David stared at her in dismay. “O dear!” he exclaimed, quite aghast.
“Yes, that did hurt,” said the parson’s wife, feeling of her head, “and it was all because I was in too big a hurry. Now I’m going down stairs to bathe it, and you may—” She hesitated and looked about. “Why there is that little box of books, David. You may take them out and dust them, for somebody has left the cover off. There it is now, behind that table.” She pointed to an ancestral piece of furniture with one leg missing. “Take your dust-cloth, child, and begin, then pile the books neatly in the box, and set the cover on,” and she went swiftly down the stairs.
David ran over and picked up the dust-cloth where he had thrown it on the floor. Books!—to think there were books in that box! His small fingers tingled to begin, and he threw himself down on the floor beside the box, and peered in. There were green books, and red ones, and very dull gray and black ones, all more or less dilapidated.
He drew a long breath, his blue eyes widening as his hands clutched the sides of the box. “I better take ’em all out first,” he said to himself, and lifting the upper layer very carefully, he laid them down, one by one, on the floor beside him. A red-covered book, the back of the binding almost in tatters, slipped from his fingers and fell to the attic floor.
“O dear me!” he was going to exclaim, when his gaze fell upon the pages before him. There was a big picture on one side and a whole lot of reading on the other page.
David leaned over to stare at the picture. Then he rested his elbows on the attic floor and stared harder than ever. The picture showed a boy seated before a desk, bent over a slate, on which he was writing, and opposite to him the book said, “I must get my lesson for to-morrow,” in great big letters.
David knew very well what these big letters said, for Mother Pepper had often told Polly to lay down her work when she was trying to help Mamsie on the coats for Mr. Atkins, telling her, “You have sewed enough, Polly child. Now get the big Bible from the bedroom, and read aloud. And then you can teach the children, Polly,” she would always add.
So Davie had picked up everything he possibly could about any big letters that were likely to come his way.
“The boy is going to school,” said David, unable to tear his eyes from the picture, “and he’s going to learn a lesson. O dear, I wonder when I shall ever go to school! And he’s got a slate and pencil.”
At that David was so lost at the idea of any boy being rich enough to own a slate and pencil, that he sat perfectly still, and a big spider hurried out of her web and ran along the eaves, to stare down at him. Finally seeing that he didn’t stir, she slipped down swiftly on her gossamer thread, and landed right in the middle of the book with the dilapidated red binding. This woke David up. And of course Mrs. Spider then ran for her life.