School-days in 1800 — A Closer Reading

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.

You 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.

_THE TREASURE-SEEKERS._

I HAD only one serious trouble in school, and that trouble's name was Sarah Millar. I cannot even now explain the influence she had over me. She was not handsome or specially bright, and certainly she was not amiable. I cannot say I ever liked her, and at times I almost hated her, yet I really think she led me into all the serious scrapes in which I was ever involved before I was nine years old. I don't think she cared a pin for me personally. I believe she took that way to annoy Jeanne, whom she hated because she said Jeanne "felt above her."

One of these scrapes I specially remember, because it was the means of breaking off my intercourse with Sarah. It came about in this way. One day late in the fall my father and mother went away on a visit to some cousins in Lanesborough, taking with them Jeanne and Ruth, but leaving my brothers and myself at home under the care of Rose. They were to be gone several days, and mother enjoined me to be very good, to go to school every day, and mind what Rose told me; promising if she heard a good account of me on her return to bring me something pretty from my cousin's store in Lanesborough.

But I did not feel at all like being good. I was vexed at being left at home, and thought myself hardly treated. True, I had my mother's promise that I should go next time she went anywhere, and I knew that mother's promises were as sure as any human thing can be; but who knew when "next time" would come? Perhaps not in all winter. It was with a very ill-used feeling that I saw my friends depart on their journey and obeyed the somewhat imperative summons of Rose:

"Don't stand there in the cold, honey, without nothing on your head. Come in and get ready for school."

"I don't want to go to school alone," I answered, sulkily enough; "I'm going to stay at home till mother comes back—or to-day, at any rate," I added, reflecting that I might, after all find staying at home rather tiresome.

"You ain't going to stay to home to-day nor no other day," was the decided reply. "Your mother told me you was to go regular every day just the same as if she was at home. So you just put all such nonsense out of your head. Go and brush your hair and lace up your boots real nice, and I'll put up a first-rate dinner for you. I baked a little pumpkin pie yesterday just on purpose, and you shall have the piece of loaf-cake that was left last night. Come, now; better be stirring before I come there."

Moved by this judicious mixture of sweet and acid arguments, I did really go and get ready for school, relenting somewhat from my sulkiness when I discovered by peeping into my basket that Rose had more than fulfilled her promise with regard to my dinner. During my long and lonely walk, however,—for Ezra and Tom had, as usual, gone off without concerning themselves about me,—the rebellious thoughts again came uppermost, and I was trudging along in a very discontented state, when I was joined by Sarah Millar.

"Seems to me you look dreadful discontented and out of sorts," was her salutation. "What's the matter?" Then, without waiting for an answer, "Pa saw your folks driving up toward Pittsfield this morning, and I supposed, of course, that you'd be along. Why didn't you go?"

"Mother said I should go next time," I answered, not very directly. "It was Jeanne's turn this morning."

"Oh!" said Sarah, in a peculiar tone. "It generally is 'Jeanne's turn,' isn't it?"

I had never thought of it in that way, but now that I was reminded of the circumstance it did seem to me that "Jeanne's turn" had come pretty often lately.

"I'm sure you are dreadful good to think so much of that French girl as you do," pursued Sarah, in whose vocabulary the word "dreadful" answered the same purposes that are now subserved by "awful." "I know 'I' shouldn't like to have a strange girl coming in and taking my place with my father and mother. Only for her you would be the eldest daughter, wouldn't you?"

It had never occurred to me that it was any hardship "not" to be the eldest daughter, but I immediately began to think of it in that light; which was no doubt just what Sarah intended, for she was a born mischief-maker.

"But never mind that now," said she. "What are you going to do while they are away?"

"I'm sure I don't know," I answered, in a melancholy tone. And then, recollecting myself and brightening up a little, "Only, Rose says she will begin to teach me to spin; and Jenny Hyde and I mean to make a new play-house."

"Dear me! I should think you'd be ashamed!" said Sarah, contemptuously—"A great girl like you to be making play-houses and rag-babies with Jenny Hyde! And I would not be in a hurry to learn to spin, either. Once you know how, they will keep you at it all the while, and you won't get any time to play at all. I'll tell you what to do: come home with me after school and stay all night."

"Rose won't let me," I answered.

"Pshaw! Who's Rose, I should like to know, that you should mind her? I guess I wouldn't be ordered by an old woman like Rose."

"Mother wouldn't let me if she were at home," said I, abandoning Rose. "She never does let me go home with any of the girls except Jenny Hyde."

"Oh yes, your folks think a great deal of Jenny Hyde. Guess, if your mother knew how Mrs. Hyde talked about her—But never mind that. Anyhow, your mother isn't at home, and she won't know it. Come, Olly; come home and stay with me, and we will have such fun."

"Well, I'll ask Miss Tempy," said I, yielding more and more.

"Ask Miss Tempy! Olive Corbet, I do think you are too silly for anything! Of course Miss Tempy won't let you go. She hates me like poison because my folks are poor and live on the mountain. But never mind! Just wait a little," said Sarah, nodding her head and compressing her lips—"just wait a while, and then see who'll have their silk dresses, and gold watches all set with diamonds, and gold finger-rings and ear-rings. She won't be so proud of her old silver watch then. Why, I wouldn't speak to her after that—not if she was to go down on her knees to me."

"After what?" I asked, very much interested, but unable to picture to myself such an event as Miss Tempy's going down on her knees to Sarah Millar.

"Never mind. It's a great secret, but perhaps I'll tell you if you'll go home with me. Come, say you will, and show that you are not afraid of an old black woman, and that you can have some good times as well as that Jeanne Dupont."

All day long as she had opportunity Sarah plied her arts of persuasion, and at last I yielded. My brothers had never taken any care as to my comings and goings, and it happened that Jenny Hyde, with whom I usually walked home, was not at school that day; so, as seems so often to happen with young transgressors, every hindrance was taken out of my way. Except, indeed, my own misgivings. These grew stronger and stronger at every step which I made away from home and in the direction of Beartown Mountain, at the side of which Sarah Millar's father lived.

It was a pretty long walk, and I was not very strong, and lagged behind in a way which caused Sarah to speak sharply to me more than once. The last time this happened I took a sudden resolution:

"I am not going any farther, Sarah; I have changed my mind. I remember something I want to do at home."

I expected Sarah would begin to urge me, and was very much surprised when she answered, coolly,—

"All right. I'm sure I don't care if you are not afraid. 'I' am in a hurry to get home before dark, and there isn't any time to spare, either. However, you had better hurry, and 'perhaps' you won't see any."

"Any what?" I asked, conscious of a certain chilliness at her words, for I was by no means distinguished for courage.

"Father heard one on the mountain last night," continued Sarah; "but maybe it won't come down—unless a storm should come up," she added, looking at the clouds, which did seem rather threatening.

"Heard what?" I asked, impatiently.

"Oh, nothing much—only a painter, that's all."

Now, painters, or panthers, were the most terrible beasts of which I had any knowledge. Many tales were told of their courage, ferocity, and cunning, and we children dreaded them with much the same kind of feeling that I suppose German children entertain toward the wehr-wolves, considering them as a kind of supernatural monsters.

"Won't you go part of the way with me?" I asked, feeling my heart sink within me at the prospect of the long, lonely walk and the painter, who might be even then lying in wait for me.

"Not I, indeed!" returned Sarah, beginning to walk on very fast. "Good-night, Olive. I hope there won't anything catch you—I 'hope' there won't."

I shall never forget how utterly despairing was the feeling that came over me there by the road-side in that lonely place under the shadow of the wild mountain, deserted as I seemed to be by all the world, even by my temptress herself. I sat down on a stone and began to cry bitterly.

"Oh, come! Don't sit there and cry," said Sarah, returning to my side. "Come along, and we'll be at our house long before dark. It is only a little farther—just past that great hollow tree where they killed the bear when I was a little girl. Come, make up your mind quick," she added, impatiently.

There seemed to be nothing left but to go on as I had begun. I arose and walked with Sarah up the road, which began now rapidly to ascend, and we soon reached her father's house. It was a low, unpainted structure, standing on the edge of a deep ravine which indented the mountain side, and through which ran a small stream. This stream was usually only a trickling, purling brook; but when swelled by rain or snow, it often became a noisy, roaring torrent.

The house consisted of only two rooms below and a garret above, and was more rudely finished than any I had ever seen at that time, the ceiling being only the rough boards which formed the floor of the garret, and all the furniture and wood-work being of the rudest description. There was no mantel-piece to the chimney, which seemed now and then to draw the wrong way, and sent great puffs of smoke out into the room. An old woman, whom I took to be Sarah's mother, but who I found out was her grandmother, sat in the chimney-corner smoking, and there were two grown-up girls in the room, one of whom was spinning and the other preparing supper.

"Now, Sally, what in the world have you brought that young one here for?" was the salutation of the elder sister, whose name I found was Melinda. Then, turning to me, with more kindness in her tone, "And how did you happen to come, child? I don't believe your mother knew it."

"Suppose she didn't?" said Sarah, pertly. "I guess my folks are as good as hers any day. Come, Olive, take off your bonnet and make yourself at home. Let's go up stairs."

Up stairs we went; but as to making myself at home, it was wholly out of my power. Though it was well on in October, the weather was sultry and close, and the garret was oppressively hot, the air therein being rendered more stifling still by the odour of various herbs hanging up to dry, and by the smell of tobacco ascending from the regions below.

"My! How hot!" said Sarah, going to the window. "Come here, Olive, and look out."

I obeyed, and started back in surprise and some alarm. The house stood on the very edge of the ravine I have mentioned, which was here very deep, precipitous, and dark, with hemlocks and other evergreens growing in the bottom below. As we looked out a screech-owl not far away set up his horrid, quavering scream, more like the noise made by a woman in a fit than anything else I can think of. I started back in alarm.

"You needn't be scared," said Sarah; "he won't hurt you. He has been here ever since we have."

"What is it?" I asked.

"Won't you never, never tell as long as you live and breathe?" asked Sarah, solemnly.

I gave the required promise.

"Well, father says, but you must be sure not to tell, that that bird—it's an owl—is a money-watcher, and not a real owl at all."

"'A money-watcher'!" I repeated. "What is that?"

"Why, a money-watcher—a thing that stays round where treasure is buried to watch it and scare folks away. Just as soon as father heard that thing, he guessed it was a money-watcher, and he went to somebody that knows about such things, and he said there was a great deal of gold and jewels buried somewhere in this ravine, and if any one should look for it in the right time and the right way, he would get every bit of it. And he told father that there were great chests full of money and pearls diamonds and great bowls and cups of gold and silver. So then we'll see who'll have the silks and satins," concluded Sarah, in a tone of triumph.

"But he hasn't found the treasure yet, and perhaps he won't," said I.

"Oh yes, he will. The wise man said he might fail a good many times, but he would come nearer every time; and so he has. But he can only try at a particular time of the moon and when everything is right."

"Suppose somebody finds the treasure before your father?" said I.