SCHOOL CLIQUES.
The trustees of Montrose Academy had not only chosen a fine site upon which to erect the building, but they had also very wisely bought twenty acres of adjacent land, and laid it out in pretty landscape gardening. There was a grove of fine old trees, that they trimmed and made winding paths where the shade was the deepest and the boughs interlaced their arms most gracefully. They cut a narrow driveway, which proved so inviting that, after a short time, there had to appear the inevitable placard, “Trespassing forbidden.” A small brook made its way surging down to the broad river that flowed through the town; this they caused to be dammed, and in a short time they had a pond, over which they built fanciful bridges. The pond was large enough for boats; and these, decked with the school color,—a dainty blue,—were always filled with pretty girls, who handled the light oars, if not with skill, at least with grace, and, as Miss Ashton knew, with perfect safety.
During the fine days of the matchless September weather, this grove was the favorite resort of the 34 girls through the hours allotted to exercise; and here Marion, having found a quiet, shaded nook where she could be sure of being alone, brought her book and did some of her best studying.
“It’s easy enough,” she thought with much self-gratulation, “to fix your mind on what you are doing, with nothing to disturb you; but it’s a different thing when there are three other minds that won’t fix at the same time. I just wish mother would try it.”
One day, however, when her satisfaction was the most complete over an easily mastered Latin lesson, a laughing face peeped down upon her through her canopy of green leaves, and a voice said,—
“Caught you, Marion Parke! Now I’m going straight in to report you to Miss Ashton, and you’ll see what you’ll get.”
“What shall I?” asked Marion, laughing back.
“She’ll ask you very politely to take a seat by her on the sofa, and then she’ll look straight in your eyes and she’ll say,—
“‘I am very sorry, Marion, to find you so soon after joining my school breaking one of my most important regulations.’ (She always says regulations; we don’t have any rules here.) ‘I had expected better things of you, as you are a minister’s daughter, and came from the far West.’”
“Is studying your lesson, then, breaking a rule?”
“Studying it in exercise hours is an unpardonable sin. Don’t you know we are sent out into the open air for rest, change, exercise? You ought to be rowing, 35 walking, playing croquet, tennis, base-ball, football. You’ve to recruit your shattered energies, instead of winding them up to the highest pitch. We’ve been watching you, but no one liked to tell you, so I came. I won’t tell Miss Ashton this time, if you’ll promise me solemnly you’ll join our croquet party, and always play on our side! Come; we’re waiting for you!”
“Wait until I come back,” said Marion, rising hastily, and gathering up her books. “I didn’t know there was any such a rule—regulation, I mean.”
Then, half frightened and half amused, she went back to the house, straight to Miss Ashton’s room.
Miss Ashton was busy, but she met her with a smile.
“Miss Ashton,” said Marion, “I am very sorry; I didn’t know it was against your wishes. I found such a lovely, quiet little nook in the grove, and I’ve been studying there when Mamie Smythe says I ought to have been exercising.”
“Then you have done wrong,” said Miss Ashton gravely. “I understand that the newness of your work makes your lessons difficult, but there is nothing to be gained by overwork. Come to me at some other time, and I will talk with you more about it. Now go, for the pleasantest thing you can find to do in the way of healthful exercise. There are some fine roses in blossom on the lawn; I wish you would pick me a nice, large bunch for my vase. Look at the poor thing! See how drooping the flowers are!” 36
Mamie Smythe’s croquet party waited in vain for Marion’s return; but on the beautiful lawn, where the late roses were doing their best to prolong their summer beauty, Marion went from bush to bush, picking the fairest, and conning a lesson which somehow seemed to her to be a postscript to her mother’s letter, that was, “Study wisely done was the only true study.”
The lawn itself, cultured and tasteful, had its share, and by no means a small one, in the work of education. Clusters of ornamental trees, dotted here and there over its soft green, were interspersed with lovely flower-beds, in which were growing not only rare flowers, but the dear old blossoms,—candytuft, narcissus, clove-pinks, jonquils, heart’s-ease, daffodils, and many another to which the eyes of some of the young girls turned lovingly, for they knew they were blossoming in their dear home garden.
As Marion was going to her room, after taking her roses to Miss Ashton, she found Mamie Smythe waiting for her.
“O you poor Marion!” she said, catching Marion by the arm, “I—I hope she didn’t scold you; she never does—never; but she looks so hurt. I never would have told on you, and nobody would. We all knew you didn’t know; I’m so sorry!”
“I told on myself,” said Marion, laughing, “and she punished me. Don’t you see how broken-hearted I am?”
“What did she do to you? Why, Marion Parke, 37 she is always good to those who confess and don’t wait to be found out!”
“She sent me out to pick her a lovely bunch of roses.”
“Oh!” said Mamie. Then a small crowd of girls gathered round them, Mamie telling them the story in her own peculiar way, much to their amusement; for Mamie was the baby and the wit of the school, a spoiled child at home, a generous, merry favorite at school, a good scholar when she chose to be, but fonder of fun and mischief than of her books, consequently a trouble to her teachers. She was a classmate of Marion, and for some unaccountable reason, as no two could have been more unlike, had taken a great fancy to her, one of those fancies which are apt to abound in any gathering of young girls. Had Marion returned it with equal ardor, the two, even short as the term had been, would be now inseparable; but Marion had her room-mates for company when her lessons left her any time, and Gladys and Dorothy had already learned to love her. As for Susan, she seemed of little account in their room. She would have said of herself that she “moved in a very different circle,” and that was true; even a boarding-school has its cliques, and to one of the largest of these Susan prided herself upon belonging. Just what it consisted of it would be difficult to say, certainly not of the best scholars, for then both Gladys and Dorothy would have been there; not of the wealthiest girls, for then, again, Gladys Philbrick 38 was one of the richest girls in the school; not of the most mischievous, or of idlers, for then Miss Ashton would have found some way of separating them; yet there it was, certain girls clubbing together at all hours and in all places, where any intercourse was allowed, to the exclusion of others: walking together, having spreads in each other’s rooms, going to concerts, to meetings, anywhere and everywhere, always together.
Miss Ashton, in her twenty years of experience had seen a great deal of this; but she had learned that the best way of dealing with it was to be ignorant of it, unless it interfered in some way with the regular duties of the school. This it had only done occasionally, and then had met with prompt discipline. As several of the leaders had graduated the last Commencement, she had hoped, as she had done many times before, only to be disappointed, that the new year would see less of it; but it had seemed to her already to have assumed more importance than ever, so early in the fall term.
She very soon saw Mamie Smythe’s devotion to Marion, and knowing how fascinating the girl could make herself when she wished, and how genial was Marion’s great Western heart, she expected she would be drawn into the clique. On some accounts she wished she might be, for she had already begun to feel that where Marion was, there would be law and order; but, on the whole, she was pleased to see that her new pupil, while she was rapidly making 39 her way into that most difficult of all positions in a school to fill, that of general favorite, was doing so without choosing any girl for her bosom friend.
“She helps me,” Miss Ashton thought with much self-gratulation, “for she is not only a winsome, merry girl, but a fine scholar, and already her Christian influence begins to tell.”