After that labor was finished, and even Lila had deserted her for the sake of an insensate trunk that demanded to be packed, Bea conducted her companion to the lake. There through the golden hour of midday they drifted in the shadow of the overhanging trees along the shore. Once they paddled softly around the little island at the end, and a colony of baby mud-turtles went scrambling madly from a log into the water. When the brother began to fish for one with an oar, Bea protested in a grieved tone.
“But you don’t seem to realize that I am worrying about freckles every minute that we stay out here in the broad sunlight. What are trees for if not to provide shade for girls without hats? And anyhow it is unkind to seek to tear a turtle from his happy home. If you do that, I shall never, never consent to admit you to our highest class in manners.”
“Highest class in manners,” he echoed, “that sounds promising. Is it another story?”
“It certainly is,” replied Bea, “and if you are very good indeed and will keep the boat close to the bank from the first word to the last, I will tell you all about it.”
Berta called it our classes in manners, but Miss Anglin, our sophomore English teacher, said that it was every bit as bad as gossip. When Berta told her that she was the one who had started us on it by advising us to read character in the street-cars, she looked absolutely appalled, and groaned, “What next?”
This was the beginning of it. When Miss Anglin took charge of our essay work the second semester, she explained that we should be required to write a one-page theme every day except Saturday and Sunday. Lila almost fainted away, because she hates writing anything, even letters home. Robbie Belle looked scared, and I opened my mouth so wide that my jaw ached for several minutes afterward. But Berta kept her wits about her. She said, “Miss Anglin, we are all living here together, and we see the same things every day. I’m afraid you’ll be bored when you read about them over and over. Why can’t some of us choose intellectual topics?”
By intellectual topics she meant subjects that you can read up in the encyclopædia. Miss Anglin sort of smiled. “Do you truly think that you all see the same things day after day? How curious! Have you ever played a game called Slander?”
“Yes, Miss Anglin,” said Berta, and went on to tell how the players sit in a circle, and the first one whispers a story to the second; and the second repeats it as accurately as she can remember to the third; and the third tells it to the fourth, and so on till the last one hears it and then relates it aloud. After that the first one gives the story exactly as he started it. It is awfully interesting to notice the difference between the first report and the last one, because somehow each person cannot help adding a little or leaving out a little in passing it on to the next. That is the way slander grows, you know. The gossip may be true at first, or almost true, but it keeps changing and getting worse and worse and more thrilling as it spreads till finally it isn’t hardly true at all. That is how our classes in manners turned out.
Well, to go back to that day in the rhetoric section. Miss Anglin saw that we were discouraged before we had commenced and we didn’t know how to start; and so she began to suggest subjects. For instance, she said, one girl might wake up in the morning——Oh, but I am forgetting her application of the illustration from the game of Slander. She said that if no two persons receive the same impression from a whispered story spoken in definite words, it is probable that no two pairs of eyes see the same thing in the same way, to say nothing of the ideas aroused in the different brains behind the eyes. One girl might wake up in the morning, as I was saying, and when she looks from the window she sees snow everywhere—provided it did snow during the night, you understand. Then she writes her daily theme about the beautiful whiteness, the shadows of bare trees, diamond sparkles everywhere and so forth. Another girl looks out of that very same window at the same time, and she doesn’t think of the beautiful snow merely as snow; she thinks of coasting or going for a sleigh-ride or something like that. And so her theme very likely will prove to be a description of a coasting carnival or tobogganing which she once enjoyed. Another girl looks out and thinks first thing, “Oh, now the skating is spoiled!” Her theme maybe will tell how she learned to skate by pushing a chair ahead of her on the ice.
Berta raised her hand again. “Well, but, Miss Anglin,” she said, “suppose it doesn’t snow?”