Dawn of the Morning

by Grace Livingston Hill

Dawn had turned from a room full of model scholars, to hang up her mantle and bonnet. Turning back, she beheld pandemonium let loose. Something struck her on the cheek, something else stung her forehead. The whole room seemed white with hard little flying objects. Some of them were of paper, wet and soft, some were bits of chalk. It was like a summer snow-storm, and there seemed to be no end to it.

The bewildered young teacher surveyed the scene for an instant, surprise growing into indignation at the outrage. She was young enough to like fun as well as any one, and for an instant she felt like laughing at the sight, then she realized that it was intended as an insult, and as an open rebellion against her authority. It hurt her sharply that they thus arrayed themselves against her at the outset, without giving her a chance to show them what she was. Well, if they would be enemies, she would show them she could fight. The crucial test of which she had been warned was upon her. She must make good now if she would hope to at all. This critical moment would tell whether she could ever teach that school or any other. In her imagination she saw the regretful look in the kindly minister's eyes, and the line of his mouth which would say, "I told you so," and she did not mean he should be disappointed. Or, rather, she meant that he should be happily disappointed.

In an instant she was on the alert again, her senses collected. As ever in a crisis, she was cool and able to move deliberately.

It took but a second for her to find out who was the leader of the unruly scholars. The tall form of Daniel Butterworth towered above the rest in the back line, and the grin on his impudent face showed he was enjoying the affair immensely. Without an effort, he was evidently directing the whole thing.

A great indignation came into Dawn's eyes, and the soft lips set in determination. Like a flash she dashed across the room, dodging the missiles that pelted through the air from every side.

Straight at Daniel Butterworth she came, the bully and the leader. He was the tallest and strongest boy in the school, and no teacher had ever dared make a direct attack upon him. Usually, the teachers punished the smaller boys for the sins that were really Daniel's. Dawn, with her quick perception, located the cause of the trouble, and impulsively went straight to the mark with her discipline.

The scholars paused in their entertainment to see what would happen next, and little Peggy Gillette began to cry: "Oh, Teacher, Teacher, don't ye! don't ye! He won't stand it, he won't."

But Peggy's voice was drowned in the general hubbub, which subsided suddenly into ominous silence as Dawn took hold of Daniel Butterworth's arm and jerked him into the seat.

Daniel, of course, did not expect the attack, or he would not have been so easily thrown off his balance; but coming down on the seat so unexpectedly bewildered him, and before he could understand what had happened blows began to rain upon his head and face and ears. Not that they hurt him much, for Dawn had no ruler or switch or any of the time-honored implements wherewith to exercise discipline. She used her hands, her small, soft, pink palms, that were daintily shaped and delicately eared for, and had never seen any hard labor, but yet were strong and supple.

As he sat still and allowed the new teacher to administer justice, Daniel resembled a kitten backing off, with flattened ears and ruffled fur, and submitting to a severe slapping for some misdemeanor.