Finally, he turned to address the children. The "examins" had certainly not been severe, but the "blowin' up" was faithfully and liberally performed.
Never before had I felt so drawn to my poor, wondering, wolf-besieged flock, and in proportion to my tenderness for them waxed my indignation toward the "Turkey Mogul."
"You can't learn," said he. "That's a sufficiently established fact, but if you don't behave, your teacher is going to write to me, mind! and I shall come down here in my buggy, and take you right up and off to Farmouth where we have a place to keep all such naughty boys and girls."
This last was evoked as a benediction. Mr. Baxter looked at his watch, and remarked that it was a long drive to Farmouth, and he must be going. "Dismiss your school, Miss Hungerford," he said.
Now the children were accustomed—it was a special privilege they had requested—to sing, before the school closed at night, one of the hymns with which they were all so familiar in Wallencamp.
I would have dismissed them, on this occasion, without further ceremony, but before I had time to tap my ruler on the desk as a signal for dismissal, they all struck up as with one voice:—
"What a friend we have in Jesus,
All our griefs and woes to share!
What a privilege to carry
Everything to God in prayer."
At first I was a little amused at the incongruity of the thing. Then it began to seem to me inexpressibly touching.
The Superintendent of Schools stood with a cold, supercilious grin on his face, a stern, self-sufficient man, not one likely to echo the spirit of these simple words.
I stood beside him, weary and perplexed enough, but ever taking counsel of the pride of my own heart. And those poor children, with their hard, toilsome, barren lives before them, how they sang! their clear, young voices ringing out fearlessly, carelessly—they knew the words. I wondered if any one in the room appreciated the song as having inner truth and meaning.