Chapter VII
School was out; and the seats looked as if the pupils had just left the tediousness of it all lying there. The map of Europe looked down peevishly on the heap of writing-pads. There lay the mutilated and well-worn goose-quills, which since time immemorial have opened up the gates of learning. True, the black-board vaunted itself with the heavy results of the last lesson in “fractions”; but the school was no more. The spirit had fled: It was a corpse.
Yes, the “Geist” had gone out with the children; for the reader will see in a moment that they carried about with them a tremendous amount of that article.
We already know that this was the great day when Pennewip was to criticise the poetical effusions of his young geniuses. There he sat, his restless wig sharing all the poetical feelings and emotions—and motions—of its owner. We will just look over his shoulder and read with him those inestimable treasures of poetic art; and perhaps we too shall be moved to emotion.
Wig: In the middle, resting quietly.
Lucas de Bryer: “Our Native Land.”
Cake and wine and native land,
Out in the moonlight I take my stand;
Our native land and cake and wine,
And I hope the moon will shine;
Five fingers have I on my hand,
All to honor our native land.
“Melodious,” said the teacher, “very melodious; and very profound. Cake and wine, with our native land as a climax.”
Wig: On the right side.
Lizzie Webbelar: “My Father’s Vocation.”
The cat is sly, I know;
My father is a dealer in Po-
Tatoes and onions.
“Original, immediate! But I don’t like the way she cuts her potatoes in twain.”
Wig: On the left side.
Jeanette Rust: “The Weather-cock.”
He stands on the chimney since long ago,
And shows the wind which way to blow.
“Smooth, but not quite correct, if examined closely—but I’ll let it pass as poetic license.”
Wig: Down in front.