"GRANDMA GRAYMOUSE"
"Hoopty-Doo!" shouted Jimmy, alighting on the piazza on all fours. "A little girl like that keep school!"
"Well, she is going to," returned Edith, looking up from the picture she was drawing of a cherub in the clouds, "she's going to; and Mr. Templeton says the Castle Cliff people are as pleased as they can be."
"I heard what he said," struck in Nate. "He said they jumped at it like a dolphin at a silver spoon."
"He's always talking about that dolphin and that silver spoon," laughed Edith. "If I knew how a dolphin looks, I'd draw one and give it to him just for fun. But mamma, you don't expect me to go to school to that little girl; now do you?"
"Certainly not, Edith; oh, no."
"Must I go to Grandmother Graymouse?" whined Jimmy, "She's only my sister. And I came up here to play."
"Play all you like, my son. No one will ask you to go school."
"But I really want to go," said Nate. "I wouldn't miss it for anything. A girl's school like that will be larks. Only four hours anyway, two in the forenoon and two in the afternoon. Time enough left for play."
"H'm, if that's all, let's go," cried Jimmy. "We can leave off any time we get tired of it."
Kyzie heard this as she was crossing the hall.
"Why, boys," she said, "you don't live in Castle Cliff! It's the Castle Cliff children I'm going to teach—the little ones, you know."
"But papa said if you'd show me about my arithmetic—" began Nate.
"Perhaps I don't know so much as you do, Nate. But if you go you'll be good, won't you—you and Jimmy both?"
She spoke with some concern. "For if you're naughty, the other boys will think they can be naughty too; and I shan't know what in the world to do with them."
"Oh, we'll sit up as straight as ninepins; we'll show 'em how city boys behave," said Nate, making a bow to Kyzie.
He could be a perfect little gentleman when he chose. He liked to tease Jimmy, younger than himself, but had always been polite to Kyzie. Still Kyzie did not altogether like the thought of having a boy of twelve for a pupil. What if he should laugh at her behind his slate?
Here Barbara and Lucy appeared upon the veranda, holding Edith's new kitty between them.
"We're going. We'll sit together and cut out paper dolls and eat figs under the seat," declared Lucy, never doubting that this would be pleasing news to the young teacher.
Before Kyzie had time to say, "Why, Lucy!" little Eddo ran up the steps to ask in haste:—
"Where's Lucy going? I fink I'll go too."
Kyzie could bear no more. She ran and hid in the hammock and cried. They all thought she was to have a sort of play-school; did they? They were going just for fun. She must talk to mamma. Mamma thought the school was foolish business; but mamma always knew what ought to be done, and how to help do it. Or if mamma ever felt puzzled, there was papa to go to,—papa, who could not possibly make a mistake. Between them they would see that their eldest daughter was treated fairly.
Monday morning came. Kyzie's courage had revived. Eddo would be kept at home; Lucy and Bab had been informed that they were not to cut paper dolls, though they might write on their slates. All that they thought of just now, the dear "little two," was of dressing to "look exactly alike." As Bab had learned once for all that her hair would not curl, she spent half an hour that morning braiding her auntie's ringlets down her back, and tying the cue with a pink ribbon like her own. But for all the little barber could do the flaxen cue would not lie flat. It was an old story, but very provoking.
"Oh dear," wailed Lucy, "'most school-time and my hair is all over my head!"
It did look wild. You could almost fancy it was angry because it had not been allowed to curl after its own graceful fashion.
The "little two" started off in good season, hoping not to be seen by Eddo; but he espied them from the window, and they heard him calling till his baby voice was lost in the distance:—
"You ought to not leave me! You ought to not leave m-e-e!"
"He wants to go everywhere big people go."
"Yes," responded Bab. "Such babies think they are as old as anybody. Oh, see that Mexican dog, how straight his tail stands up!"
"Like your hair," sighed Lucy. "If my hair would only be straight like that!"
And neither of them smiled at this droll remark.
"But there's one thing we must remember, Bab. I'm glad I thought of it. We must say, 'Miss' to Kyzie."
"Miss what?"
"Miss Dunlee. If we forget it, she'll feel dreadfully." And then they began to hum a tune and keep step to the music. They often did this as they walked.
Kyzie had gone on before them. Her father was with her, but she had the key in her hand and opened the schoolhouse door. They walked in together, and Kyzie locked the door behind them, for several children were waiting about who must not enter till the bell rang.
The schoolhouse floor was very clean; the new teacher herself had swept it. On the walls were large wreaths of holly, which had been left over from last Christmas, when the Sunday-school had had a celebration here. At one end of the room was a raised platform with a large desk on it. On the wall over the desk was a motto made of red pepper berries, only the words were so close together that you could not make them out unless you knew beforehand what they were.
"That means, 'Christ is risen,'" explained Kyzie. "It looks dreadfully, but they didn't want it taken down, I'll make another by and by."
There were blackboards on three sides of the room; quite clean they looked now. The desks and benches were rude ones of black oak, and had been hacked by jack-knives. Kyzie regretted this, but supposed the boys had not been taught any better. There was only one chair in the room, a large armed chair for the little teacher, and it stood solemnly on the platform before the desk.
"You see, papa, I've brought a big blank-book to write the names in. The pen and inkstand belong here. Ahem, I begin to tremble," said she, and looked at her mother's watch which she wore in her belt. "It's five minutes of nine."
"Oh, you'll do famously," said Mr. Dunlee. "And now, daughter, I'll wish you good-by and the very best luck in the world."
"Good-by, papa," said Kyzie, and locked the door after him. "I wish I'd asked him to stay till I called them in and took their names. Papa is so dignified that it would have been a great help. My, I feel as if I weren't more than six years old!"
She walked the floor, watch in hand. "Fifty seconds of nine."
She went to the bell-rope and pulled with both hands. It was quite needless to use so much force. The bell was directly over her head; and instead of the "mellow lin-lan-lone" she expected, it made a din so tremendous that it almost seemed as if the roof were about to fall upon her. At the same time there was a scrambling and pounding at the door. The children were trying to get in.
"Oh, miserable me, I've locked them out!" thought the little teacher in dismay.
She hastened to the door and opened it, and they rushed in with a shout. This was an odd beginning; but Kyzie said not a word. She remembered that she was now Miss Dunlee, so she threw back her shoulders and looked her straightest and tallest, and as much as possible like Miss Prince, her favorite teacher. She had intended all along to imitate Miss Prince—whenever she could think of it.
Only fourteen years old! Well, what of that? Grandma Parlin had been only fourteen when she taught her first school. Keep a brave heart, Katharine Dunlee!
Joe Rolfe walked in as stiffly as a wooden soldier. Behind him came a few boys and girls, some of them with their fingers in their mouths. There were twelve in all. The last ones to enter were Nate and Jimmy, followed by Aunt Lucy and her niece arm in arm.
"I wonder if Nate is laughing at me for locking the door?" thought Kyzie, not daring to look at him, as she waved her hands and said in a loud voice to be heard above the noise:—
"All please be seated."
Being seated was a work of time; and what a din it made! The children wandered about, trying one bench after another to see which they liked best.
"You would think they were getting settled for life," whispered Nate to Jimmy.
The "little two" chose a place near the west window and began at once to write on their slates.
"I'm scared of Miss Dunlee," wrote Aunt Lucy.
"Stop making me laugh," replied the niece.
When at last everybody was "settled for life," Kyzie did not know what to do next. "What would Miss Prince do? Why she would read in the Bible. I forgot that."
The new teacher took her stand on the platform behind the desk, opened her Bible, and read aloud the twenty-third Psalm. Her voice shook, partly from fright, partly from trying so hard not to laugh. But she did not even smile—far from it. Nate and Jimmy who were watching her could have told you that. If she had been at a funeral she could hardly have looked more solemn.
Jimmy touched Nate's foot under the bench; Nate gave Jimmy a shove; Bab gazed hard at Lucy's flaxen cue; Lucy gazed straight at her thumb.
After the reading "Miss Dunlee" walked about with her blank-book in one hand and her pen in the other to take down the children's names.
"I'm Joseph Rolfe; don't you remember me?" said the boy with red hair. "And this boy next seat is Chicken Little."
"No, I ain't either, I'm Henry Small," corrected the little fellow, ready to cry.
Kyzie shook her finger at both the boys and resolved that "Joe should stop calling names, and Henry should stop being such a cry-baby."
Annie Farrell was a dear little girl in a blue and white gingham gown, and the new teacher loved her at once. Dorothy Pratt was little more than a baby, and when spoken to she put her apron to her eyes and wanted to go home.
"She can't go home," said her older sister Janey, "mamma's cookin' for company!"
Kyzie patted the baby's tangled hair and sent Janey to get her some water.
"I'll go," spoke up Jack Whiting, aged seven. "Janey isn't big enough. Besides the pail leaks."
"I'm so glad Edith isn't here," thought Kyzie, "or we should both get to giggling. There, it's time now to call them out to read. Let me see, where is the best crack in the floor for them to stand on? Why didn't I bring a quarter of a dollar with a hole in it for a medal? Oh, the medal will be for the spelling-class; that was what Grandma Parlin said."
It seemed a "ling-long" forenoon, and the little teacher rejoiced when eleven o'clock came. The family at home looked at her curiously, and Uncle James asked outright, "Tell us, Grandmother Graymouse, how do the scholars behave?"
"Well, I suppose they behaved as well as they knew how; but oh, it makes me so hungry!"
She could not say whether she liked teaching or not.
"Wait till Friday night, Uncle James, and then I'll tell you."
"Well said, Grandmother Graymouse! You couldn't have made a wiser remark. We'll ask no further questions till Friday night."
But when Friday night came they were all thinking of something else, something quite out of the common; and "Grandmother Graymouse" and her school were forgotten.