Laurel, like many another village of its ilk, was an odd mixture of modern democratic conditions with the elder social inheritance. In the village school, the children of European peasants, the earlier and quick-witted Irish, the later Poles, with their broad, heavy faces, two or three brilliant, undersized young Jews, and the dark-brown scions of several long-established negro families, sat side by side with the severely self-respecting descendants of the earliest Puritan stock. The six and seven-year-olds knew no difference, and flocked indiscriminately together at recess, but it must be admitted that the caste idea grew with their growth, and that in grammar-school and academy circles the lines were drawn more definitely than in many larger places, to the end of needless resentments and heartaches.
Yellow Star added one more ingredient to the racial melting-pot. But whether because of a certain aboriginal dignity, or the name and protection of a family as much respected as any in Laurel, at any rate nearly everybody found it possible to accept her with excellent grace, and it might have been something personal to herself that bid fair to complete her conquest of the village. Two of the very “nicest” girls in Laurel, Cynthia, whose father was supposed to be the “best fixed” merchant in town, and Doris, the busy Doctor’s only child, were already her devoted friends.
Notwithstanding the fact that she had promptly taken her place among the best scholars in the room, the girl from Dakota had not yet lost her sense of audacity in rising to recite before so imposing a company.
“Why, Stella! you don’t have to dig at your books the way you do; it’s absurd! Look at me; I haven’t opened a single one since Friday afternoon, and I get along,” argued happy-go-lucky Sin.
“But you belong here, and you have been to school always. It is different with me. This is my one chance of really belonging.” And, contrary to all advice and precedent, Stella persisted in regarding school as a privilege to be lived up to, and failure in recitation as deep disgrace.
The first thing after recess was American History review.
“How did the early settlers treat the Indians? Mary Maloney,” began Miss Morrison.
“They treated them fine,” declared the auburn-haired Mary, with a sly glance over her shoulder at the unreasonably popular new arrival.
“What did the Indians do? Rosey Bernstein.”
“The cruel and treacherous savages turned upon the defenseless settlers with fire an’ ax,” Rosey glibly recited. “They now began a series of frightful massacres.”