

"I know I'm the worst boy that ever was," he said, after another pause, "but how can I help it! Father never speaks to me except to find fault, and never touches me except to whip me; and ma's pretty much so. They never seem to notice when I try to do right; but just as sure as I go wrong, I get a whipping. It's just so in school."

"Did I ever whip you, Jack," interrupted Edah, "or find fault with you when I could help it?"

"No, not you—there ain't many like you; but all the teachers we have had before have done so; and they always told father, and then I'd have to take it again. Well, I am hateful, I know. Sometimes it makes me feel as though I'd like to do all the mischief I can, and then I plague and tease folks, right and left."

"And does that make you feel any better?"

"No, I don't know as it does. There don't any thing make me feel better. I believe there was some good in me once, but there ain't any now, and I don't expect there ever will be again."

"Jack," said Edah, "do you believe that I am your friend? Will you believe me if I tell you that I am really anxious to befriend you, and make you happy?"

"Yes," replied Jack, after some deliberation. "If you said so, I should believe it, though it don't seem as if any one really could care for me."

"And will you follow my advice, and do as I want to have you?"

"Yes. I will try, any way."

Edah paused for a moment, and then said, in a still more serious and affectionate tone—

"Jack, do you ever think that you have a Friend in heaven, who can do more for you than any earthly friend—who loves you, and is ready to help you, as soon as you ask Him?"

"Miss Champlin," said Jack, looking at her earnestly for the first time, "do you really believe—now really and truly—that God cares anything for such a boy as I am?"

"Certainly I do, my dear; as truly as I believe I am sitting here. I know it is so, and if you ask Him, He will give you help."

"How?"

"He will show you some way out of your difficulties, and will give you strength to bear them better, and to be a better boy. For there is no doubt, Jack, that a good many of your troubles are owing to your own faults. You say that people don't like you; but is that strange? Did you expect to make Jemmy Fisher like you by pulling his hair? Or yesterday, when you threw Bob Raymond's cap up into the tree, was that the way to make friends with him? In both these cases you had no sort of provocation: is it strange that the boys do not like you when you tease them so? Now the first thing for you to do, is to get over this bad habit of teasing and annoying others. Try to think what you can do to please people instead of contriving ways to injure them, and you will soon find an alteration in their feelings towards you, and of yours towards them. The best way of learning to like those around us is to do them good.

"Now if you will take my advice, you will begin to-morrow morning with thinking what you can do to please Bob and Jemmy, and make them some amends. I know you can contrive some way, if you try: don't be discouraged, if you don't succeed well at first, but keep on trying. Be diligent in your studies, and see if you do not have a pleasant day. And first of all, ask God to give you the help you need, to be a better boy, and you may be sure He will hear you, and be glad to see you making an effort to reform, whether any one else is or not."

"I'll try," said Jack, after a moment's thought; "but I know they will only laugh at me."

"Never mind it if they do; try all the more, and by and by they will see that you are in earnest, and they will be glad to help you. Now run home, and don't stop by the way."

The next day Edah was on the watch to see the effect of her lessons. Jack came to school in excellent time, and was very industrious and quiet all the morning.

At noon a good many of the children were gathered around the door, and Jemmie Fisher, who had a great talent for tumbling, contrived to fall off the steps with his slate in his hand. He was not much hurt, but the frame of the new slate, alas! was broken, and came off.

"Never mind, Jemmie!" said Jack, taking it out of his hands. "I'll mend it for you. Don't cry, but run and find me a little bit of hard wood."

"What's going to happen now?" exclaimed Bob Raymond, who was rather a thoughtless boy. "I think the world must be coming to an end when Jack Downing offers to help any one."

The angry words, "Mind your own business—" came at once to Jack's lips, but did not pass them. He controlled himself, and said pleasantly enough—

"Better late than never, you know, Bob!" And then adding, "I wonder what that young one is about," he went in search of Jemmie.

"Bob," said Selina Bostwick, "suppose you had fallen down on the ice, and were trying to get up, and every time you got up, a little some one gave you a shove, and pushed you down again. I guess you would think it was rather mean, wouldn't you?"

"Of course I should," returned Bob; "but what of that?"

"That's just what you did to Jack just now. Now it seems to me, if he is really trying to do better, it would be kinder and more generous to help him than to hinder him."

"It wasn't quite fair, Selina, that's a fact," said Bob, coloring; "but you see I was taken by surprise. However, I'll try to make it up to him, somehow."

"Well, Jack, how have you succeeded?" asked Edah, when school was out at night. "Have you had a pleasant day?"

"Yes, ma'am," replied Jack, smiling; "a great deal pleasanter than yesterday. It was hard work to begin though, I tell you, and I'd like to have spoiled all when Bob Raymond laughed at me. But I didn't though, and I know he was sorry he laughed, for he offered to lend me his ball of his own accord afterwards."

"I see you have made a good beginning," said Edah, "and what you have now to do is to keep on, and try to do better every day. But you cannot do this in your own strength, and as sure as you try, you will fail again and again. It is only the strength which God gives that enables us to stand against temptation and to do right."

"I did say my prayers last night and this morning," said Jack, looking down; "but I could hardly believe it would do any good. It didn't seem as though there was any one to hear me."

"But have you not found it easier to be good since?"

"Yes, I think I did; and, Miss Champlin, when Bob laughed at me, I was just going to say, 'Mind your own business,' when I remembered what you said, and I don't know whether it was a prayer or not, but I wished He would help me, and then I found I could answer pleasantly. But I can hardly believe that He really did."

"I can," said Edah, "and I believe He will help you more and more, the more you ask Him. But you must try to have faith. I shall always like to have you ask me any questions, or tell me any thing that puzzles you, and I will answer you as well as I can."

Every one noticed the change in Jack from this time. He was frequently sad, and even gloomy when he came to school in the morning, or when it was time to return at night; but he was obliging, kind, and gentle, especially to the little ones, and to Edah his devotion was unbounded. She was indeed his first and for some time his only friend, but he was soon to have others raised up for him. Bob Raymond related to his uncle the change that had come over Jack, and told how sorry the boys felt for him when he came to school with his face so pale, and his eyes all swelled with crying.

"I suppose," said Mr. Bell, after a little reflection, "if I was to take Jack for an apprentice, you and he'd raise Ned together, wouldn't you?"

"We would try not to," returned Bob, laughing. "I wish you would take him, Uncle Joshua, and see if something couldn't be made of him."

"I want a boy," continued Mr. Bell, "and I don't know but I might as well have him as another. Well, don't say any thing just now, Bob, but let me see about it."

Mr. Bell saw about it accordingly, and in the course of a week Jack was established as an apprentice in his workshop, and boarding in his family. The Bells were very plain people, and not very rich, but they were kind to each other, and the children were governed on a very different plan from any to which Jack had been accustomed. It was like a heaven on earth to him. He lost his gloomy frown and downcast look; his eyes grew brighter, his manners frank and open, and though he had some pretty serious faults, Mr. Bell pronounced him, at the end of his three months' trial, a pretty good boy.

Edah had little trouble in her school. She possessed that quiet dignity of manner which seems to take obedience always for granted, and which goes so far with children. Moreover, she was their friend and counsellor in all their plans and amusements, was always ready to hear and advise them in their little troubles, and she even went so far as to assist at the construction of a playhouse in the cavity formed by a jutting rock, which sheltered a deep recess in the hill-side.

When Mrs. Downing heard of this last performance, she at once prophesied the downfall of the school. Whoever heard of a school-ma'am playing with the children, and having any authority afterwards?

But as Edah's authority suffered no diminution whatever, and the children were undeniably well-behaved, she was obliged to content herself with the declaration that children were not so managed in her time.

Meantime, the Sunday School flourished till it seemed likely to out-grow the kitchen. The numbers were now increased to twenty, and the children seemed to take more and more interest in their lessons, often doing more than was required of them, and very seldom less. Of course the Sunday exercises formed a subject of conversation among the school children during the week, and almost all the scholars became interested in it. Edah felt that she could not possibly take any more children at home. Her mother had begun to make many objections to having them there at all, and for two or three weeks her mind had been much troubled about it. She could not bear to think of giving up her little flock, and yet she felt that it was not right to annoy her mother by having them in her house against her wishes.

One day, after she had been revolving the matter in her mind, and trying to see her way out of her difficulties, three or four of the elder girls came to her in recess, and with some hesitation requested to be admitted into her Sunday School.

"I should be very glad, indeed, to have you," said Edah, "but the truth is, I have no room for you. It rather disturbs my mother now to have so many children about, and I do not exactly know what to do with those I have already."

There was a good deal of disappointment expressed in the faces of the girls, but, as if struck with a bright thought, one of them said—

"Miss Champlin, why could you not have the Sunday School here? Then there would be room enough for as many as wanted to come."

"Do you think the trustees would be willing?" asked Edah.

"I don't see why they shouldn't. They always let every one preach and lecture here, and all the town meetings are held here. Oh yes, I am sure they would."

"Then we should want fires, you know, and that would use up a good deal of wood. How should we manage about that?"

"I don't know," answered Martha Cowles. "Some of the trustees would be willing we should have what wood we wanted; but there's Mr. Downing would grudge the very water out of the spring. I dare say we could manage it somehow."

Edah promised to take the plan into consideration, and see what could be done. She saw at once that it would greatly enlarge her labors, and that she should need an assistant; but she knew Miss Gilmore would help her at any time, as well as Martha Cowles, who was a well-instructed girl, and truly pious. It seemed like taking a great deal on herself, young as she was; but she already succeeded so well in teaching, that she had no fears upon that score, and she finally decided that if she could get the use of the school-room, she would see what she could do. She mentioned the plan at tea.

"I should think you had enough to do already," said Susan. "You will make yourself sick before winter is over, and then what will become of us?"

"I do not look much like being sick just now," said Edah, smiling, and glancing in the glass. "I shall not mind the fatigue at all, if I am not needed at home. What do you say, mother?"

"You might as well be there as here, if you are going to have them at all," said Mrs. Champlin, peevishly. "We do not see you now from one week's end to another. For my part, I like to have people attend to their home duties first, and I think if you were to spend part of the time that you give to the children in attending to me, you would do quite as well."

"But you are always asleep when I am with the children on Sunday afternoon, mother."

"I do not sleep all the week, do I? You are away from morning till night. But I do not mean to object, for I know very well that I am nobody. It is very foolish in me to pretend to any authority, for no one regards me. It was not so when your father was at home," &c., &c.

"Can you manage to do without me on Sunday afternoons, Sue?" asked Edah, as soon as she had an opportunity.

"Oh, yes," replied Susan. "It is only because I am afraid you will make yourself sick that I care any thing about it. Mother always sleeps all the afternoon, and Eddy is as good as can be, poor little fellow," she added, looking tenderly at him, as he lay in her arms.

"You used to say you did not like babies," observed Edah.

"I don't like babies in general, but no one could help loving Eddy, he is so good and so helpless. I don't believe he will last much longer: he grows lighter every day."

In the course of the evening, Edah went in to have a talk with Mr. Bell, and found him quite ready to give her all the assistance in his power. He offered at once to provide all the wood that would be wanted, and Jack Downing claimed the privilege of making the fires. Miss Gilmore also was ready to assist her. She would not consent to assume the general direction, but proposed taking the younger children under her care, and Edah assigned another class to Martha Cowles.

Pauline at first demurred at being placed in Miss Gilmore's class, but she was easily brought to give up the point when she heard Edah's reasons, and thus all was settled.

On Saturday morning, Edah announced the arrangement to the scholars, and invited all who wished to attend the Sunday School to be present at two o'clock next day.

About two-thirds of the school accepted the invitation. Edah divided them into three classes, giving the younger children to Miss Gilmore and Martha, and taking the older girls and boys herself. She felt a degree of repugnance to taking the lead with an elder person present, but as Miss Gilmore positively refused the office of superintendent, she was obliged to assume it. Of course there were not books enough for all the children, and some of them looked a little disappointed, till Edah told them she hoped to have some more books before long. She had three or four dollars of her own, which she had laid by to purchase some new Spanish books, and this she now determined to devote to the library, trusting that more funds would be provided in some way.

Every thing passed off very pleasantly: the children were orderly and attentive, and seemed desirous to learn, and Edah returned home very well satisfied with the success of her experiment.