الفصل الفصل 5 · WISDOM'S WAYS

. WISDOM'S WAYS

WISDOM'S WAYS

The day of Rebecca's arrival had been Friday, and on the Monday

following she began her education at the school which was in Riverboro

Centre, about a mile distant. Miss Sawyer borrowed a neighbor's horse

and wagon and drove her to the schoolhouse, interviewing the teacher,

Miss Dearborn, arranging for books, and generally starting the child on

the path that was to lead to boundless knowledge. Miss Dearborn, it may

be said in passing, had had no special preparation in the art of

teaching. It came to her naturally, so her family said, and perhaps for

this reason she, like Tom Tulliver's clergyman tutor, "set about it

with that uniformity of method and independence of circumstances which

distinguish the actions of animals understood to be under the immediate

teaching of Nature." You remember the beaver which a naturalist tells

us "busied himself as earnestly in constructing a dam in a room up

three pair of stairs in London as if he had been laying his foundation

in a lake in Upper Canada. It was his function to build, the absence of

water or of possible progeny was an accident for which he was not

accountable." In the same manner did Miss Dearborn lay what she fondly

imagined to be foundations in the infant mind.

Rebecca walked to school after the first morning. She loved this part

of the day's programme. When the dew was not too heavy and the weather

was fair there was a short cut through the woods. She turned off the

main road, crept through uncle Josh Woodman's bars, waved away Mrs.

Carter's cows, trod the short grass of the pasture, with its well-worn

path running through gardens of buttercups and white-weed, and groves

of ivory leaves and sweet fern. She descended a little hill, jumped

from stone to stone across a woodland brook, startling the drowsy

frogs, who were always winking and blinking in the morning sun. Then

came the "woodsy bit," with her feet pressing the slippery carpet of

brown pine needles; the "woodsy bit" so full of dewy morning,

surprises,--fungous growths of brilliant orange and crimson springing

up around the stumps of dead trees, beautiful things born in a single

night; and now and then the miracle of a little clump of waxen Indian

pipes, seen just quickly enough to be saved from her careless tread.

Then she climbed a stile, went through a grassy meadow, slid under

another pair of bars, and came out into the road again having gained

nearly half a mile.

How delicious it all was! Rebecca clasped her Quackenbos's Grammar and

Greenleaf's Arithmetic with a joyful sense of knowing her lessons. Her

dinner pail swung from her right hand, and she had a blissful

consciousness of the two soda biscuits spread with butter and syrup,

the baked cup-custard, the doughnut, and the square of hard

gingerbread. Sometimes she said whatever "piece" she was going to speak

on the next Friday afternoon.

"A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers,

There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of

woman's tears."

How she loved the swing and the sentiment of it! How her young voice

quivered whenever she came to the refrain:--

"But we'll meet no more at Bingen, dear Bingen on the Rhine."

It always sounded beautiful in her ears, as she sent her tearful little

treble into the clear morning air. Another early favorite (for we must

remember that Rebecca's only knowledge of the great world of poetry

consisted of the selections in vogue in school readers) was:--

"Woodman, spare that tree!

Touch not a single bough!

In youth it sheltered me,

And I'll protect it now."

When Emma Jane Perkins walked through the "short cut" with her, the two

children used to render this with appropriate dramatic action. Emma

Jane always chose to be the woodman because she had nothing to do but

raise on high an imaginary axe. On the one occasion when she essayed

the part of the tree's romantic protector, she represented herself as

feeling "so awful foolish" that she refused to undertake it again, much

to the secret delight of Rebecca, who found the woodman's role much too

tame for her vaulting ambition. She reveled in the impassioned appeal

of the poet, and implored the ruthless woodman to be as brutal as

possible with the axe, so that she might properly put greater spirit

into her lines. One morning, feeling more frisky than usual, she fell

upon her knees and wept in the woodman's petticoat. Curiously enough,

her sense of proportion rejected this as soon as it was done.

"That wasn't right, it was silly, Emma Jane; but I'll tell you where it

might come in--in Give me Three Grains of Corn. You be the mother, and

I'll be the famishing Irish child. For pity's sake put the axe down;

you are not the woodman any longer!"

"What'll I do with my hands, then?" asked Emma Jane.

"Whatever you like," Rebecca answered wearily; "you're just a

mother--that's all. What does YOUR mother do with her hands? Now here

goes!

"'Give me three grains of corn, mother,

Only three grains of corn,

'T will keep the little life I have

Till the coming of the morn.'"

This sort of thing made Emma Jane nervous and fidgety, but she was

Rebecca's slave and hugged her chains, no matter how uncomfortable they

made her.

At the last pair of bars the two girls were sometimes met by a

detachment of the Simpson children, who lived in a black house with a

red door and a red barn behind, on the Blueberry Plains road. Rebecca

felt an interest in the Simpsons from the first, because there were so

many of them and they were so patched and darned, just like her own

brood at the home farm.

The little schoolhouse with its flagpole on top and its two doors in

front, one for boys and the other for girls, stood on the crest of a

hill, with rolling fields and meadows on one side, a stretch of pine

woods on the other, and the river glinting and sparkling in the

distance. It boasted no attractions within. All was as bare and ugly

and uncomfortable as it well could be, for the villages along the river

expended so much money in repairing and rebuilding bridges that they

were obliged to be very economical in school privileges. The teacher's

desk and chair stood on a platform in one corner; there was an uncouth

stove, never blackened oftener than once a year, a map of the United

States, two black-boards, a ten-quart tin pail of water and

long-handled dipper on a corner shelf, and wooden desks and benches for

the scholars, who only numbered twenty in Rebecca's time. The seats

were higher in the back of the room, and the more advanced and

longer-legged pupils sat there, the position being greatly to be

envied, as they were at once nearer to the windows and farther from the

teacher.

There were classes of a sort, although nobody, broadly speaking,

studied the same book with anybody else, or had arrived at the same

degree of proficiency in any one branch of learning. Rebecca in

particular was so difficult to classify that Miss Dearborn at the end

of a fortnight gave up the attempt altogether. She read with Dick

Carter and Living Perkins, who were fitting for the academy; recited

arithmetic with lisping little Thuthan Thimpthon; geography with Emma

Jane Perkins, and grammar after school hours to Miss Dearborn alone.

Full to the brim as she was of clever thoughts and quaint fancies, she

made at first but a poor hand at composition. The labor of writing and

spelling, with the added difficulties of punctuation and capitals,

interfered sadly with the free expression of ideas. She took history

with Alice Robinson's class, which was attacking the subject of the

Revolution, while Rebecca was bidden to begin with the discovery of

America. In a week she had mastered the course of events up to the

Revolution, and in ten days had arrived at Yorktown, where the class

had apparently established summer quarters. Then finding that extra

effort would only result in her reciting with the oldest Simpson boy,

she deliberately held herself back, for wisdom's ways were not those of

pleasantness nor her paths those of peace if one were compelled to

tread them in the company of Seesaw Simpson. Samuel Simpson was

generally called Seesaw, because of his difficulty in making up his

mind. Whether it were a question of fact, of spelling, or of date, of

going swimming or fishing, of choosing a book in the Sunday-school

library or a stick of candy at the village store, he had no sooner

determined on one plan of action than his wish fondly reverted to the

opposite one. Seesaw was pale, flaxen haired, blue eyed, round

shouldered, and given to stammering when nervous. Perhaps because of

his very weakness Rebecca's decision of character had a fascination for

him, and although she snubbed him to the verge of madness, he could

never keep his eyes away from her. The force with which she tied her

shoe when the lacing came undone, the flirt over shoulder she gave her

black braid when she was excited or warm, her manner of studying,--book

on desk, arms folded, eyes fixed on the opposite wall,--all had an

abiding charm for Seesaw Simpson. When, having obtained permission, she

walked to the water pail in the corner and drank from the dipper,

unseen forces dragged Seesaw from his seat to go and drink after her.

It was not only that there was something akin to association and

intimacy in drinking next, but there was the fearful joy of meeting her

in transit and receiving a cold and disdainful look from her wonderful

eyes.

On a certain warm day in summer Rebecca's thirst exceeded the bounds of

propriety. When she asked a third time for permission to quench it at

the common fountain Miss Dearborn nodded "yes," but lifted her eyebrows

unpleasantly as Rebecca neared the desk. As she replaced the dipper

Seesaw promptly raised his hand, and Miss Dearborn indicated a weary

affirmative.

"What is the matter with you, Rebecca?" she asked.

"I had salt mackerel for breakfast," answered Rebecca.

There seemed nothing humorous about this reply, which was merely the

statement of a fact, but an irrepressible titter ran through the

school. Miss Dearborn did not enjoy jokes neither made nor understood

by herself, and her face flushed.

"I think you had better stand by the pail for five minutes, Rebecca; it

may help you to control your thirst."

Rebecca's heart fluttered. She to stand in the corner by the water pail

and be stared at by all the scholars! She unconsciously made a gesture

of angry dissent and moved a step nearer her seat, but was arrested by

Miss Dearborn's command in a still firmer voice.

"Stand by the pail, Rebecca! Samuel, how many times have you asked for

water to-day?"

"This is the f-f-fourth."

"Don't touch the dipper, please. The school has done nothing but drink

this afternoon; it has had no time whatever to study. I suppose you had

something salt for breakfast, Samuel?" queried Miss Dearborn with

sarcasm.

"I had m-m-mackerel, j-just like Reb-b-becca." (Irrepressible giggles

by the school.)

"I judged so. Stand by the other side of the pail, Samuel."

Rebecca's head was bowed with shame and wrath. Life looked too black a

thing to be endured. The punishment was bad enough, but to be coupled

in correction with Seesaw Simpson was beyond human endurance.

Singing was the last exercise in the afternoon, and Minnie Smellie

chose Shall we Gather at the River? It was a baleful choice and seemed

to hold some secret and subtle association with the situation and

general progress of events; or at any rate there was apparently some

obscure reason for the energy and vim with which the scholars shouted

the choral invitation again and again:--

"Shall we gather at the river,

The beautiful, the beautiful river?"

Miss Dearborn stole a look at Rebecca's bent head and was frightened.

The child's face was pale save for two red spots glowing on her cheeks.

Tears hung on her lashes; her breath came and went quickly, and the

hand that held her pocket handkerchief trembled like a leaf.

"You may go to your seat, Rebecca," said Miss Dearborn at the end of

the first song. "Samuel, stay where you are till the close of school.

And let me tell you, scholars, that I asked Rebecca to stand by the

pail only to break up this habit of incessant drinking, which is

nothing but empty-mindedness and desire to walk to and fro over the

floor. Every time Rebecca has asked for a drink to-day the whole school

has gone to the pail one after another. She is really thirsty, and I

dare say I ought to have punished you for following her example, not

her for setting it. What shall we sing now, Alice?"

"The Old Oaken Bucket, please."

"Think of something dry, Alice, and change the subject. Yes, The Star

Spangled Banner if you like, or anything else."

Rebecca sank into her seat and pulled the singing book from her desk.

Miss Dearborn's public explanation had shifted some of the weight from

her heart, and she felt a trifle raised in her self-esteem.

Under cover of the general relaxation of singing, votive offerings of

respectful sympathy began to make their appearance at her shrine.

Living Perkins, who could not sing, dropped a piece of maple sugar in

her lap as he passed her on his way to the blackboard to draw the map

of Maine. Alice Robinson rolled a perfectly new slate pencil over the

floor with her foot until it reached Rebecca's place, while her

seat-mate, Emma Jane, had made up a little mound of paper balls and

labeled them "Bullets for you know who."

Altogether existence grew brighter, and when she was left alone with

the teacher for her grammar lesson she had nearly recovered her

equanimity, which was more than Miss Dearborn had. The last clattering

foot had echoed through the hall, Seesaw's backward glance of penitence

had been met and answered defiantly by one of cold disdain.

"Rebecca, I am afraid I punished you more than I meant," said Miss

Dearborn, who was only eighteen herself, and in her year of teaching

country schools had never encountered a child like Rebecca.

"I hadn't missed a question this whole day, nor whispered either,"

quavered the culprit; "and I don't think I ought to be shamed just for

drinking."

"You started all the others, or it seemed as if you did. Whatever you

do they all do, whether you laugh, or miss, or write notes, or ask to

leave the room, or drink; and it must be stopped."

"Sam Simpson is a copycoat!" stormed Rebecca "I wouldn't have minded

standing in the corner alone--that is, not so very much; but I couldn't

bear standing with him."

"I saw that you couldn't, and that's the reason I told you to take your

seat, and left him in the corner. Remember that you are a stranger in

the place, and they take more notice of what you do, so you must be

careful. Now let's have our conjugations. Give me the verb 'to be,'

potential mood, past perfect tense."

"I might have been "We might have been

Thou mightst have been You might have been

He might have been They might have been."

"Give me an example, please."

"I might have been glad

Thou mightst have been glad

He, she, or it might have been glad."

"'He' or 'she' might have been glad because they are masculine and

feminine, but could 'it' have been glad?" asked Miss Dearborn, who was

very fond of splitting hairs.

"Why not?" asked Rebecca

"Because 'it' is neuter gender."

"Couldn't we say, 'The kitten might have been glad if it had known it

was not going to be drowned'?"

"Ye--es," Miss Dearborn answered hesitatingly, never very sure of

herself under Rebecca's fire; "but though we often speak of a baby, a

chicken, or a kitten as 'it,' they are really masculine or feminine

gender, not neuter."

Rebecca reflected a long moment and then asked, "Is a hollyhock neuter?"

"Oh yes, of course it is, Rebecca"

"Well, couldn't we say, 'The hollyhock might have been glad to see the

rain, but there was a weak little hollyhock bud growing out of its

stalk and it was afraid that that might be hurt by the storm; so the

big hollyhock was kind of afraid, instead of being real glad'?"

Miss Dearborn looked puzzled as she answered, "Of course, Rebecca,

hollyhocks could not be sorry, or glad, or afraid, really."

"We can't tell, I s'pose," replied the child; "but _I_ think they are,

anyway. Now what shall I say?"

"The subjunctive mood, past perfect tense of the verb 'to know.'"

"If I had known "If we had known

If thou hadst known If you had known

If he had known If they had known.

"Oh, it is the saddest tense," sighed Rebecca with a little break in

her voice; "nothing but IFS, IFS, IFS! And it makes you feel that if

they only HAD known, things might have been better!"

Miss Dearborn had not thought of it before, but on reflection she

believed the subjunctive mood was a "sad" one and "if" rather a sorry

"part of speech."

"Give me some more examples of the subjunctive, Rebecca, and that will

do for this afternoon," she said.

"If I had not loved mackerel I should not have been thirsty;" said

Rebecca with an April smile, as she closed her grammar. "If thou hadst

loved me truly thou wouldst not have stood me up in the corner. If

Samuel had not loved wickedness he would not have followed me to the

water pail."

"And if Rebecca had loved the rules of the school she would have

controlled her thirst," finished Miss Dearborn with a kiss, and the two

parted friends.