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The Duty of American Women to Their Country by Catharine Esther Beecher, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book . Sufferings of Little Children from Bad Schoolhouses. here SUFFERINGS OF LITTLE CHILDREN FROM BAD SCHOOLHOUSES One of the county superintendents reports of the schoolhouses in his district: “One house in K. is literally unfit for a stable; the sashes of several windows are broken, twenty or thirty panes of glass are out, the door is off, and used for a writing-table. Yet the district is wealthy, but ‘they cannot get a vote to build a new schoolhouse.’” “Another schoolhouse in W. is nearly as bad; the gable ends falling out, the chimney down, and the windows nearly all boarded up.” Many of the schoolhouses are situated in the highway, so that, at play, the children are endangered by the passing horses and vehicles, and the traveller is also endangered by the rushing of boisterous boys, frightening his horses. Instances of this sort have repeatedly occurred. Another writes, that in one of the largest landed districts, the worst log schoolhouse in the district is still retained, offering no security against winds and storms. One of the window sashes was “laid up overhead because it would not stay in its place.” To keep the door shut against the wind, one end of a bench was put against it, and a boy set to tend it, as one and another went out. Another writes, that he finds the schoolhouses situated on some bleak knoll, exposed to the howling blasts of winter and the scorching rays of the summer’s sun, or in some marsh or swamp, surrounded by stagnant pools, rife with miasma, and charged with disease and death. It is not uncommon, in such places, to find large schools almost entirely broken up by sickness, and that, too, when no contagious diseases are prevailing among children. often One of these superintendents says, “A trustee of one school, where the schoolhouse was situated , the water under the floor being several inches deep, told me his children were almost invariably obliged to leave school on account of sickness, and that the school was often broken up from this cause. Parents pay ten times as much, for physicians to cure diseases contracted at school, as it would cost to build a comfortable schoolhouse and supply it with every accommodation.” in a goose-pond Another says of the schoolhouses in his county, that, in some cases, the latches are broken, so that, however cold the day, the door cannot be shut; sometimes the sills are so rotten that snakes and squirrels can enter; while there are cracks in the floor, one or two inches wide, and holes broken large enough for the children to fall through. The wretched condition of these houses is not owing to poverty, but to the on the subject of education, and the belief among farmers that their money can be better applied in building barns and stables for their cattle. In one large village, where a great sum has been expended for adorning public grounds, and where is much wealth and style, the two schoolhouses are the meanest-looking buildings in the place. leaden apathy Another says of the schoolhouses in his county, that, in many cases, they stand on the highway, no cooling shade to protect them from the burning sun, exposed to the full fury of the wintry northwester, clapboards torn off, door just ready to fall, and great caution needed in order to keep from falling through the floor. In one case, an aperture in the roof was of such a size, that the teacher could give quite a lesson on astronomy by looking up at the heavens through the roof of the house. Frequently, to the grief of the teacher, when the parent brings his child the first day, such expressions as these are heard from the clinging and distressed child, “Oh, pa, I don’t want to stay in this ugly, old house! Oh, pa, do take me home!” About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. Catharine Esther Beecher (2016). The Duty of American Women to Their Country. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/53739/pg53739-images.html This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at , located at . www.gutenberg.org https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html

Sufferings of Little Children from Bad Schoolhouses.

Over the past few years, I've engaged in discussions with friends immersed deeply in the tech sector. These aren't just any friends: they are accomplished professionals, sought-after independent consultants, solopreneurs with a clientele patiently waiting months (sometimes even years) to avail their expertise, and dynamic members of leadership teams at burgeoning startups. These individuals have not only learned to navigate the tech waters but also to sail and thrive in them masterfully. A recurring theme in our conversations is the undeniable importance of perpetual learning, driven by both new challenges and opportunities. Just as stagnation can signal the twilight of a tech career, continuous development heralds its renaissance. Drawing from these insights, the path to staying relevant and dynamic in the perpetually shifting tech landscape becomes clear: embrace a foundational principle. And in tech, as in many domains, there's no need to start from scratch. Often, we can achieve more by leveraging the insights and wisdom of those who came before us. In this context, the US Marine Corps provides a prime example with " ," a field manual that offers valuable strategies on how to learn and the mindset essential for it. MCDP7 Learning Can you define “learning”? For example, is not a word that we often define, yet the MCDP7 provides such a rich definition that it must be considered for adoption as definition of learning: Learning YOUR Learning is much more than gathering information or reciting facts; it includes cognitive, physical, social, emotional, ethical, and cultural components. Learning occurs in formal settings (e.g., a schoolhouse or training exercise) and informal settings, such as social, experiential, self-directed, and other ways outside of the classroom. In the next paragraph, it continues: Learning encompasses both training and education, which are equally important and complementary. If that part doesn’t ring true to someone who has been in tech for more than a few weeks, I don’t know what will. Tech is a field where both the training & education components are equally important. I have worked with those who favored one over the other (college grads with zero experience and the with little formal education) - finding excellence for both types is much more difficult than the individual who split time evenly between education and training. field-masters The MCDP7’s simplicity These simple directives should provide guidance in all stages of your career. Know yourself and seek improvement Be ready & willing to learn Understand why you are learning Provide and receive constructive feedback Learning is purpose-driven to develop professional competence Applying the MCPD7 to YOU! The first step is to "know yourself and seek improvement." Take an honest inventory of your current skills, knowledge gaps, and areas for growth. Where do you excel, and where do you struggle? What new technologies or methodologies are becoming important in your field? Actively seek feedback from colleagues, mentors, and performance reviews. Develop a continuous improvement plan to address your weaknesses and growth areas through learning goals. Next, you must "be ready and willing to learn." Adopt a growth mindset that embraces learning as a constant necessity rather than something to check off and be done with. Be curious, ask questions, and remain humble about what you don't yet know. Allocate dedicated time for learning, whether it's online courses, reading books/blogs, attending conferences, or participating in a study group. Treat this as a key part of your job, not just an optional activity. "Understanding why you are learning" provides motivation and focus. Don't just learn aimlessly - have clear objectives tied to your development plan. Is it to master a new programming language for an upcoming project? To become certified in cloud technologies and advance your career? When you link learning directly to driving professional competence in specific domains, it's easier to sustain and apply the learnings. Be proactive about "providing and receiving constructive feedback." Share what you're learning with teammates and ask for their perspectives. When receiving feedback, be open-minded rather than defensive. Failed experiments or underperforming projects provide rich opportunities to analyze what went wrong and extract lessons. An ongoing feedback loop accelerates learning cycles. Finally, reinforce that "learning is purpose-driven to develop professional competence." Don't just consume information passively - apply it through practice, create resources to share your knowledge, and find opportunities to guide mentees. True competence only comes through deliberate learning combined with hands-on experience over time. Keep returning to your "why" for continual inner motivation.

Bootcamp to Code: US Marine Corps Wisdom for the Tech World

A LITTLE ALIEN’S WOES

A Treatise on Domestic Economy; For the Use of Young Ladies at Home and at School by Catharine Esther Beecher, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book . ON HEALTH OF MIND. here CHAPTER XVII. ON HEALTH OF MIND. There is such an intimate connection between the body and mind, that the health of one, cannot be preserved, without a proper care of the other. And it is from a neglect of this principle, that some of the most exemplary and conscientious persons in the world, suffer a thousand mental agonies, from a diseased state of body, while others ruin the health of the body, by neglecting the proper care of the mind. When the brain is excited, by stimulating drinks taken into the stomach, it produces a corresponding excitement of the mental faculties. The reason, the imagination, and all the powers, are stimulated to preternatural vigor and activity. In like manner, when the mind is excited by earnest intellectual effort, or by strong passions, the brain is equally excited, and the blood rushes to the head. Sir Astley Cooper records, that, in examining the brain of a young man who had lost a portion of his skull, whenever "he was agitated, by some opposition to his wishes," "the blood was sent, with increased force, to his brain," and the pulsations "became frequent and violent." The same effect was produced by any intellectual effort; and the flushed countenance, which attends earnest study or strong emotions of fear, shame, or anger, is an external indication of the suffused state of the brain from such causes. In exhibiting the causes, which injure the health of the mind, they will be found to be partly physical, partly intellectual, and partly moral. The first cause of mental disease and suffering, is not unfrequently found in the want of a proper supply of duly oxygenized blood. It has been shown, that the blood, in passing through the lungs, is purified, by the oxygen of the air combining with the superabundant hydrogen and carbon of the venous blood, thus forming carbonic acid and water, which are expired into the atmosphere. Every pair of lungs is constantly withdrawing from the surrounding atmosphere its healthful principle, and returning one, which is injurious to human life. When, by confinement, and this process, the atmosphere is deprived of its appropriate supply of oxygen, the purification of the blood is interrupted, and it passes, without being properly prepared, into the brain, producing languor, restlessness, and inability to exercise the intellect and feelings. Whenever, therefore, persons sleep in a close apartment, or remain, for a length of time, in a crowded or ill-ventilated room, a most pernicious influence is exerted on the brain, and, through this, on the mind. A person, who is often exposed to such influences, can never enjoy that elasticity and vigor of mind, which is one of the chief indications of its health. This is the reason, why all rooms for religious meetings, and all schoolrooms, and sleeping apartments, should be so contrived, as to secure a constant supply of fresh air from without. The minister, who preaches in a crowded and ill-ventilated apartment, loses much of his power to feel and to speak, while the audience are equally reduced, in their capability of attending. The teacher, who confines children in a close apartment, diminishes their ability to study, or to attend to his instructions. And the person, who habitually sleeps in a close room, impairs his mental energies, in a similar degree. It is not unfrequently the case, that depression of spirits, and stupor of intellect, are occasioned solely by inattention to this subject. Another cause of mental disease, is, the excessive exercise of the intellect or feelings. If the eye is taxed, beyond its strength, by protracted use, its blood-vessels become gorged, and the bloodshot appearance warns of the excess and the need of rest. The brain is affected, in a similar manner, by excessive use, though the suffering and inflamed organ cannot make its appeal to the eye. But there are some indications, which ought never to be misunderstood or disregarded. In cases of pupils, at school or at college, a diseased state, from over action, is often manifested by increased clearness of mind, and ease and vigor of mental action. In one instance, known to the writer, a most exemplary and industrious pupil, anxious to improve every hour, and ignorant or unmindful of the laws of health, first manifested the diseased state of her brain and mind, by demands for more studies, and a sudden and earnest activity in planning modes of improvement for herself and others. When warned of her danger, she protested that she never was better, in her life; that she took regular exercise, in the open air, went to bed in season, slept soundly, and felt perfectly well; that her mind was never before so bright and clear, and study never so easy and delightful. And at this time, she was on the verge of derangement, from which she was saved only by an entire cessation of all her intellectual efforts. A similar case occurred, under the eye of the writer, from over-excited feelings. It was during a time of unusual religious interest in the community, and the mental disease was first manifested, by the pupil bringing her Hymn-book or Bible to the class-room, and making it her constant resort, in every interval of school duty. It finally became impossible to convince her, that it was her duty to attend to any thing else; her conscience became morbidly sensitive, her perceptions indistinct, her deductions unreasonable, and nothing, but entire change of scene, exercise, and amusement, saved her. When the health of the brain was restored, she found that she could attend to the "one thing needful," not only without interruption of duty, or injury of health, but rather so as to promote both. Clergymen and teachers need most carefully to notice and guard against the danger here alluded to. Any such attention to religion, as prevents the performance of daily duties and needful relaxation, is dangerous, as tending to produce such a state of the brain, as makes it impossible to feel or judge correctly. And when any morbid and unreasonable pertinacity appears, much exercise, and engagement in other interesting pursuits, should be urged, as the only mode of securing the religious benefits aimed at. And whenever any mind is oppressed with care, anxiety, or sorrow, the amount of active exercise in the fresh air should be greatly increased, that the action of the muscles may withdraw the blood, which, in such seasons, is constantly tending too much to the brain. There has been a most appalling amount of suffering, derangement, disease, and death, occasioned by a want of attention to this subject, in teachers and parents. Uncommon precocity in children is usually the result of an unhealthy state of the brain; and, in such cases, medical men would now direct, that the wonderful child should be deprived of all books and study, and turned to play or work in the fresh air. Instead of this, parents frequently add fuel to the fever of the brain, by supplying constant mental stimulus, until the victim finds refuge in idiocy or an early grave. Where such fatal results do not occur, the brain, in many cases, is so weakened, that the prodigy of infancy sinks below the medium of intellectual powers in afterlife. In our colleges, too, many of the most promising minds sink to an early grave, or drag out a miserable existence, from this same cause. And it is an evil, as yet little alleviated by the increase of physiological knowledge. Every college and professional school, and every seminary for young ladies, needs a medical man, not only to lecture on physiology and the laws of health, but empowered, in his official capacity, to investigate the case of every pupil, and, by authority, to restrain him to such a course of study, exercise, and repose, as his physical system requires. The writer has found, by experience, that, in a large institution, there is one class of pupils who need to be restrained, by penalties, from late hours and excessive study, as much as another class need stimulus to industry. Under the head of excessive mental action, must be placed the indulgence of the imagination in and . This kind of stimulus, unless counterbalanced by physical exercise, not only wastes time and energies, but undermines the vigor of the nervous system. The imagination was designed, by our kind Creator, as the charm and stimulus to animate to benevolent activity; and its perverted exercise seldom fails to bring the appropriate penalty. novel reading castle building A third cause of mental disease, is, the want of the appropriate exercise of the various faculties of the mind. On this point, Dr. Combe remarks, "We have seen, that, by disuse, muscle becomes emaciated, bone softens, blood-vessels are obliterated, and nerves lose their characteristic structure. The brain is no exception to this general rule. Of it, also, the tone is impaired by permanent inactivity, and it becomes less fit to manifest the mental powers with readiness and energy." It is "the withdrawal of the stimulus necessary for its healthy exercise, which renders solitary confinement so severe a punishment, even to the most daring minds. It is a lower degree of the same cause, which renders continuous seclusion from society so injurious, to both mental and bodily health." " is a very frequent predisposing cause of every form of nervous disease. For demonstrative evidence of this position, we have only to look at the numerous victims to be found, among persons who have no call to exertion in gaining the means of subsistence, and no objects of interest on which to exercise their mental faculties and who consequently sink into a state of mental sloth and nervous weakness." "If we look abroad upon society, we shall find innumerable examples of mental and nervous debility from this cause. When a person of some mental capacity is confined, for a long time, to an unvarying round of employment, which affords neither scope nor stimulus for one half of his faculties, and, from want of education or society, has no external resources; his mental powers, for want of exercise, become blunted, and his perceptions slow and dull." "The intellect and feelings, not being provided with interests external to themselves, must either become inactive and weak, or work upon themselves and become diseased." Inactivity of intellect and of feeling "The most frequent victims of this kind of predisposition, are females of the middle and higher ranks, especially those of a nervous constitution and ; but who, from an ill-directed education, possess nothing more solid than mere accomplishments, and have no materials of thought," and no "occupation to excite interest or attention." "The liability of such persons to melancholy, hysteria, hypochondriasis, and other varieties of mental distress, really depends on a state of irritability of brain, induced by imperfect exercise." good natural abilities demand These remarks, of a medical man, illustrate the principles before indicated;—namely, that the demand of Christianity, that we live to promote the general happiness, and not merely for selfish indulgence, has for its aim, not only the general good, but the highest happiness, of the individual of whom it is required. A person possessed of wealth, who has nothing more noble to engage his attention, than seeking his own personal enjoyment, subjects his mental powers and moral feelings to a degree of inactivity, utterly at war with health of mind. And the greater the capacities, the greater are the sufferings which result from this cause. Any one, who has read the misanthropic wailings of Lord Byron, has seen the necessary result of great and noble powers bereft of their appropriate exercise, and, in consequence, becoming sources of the keenest suffering. It is this view of the subject, which has often awakened feelings of sorrow and anxiety in the mind of the writer, while aiding in the developement and education of superior female minds, in the wealthier circles. Not because there are not noble objects for interest and effort, abundant, and within reach of such minds; but because long-established custom has made it seem so Quixotic, to the majority, even of the professed followers of Christ, for a woman of wealth to practise any great self-denial, that few have independence of mind and Christian principle sufficient to overcome such an influence. The more a mind has its powers developed, the more does it aspire and pine after some object worthy of its energies and affections; and they are commonplace and phlegmatic characters, who are most free from such deep-seated wants. Many a young woman, of fine genius and elevated sentiment, finds a charm in Lord Byron's writings, because they present a glowing picture of what, to a certain extent, must be felt by every well-developed mind, which has no nobler object in life, than the pursuit of its own gratification. If young ladies of wealth could pursue their education, under the full conviction that the increase of their powers and advantages increased their obligations to use all for the good of society, and with some plan of benevolent enterprise in view, what new motives of interest would be added to their daily pursuits! And what blessed results would follow, to our beloved Country, if all well-educated females carried out the principles of Christianity, in the exercise of their developed powers! It is cheering to know, that there are women, among the most intelligent and wealthy, who can be presented as examples of what may be done, when there is a heart to do. A pupil of the writer is among this number, who, though a rich heiress, immediately, on the close of her school-life, commenced a course of self-denying benevolence, in the cause of education. She determined to secure a superior female institution, in her native place, which should extend the benefits of the best education to all in that vicinity, at a moderate charge. Finding no teacher on the ground, prepared to take the lead, and though herself a timid and retiring character, she began, with the aid of the governess in her mother's family, a daily school, superintending all, and teaching six hours a day. The liberal-minded and intelligent mother cooperated, and the result is a flourishing female seminary, with a large and beautiful and well-furnished building; the greater part of the means being supplied by the mother, and almost all by the members of that family connection. And both these ladies will testify, that no time or money, spent for any other object, has ever secured to them more real and abiding enjoyment, than witnessing the results of this successful and benevolent enterprise, which, for years to come, will pour forth blessings on society. Another lady could be pointed out, who, possessing some property, went into a new western village, built and furnished her schoolhouse, and established herself there, to aid in raising a community from ignorance and gross worldliness, to intelligence and virtue. And in repeated instances, among the friends and pupils of the writer, young ladies have left wealthy homes, and affectionate friends, to find nobler enjoyments, in benevolent and active exertions to extend intelligence and virtue, where such disinterested laborers were needed. In other cases, where it was not practicable to leave home, well-educated young ladies have interested themselves in common schools in the vicinity, aiding the teachers, by their sympathy, counsel, and personal assistance. Other ladies, of property and standing, having families to educate, and being well qualified for such duties, have relinquished a large portion of domestic labor and superintendence, which humbler minds could be hired to perform, devoted themselves to the education of their children, and received others, less fortunate, to share with their own these superior advantages. But, so long as the feeling widely exists, that the increase of God's bounties diminishes the obligations of self-denying service for the good of mankind, so long will well-educated women, in easy circumstances, shrink from such confinement and exertion. It is believed, however, that there are many benevolent and intelligent women, in this Country, who would gladly engage in such enterprises, were there any appropriate way within their reach. And it is a question, well deserving consideration, among those who guide the public mind in benevolent enterprises, whether some organization is not demanded, which shall bring the whole community to act systematically, in voluntary associations, to extend a proper education to every child in this Nation, and to bring into activity all the female enterprise and benevolence now lying dormant, for want of proper facilities to exercise them. There are hundreds of villages, which need teachers, and that would support them, if they were on the spot, but which never will send for them. And there are hundreds of females, now unemployed, who would teach, if a proper place, and home, and support, and escort, were provided for them. And there needs to be some enlarged and systematic plan, conducted by wise and efficient men, to secure these objects. Could such a plan, as the one suggested, be carried out, it is believed that many female minds, now suffering, from diseases occasioned by want of appropriate objects for their energies, would be relieved. The duties of a teacher exercise every intellectual faculty, to its full extent; while, in this benevolent service, all the social, moral, and benevolent, emotions, are kept in full play. The happiest persons the writer has ever known,—those who could say that they were as happy as they wished to be, in this world, (and she has seen such,)—were persons engaged in this employment. The indications of a diseased mind, owing to a want of the proper exercise of its powers, are, apathy, discontent, a restless longing for excitement, a craving for unattainable good, a diseased and morbid action of the imagination, dissatisfaction with the world, and factitious interest in trifles which the mind feels to be unworthy of its powers. Such minds sometimes seek alleviation in exciting amusements; others resort to the grosser enjoyments of sense. Oppressed with the extremes of languor, or over-excitement, or apathy, the body fails under the wearing process, and adds new causes of suffering to the mind. Such, the compassionate Saviour calls to his service, in these appropriate terms: "Come unto Me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take My yoke upon you, and learn of Me," "and ye shall find rest unto your souls." About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. Catharine Esther Beecher (2007). A Treatise on Domestic Economy; For the Use of Young Ladies at Home and at School. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/21829/pg21829-images.html This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at , located at . www.gutenberg.org https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html

ON HEALTH OF MIND.

Moral Injuries inflicted on Children at School.

The Duty of American Women to Their Country by Catharine Esther Beecher, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book . Sufferings of Little Children from Cold, Heat, and Filth. here SUFFERINGS OF LITTLE CHILDREN FROM COLD, HEAT, AND FILTH One superintendent says, “Could parents witness, as I have, the sufferings of their children from cold, I am sure no other appeal would be needed. Some of those buildings, I am confident, would be considered by a systematic farmer, who regarded the comfort of his stock, as an unfit shelter for his Berkshires.” Another states, that in some cases the schoolhouses are small and overheated. Then the teacher throws open the door, and a current of cold air pours on to the children. The reeking perspiration is suddenly stopped, and “a cold” is the result, which is often the precursor of fevers and consumption. When no such results follow, the parents say, “It is ;” when diseases and death follow, it is called ! A physician of extensive practice stated to this superintendent, that a large part of his consumptive cases originated from colds taken at school. only a cold a dispensation of Providence Another describes one of the schoolhouses in his county as too small, too low, the seats too high, half the plastering fallen off and piled in one corner, and the house warmed by a cook-stove unfit for use. Six sevenths of the panes of glass were gone, and two windows boarded up. Going to attend the annual school meeting at this house, he met two citizens coming with a candle and firebrands, and picking up sticks along the road for a fire, because there was no wood provided at the schoolhouse. Another thus describes some of the schoolhouses in his county. It is very common to see cracked and broken stoves, the door without hinges or latch, and a rusty pipe of various sizes. Green wood, and that which is old and partially decayed, either drenched with rain, or covered with snow, is much more frequently used than sound, seasoned wood. Thus it is difficult to kindle a fire, and the room is filled with smoke much of the time, especially in stormy weather. Sometimes the school is interrupted two or three times a day to fasten up the stovepipe. The extent of these evils may be perceived from the report, which says of one county about as well supplied as any, out of districts only schoolhouses have provided means for keeping their wood dry. eighty-seven twenty Another says, “At the commencement of the winter term of our schools, some one of the trustees generally furnishes a load of green wood, perhaps his own proportion. The teacher proceeds till this is exhausted, and he is compelled to notify his patrons of the entire destitution of wood. After meeting his school, and shivering over expiring embers till the hope of a supply is exhausted, he dismisses the school for one, two, or three days, and sometimes for a week, before any inhabitant finds time to get another load of green wood. With such wood it is impossible to keep the schoolroom at a proper temperature. The scholars, at first, crowd around the stove, suffering extremely with cold, and then are driven as far off as they can get, in a high state of perspiration, and almost suffocated with heat. Our schools in this country suffer much from such methods of procuring fuel. The time which is lost in school hours by the use of green wood, I think will include near one fourth of the whole time.” Another says, “The teacher found abundant employment in stuffing the old stove with green birch and elm, cut as occasion required by the teacher and the boys. A continual coughing was kept up by nearly seven-eighths of the children, and the teacher apologised for want of order by saying, ‘they could not usually do much in stormy weather till afternoon, when the fire would get a going.’ On this occasion, one trustee and two of the inhabitants of the district were present an hour, when, getting frozen out, they asked to be excused, and left the children to suffer, saying, ‘We did not think our house was so uncomfortable. Some glass must be got, and a load of dry wood’” Some of the statements of these superintendents, as to the order and neatness of their schoolhouses, are no less lamentable. One remarks, that “some of them, as to neatness, resemble the domicil for swine.” Another describes one schoolhouse as “having the clapboards torn off, the door just ready to fall, an aperture in the roof where the chimney once was, slabs with a pair of clubs at each end for legs, and so high no child could touch foot to the floor, rickety desks falling to ruin, the plaster torn off, and the whole covered with dirt, and as filthy as the street itself.” But this is not all. “This house is situated in a district of wealthy farmers.” Another says, “It is a startling truth, that very many of our schoolhouses furnish no private retreat whatever for teacher or scholar. Thus is one side of the schoolhouse, and, in some instances, the doorstep, rendered a scene more disgusting than the filth of a pig-sty.” Another says, “Schoolhouses, generally, are not furnished with suitable conveniences for disposing the outer garments of the children, their dinner-baskets, and other articles. Sometimes there are a few nails in an outer entry where clothes and dinners may be put, but in such cases the door is left open for rain and snow to beat in; the scholars, in their haste to get their own clothes, pull down many more, which are trampled on. Moreover, the dinners are often frozen, or eaten by dogs, and sometimes even by hogs.” About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. Catharine Esther Beecher (2016). The Duty of American Women to Their Country. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/53739/pg53739-images.html This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at , located at . www.gutenberg.org https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html

Sufferings of Little Children from Cold, Heat, and Filth.

The Duty of American Women to Their Country by Catharine Esther Beecher, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book . Sufferings of Little Children for Want of Pure Air. here SUFFERINGS OF LITTLE CHILDREN FOR WANT OF PURE AIR. To understand this subject properly, it must be borne in mind, that the body is so constructed as to inhale at every breath about a pint of air. The air is composed of 79 parts nitrogen and 21 parts oxygen. When it is drawn into the lungs, the oxygen is absorbed by the blood, and what we exhale is the nitrogen, mixed with the carbonic acid, formed in the lungs by the union of the oxygen of the air with the carbon of the blood. Now, neither carbonic acid, or nitrogen can support life. Take the oxygen from the air, and then breathe it, and instant death ensues. So, put any animal into carbonic acid alone, and it dies instantly. Thus, every breath of every human being uses up the oxygen in one pint of air, and returns it with only nitrogen and carbonic acid. Let a schoolroom, containing 18,000 gallons of air and twenty scholars, be made perfectly airtight, and in twenty minutes they would all be corpses. The horrible sufferings produced by this process, were once witnessed in Calcutta, where 146 men were driven into a room 18 feet square, with only one small window, and kept there from eight at night till six next morning. Before midnight they all became frantic with agony, fought for the window, choaked each other to death, screamed to the soldiers to shoot them, and thus end their misery; and in the morning only 26 were alive, and these in a putrid fever! the amount of oxygen in the air by breathing, produces languor, sleepiness, nausea, headache, flushed face, and sometimes palsy and apoplexy. Lessening On this subject, the superintendents of the New-York schools make these statements: “Confinement in some of our schoolrooms is . Our children, shut up in these hot holes, made so by their own breaths, by perspiration, and by a close, overheated stove, lay the foundation for diseases which show no gain except to the physician, and which, in after-life, no riding on horseback, or journeys by sea or land, or southern residence can cure.” manslaughter Another states, that the uncomfortable condition of the schoolhouses, in his county, is such as to cause much suffering, both mental and bodily, to the children doomed to inhabit their gloomy walls and breathe the tainted air. Another writes of the schoolhouses in his district, that they are usually low, and in cold weather so overheated as to be hotbeds of disease, the close atmosphere being actually dangerous. One teacher, in one instance, was struck with palsy from the effects of confinement in such a poisonous atmosphere. At a public meeting, one citizen stated it as his conviction, that one of his children died from disease engendered by breathing the pestilential atmosphere of the schoolroom. Instances are numerous where the children come home dull, listless, and with severe colds and coughs. The teacher, in such situations, often loses ambition, energy, and health, and closes school pale and emaciated, perhaps to sink to an early grave, a victim of the poisonous air in which, for day after day, he has been confined. About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. Catharine Esther Beecher (2016). The Duty of American Women to Their Country. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/53739/pg53739-images.html This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at , located at . www.gutenberg.org https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html

Sufferings of Little Children for Want of Pure Air.

The Duty of American Women to Their Country by Catharine Esther Beecher, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book . Sufferings of Little Children from Want of Accommodations at School. here SUFFERINGS OF LITTLE CHILDREN FROM WANT OF ACCOMMODATIONS AT SCHOOL One superintendent says, “But few of the schoolhouses are furnished with blinds or curtains to exclude the glare of the sun. Thus, children suffer great uneasiness, headaches, and often serious affections of the eyes. I have found of weakness of eyes, approaching almost to blindness, caused by studying in such dazzling light.” many cases Another states, that in most schoolhouses the desks are so high, as to compel the scholar to write in a half-standing, half-sitting attitude; while the seats for the smallest children are often twice the proper height, sometimes a hemlock slab with legs at one end, and a log at the other. Many of the little ones have to be helped up on them, where they are in peril of life and limb from a fall. Here they are obliged to sit, day after day and week after week, between heaven and earth, “and in a frame of mind unfit for either place,” without anything to support either their backs or their feet. Those who would realize what distress this occasions, let them try sitting only one half hour on a table or sideboard, with back and feet unsupported, and see what suffering ensues. Another writes thus: “Sitting with the legs hanging over the edge of the seat presses the (which lie near the surface, and carry the blood to the heart), and thus retard its return, while the arteries, being deeper, carry the blood with its full force from the heart. Thus the veins become distended, numbness and pain follow, and sometimes permanent weakness is the result. Where children sit a long time without any support to their backs, the muscles that hold up the body become weary and weak, for no muscle can be too long contracted without weakening it. In schools thus badly furnished, it will be seen that the children prefer the northern blasts out of doors to the sufferings they endure within, and come in unwillingly, with chilled bodies and checked perspiration. In some cases, parents provide comfortable chairs for their children, and then it is seen, that such stay but a short time out of doors, while those seated on such comfortless benches stay as long as they can. This shows one predisposing cause of the curvature of the spine, and distortion of the body and limbs. Is it any wonder that so many of our youth have round shoulders, and a stooping of the body through life?” veins What would be said of a farmer who made his boy hold a plough as high as his head, or a joiner who made his apprentice plane a board on a bench as high as his shoulders? And yet they expect teachers to make their children study, read and write with just such improper accommodations. About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. Catharine Esther Beecher (2016). The Duty of American Women to Their Country. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/53739/pg53739-images.html This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at , located at . www.gutenberg.org https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html

Sufferings of Little Children from Want of Accommodations at School.

The Duty of American Women to Their Country by Catharine Esther Beecher is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. Read this book online for free on HackerNoon! : The Duty of American Women to Their Country Title : Catharine Esther Beecher Author : December 16, 2016 [eBook #53739] Release date : English Language TABLE OF LINKS THE DUTY OF AMERICAN WOMEN TO THEIR COUNTRY Sufferings of Little Children from Bad Schoolhouses Sufferings of Little Children from Want of Accommodations at School Sufferings of Little Children for Want of Pure Air. Sufferings of Little Children from Cold, Heat, and Filth Sufferings of Little Children from Cruel and Improper Punishments. Moral Injuries inflicted on Children at School. A PLAN PROPOSED. From the Hon. Thomas Burrowes, late Secretary of State in Pennsylvania. From the Rev. Mr. Sturtevant, President of Illinois College. From the Rev. Henry Beecher, of Indianapolis, Indiana. The following is extracted from a letter from the Dr. Cornett spoken of above. The following is from Judge Lane, of the Supreme Court of Ohio. The following is from one of the leading Lawyers of Ohio. The following is from E. C. Delavan, Esq., who has devoted so much of his time for several years to the cause of Temperance. The following is from a Lawyer in Cincinnati. The following extract from an address of Prof. Stowe, delivered at Portland in 1844, corroborates the views expressed by the author on the subject of moral training. About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. Catharine Esther Beecher (2016). The Duty of American Women to Their Country. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/53739/pg53739-images.html This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at , located at . www.gutenberg.org https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html

The Duty of American Women to Their Country by Catharine Esther Beecher - Table of Links

REMEDIES FOR THE PRECEDING DIFFICULTIES.

The Golden Road by L. M. Montgomery, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here . SARA RAY HELPS OUT CHAPTER XVIII. SARA RAY HELPS OUT We all missed Aunt Olivia greatly; she had been so merry and companionable, and had possessed such a knack of understanding small fry. But youth quickly adapts itself to changed conditions; in a few weeks it seemed as if the Story Girl had always been living at Uncle Alec’s, and as if Uncle Roger had always had a fat, jolly housekeeper with a double chin and little, twinkling blue eyes. I don’t think Aunt Janet ever quite got over missing Aunt Olivia, or looked upon Mrs. Hawkins as anything but a necessary evil; but life resumed its even tenor on the King farm, broken only by the ripples of excitement over the school concert and letters from Aunt Olivia describing her trip through the land of Evangeline. We incorporated the letters in Our Magazine under the heading “From Our Special Correspondent” and were very proud of them. At the end of June our school concert came off and was a great event in our young lives. It was the first appearance of most of us on any platform, and some of us were very nervous. We all had recitations, except Dan, who had refused flatly to take any part and was consequently care-free. “I’m sure I shall die when I find myself up on that platform, facing people,” sighed Sara Ray, as we talked the affair over in Uncle Stephen’s Walk the night before the concert. “I’m afraid I’ll faint,” was Cecily’s more moderate foreboding. “I’m not one single bit nervous,” said Felicity complacently. “I’m not nervous this time,” said the Story Girl, “but the first time I recited I was.” “My Aunt Jane,” remarked Peter, “used to say that an old teacher of hers told her that when she was going to recite or speak in public she must just get it firmly into her mind that it was only a lot of cabbage heads she had before her, and she wouldn’t be nervous.” “One mightn’t be nervous, but I don’t think there would be much inspiration in reciting to cabbage heads,” said the Story Girl decidedly. “I want to recite to PEOPLE, and see them looking interested and thrilled.” “If I can only get through my piece without breaking down I don’t care whether I thrill people or not,” said Sara Ray. “I’m afraid I’ll forget mine and get stuck,” foreboded Felix. “Some of you fellows be sure and prompt me if I do—and do it quick, so’s I won’t get worse rattled.” “I know one thing,” said Cecily resolutely, “and that is, I’m going to curl my hair for to-morrow night. I’ve never curled it since Peter almost died, but I simply must tomorrow night, for all the other girls are going to have theirs in curls.” “The dew and heat will take all the curl out of yours and then you’ll look like a scarecrow,” warned Felicity. “No, I won’t. I’m going to put my hair up in paper tonight and wet it with a curling-fluid that Judy Pineau uses. Sara brought me up a bottle of it. Judy says it is great stuff—your hair will keep in curl for days, no matter how damp the weather is. I’ll leave my hair in the papers till tomorrow evening, and then I’ll have beautiful curls.” “You’d better leave your hair alone,” said Dan gruffly. “Smooth hair is better than a lot of fly-away curls.” But Cecily was not to be persuaded. Curls she craved and curls she meant to have. “I’m thankful my warts have all gone, any-way,” said Sara Ray. “So they have,” exclaimed Felicity. “Did you try Peg’s recipe?” “Yes. I didn’t believe in it but I tried it. For the first few days afterwards I kept watching my warts, but they didn’t go away, and then I gave up and forgot them. But one day last week I just happened to look at my hands and there wasn’t a wart to be seen. It was the most amazing thing.” “And yet you’ll say Peg Bowen isn’t a witch,” said Peter. “Pshaw, it was just the potato juice,” scoffed Dan. “It was a dry old potato I had, and there wasn’t much juice in it,” said Sara Ray. “One hardly knows what to believe. But one thing is certain—my warts are gone.” Cecily put her hair up in curl-papers that night, thoroughly soaked in Judy Pineau’s curling-fluid. It was a nasty job, for the fluid was very sticky, but Cecily persevered and got it done. Then she went to bed with a towel tied over her head to protect the pillow. She did not sleep well and had uncanny dreams, but she came down to breakfast with an expression of triumph. The Story Girl examined her head critically and said, “Cecily, if I were you I’d take those papers out this morning.” “Oh, no; if I do my hair will be straight again by night. I mean to leave them in till the last minute.” “I wouldn’t do that—I really wouldn’t,” persisted the Story Girl. “If you do your hair will be too curly and all bushy and fuzzy.” Cecily finally yielded and went upstairs with the Story Girl. Presently we heard a little shriek—then two little shrieks—then three. Then Felicity came flying down and called her mother. Aunt Janet went up and presently came down again with a grim mouth. She filled a large pan with warm water and carried it upstairs. We dared ask her no questions, but when Felicity came down to wash the dishes we bombarded her. “What on earth is the matter with Cecily?” demanded Dan. “Is she sick?” “No, she isn’t. I warned her not to put her hair in curls but she wouldn’t listen to me. I guess she wishes she had now. When people haven’t natural curly hair they shouldn’t try to make it curly. They get punished if they do.” “Look here, Felicity, never mind all that. Just tell us what has happened Sis.” “Well, this is what has happened her. That ninny of a Sara Ray brought up a bottle of mucilage instead of Judy’s curling-fluid, and Cecily put her hair up with THAT. It’s in an awful state.” “Good gracious!” exclaimed Dan. “Look here, will she ever get it out?” “Goodness knows. She’s got her head in soak now. Her hair is just matted together hard as a board. That’s what comes of vanity,” said Felicity, than whom no vainer girl existed. Poor Cecily paid dearly enough for HER vanity. She spent a bad forenoon, made no easier by her mother’s severe rebukes. For an hour she “soaked” her head; that is, she stood over a panful of warm water and kept dipping her head in with tightly shut eyes. Finally her hair softened sufficiently to be disentangled from the curl papers; and then Aunt Janet subjected it to a merciless shampoo. Eventually they got all the mucilage washed out of it and Cecily spent the remainder of the forenoon sitting before the open oven door in the hot kitchen drying her ill-used tresses. She felt very down-hearted; her hair was of that order which, glossy and smooth normally, is dry and harsh and lustreless for several days after being shampooed. “I’ll look like a fright tonight,” said the poor child to me with trembling voice. “The ends will be sticking out all over my head.” “Sara Ray is a perfect idiot,” I said wrathfully “Oh, don’t be hard on poor Sara. She didn’t mean to bring me mucilage. It’s really all my own fault, I know. I made a solemn vow when Peter was dying that I would never curl my hair again, and I should have kept it. It isn’t right to break solemn vows. But my hair will look like dried hay tonight.” Poor Sara Ray was quite overwhelmed when she came up and found what she had done. Felicity was very hard on her, and Aunt Janet was coldly disapproving, but sweet Cecily forgave her unreservedly, and they walked to the school that night with their arms about each other’s waists as usual. The school-room was crowded with friends and neighbours. Mr. Perkins was flying about, getting things into readiness, and Miss Reade, who was the organist of the evening, was sitting on the platform, looking her sweetest and prettiest. She wore a delightful white lace hat with a fetching little wreath of tiny forget-me-nots around the brim, a white muslin dress with sprays of blue violets scattered over it, and a black lace scarf. “Doesn’t she look angelic?” said Cecily rapturously. “Mind you,” said Sara Ray, “the Awkward Man is here—in the corner behind the door. I never remember seeing him at a concert before.” “I suppose he came to hear the Story Girl recite,” said Felicity. “He is such a friend of hers.” The concert went off very well. Dialogues, choruses and recitations followed each other in rapid succession. Felix got through his without “getting stuck,” and Peter did excellently, though he stuffed his hands in his trousers pockets—a habit of which Mr. Perkins had vainly tried to break him. Peter’s recitation was one greatly in vogue at that time, beginning, “My name is Norval; on the Grampian hills My father feeds his flocks.” At our first practice Peter had started gaily in, rushing through the first line with no thought whatever of punctuation—“My name is Norval on the Grampian Hills.” “Stop, stop, Peter,” quoth Mr. Perkins, sarcastically, “your name might be Norval if you were never on the Grampian Hills. There’s a semi-colon in that line, I wish you to remember.” Peter did remember it. Cecily neither fainted nor failed when it came her turn. She recited her little piece very well, though somewhat mechanically. I think she really did much better than if she had had her desired curls. The miserable conviction that her hair, alone among that glossy-tressed bevy, was looking badly, quite blotted out all nervousness and self-consciousness from her mind. Her hair apart, she looked very pretty. The prevailing excitement had made bright her eye and flushed her cheeks rosily—too rosily, perhaps. I heard a Carlisle woman behind me whisper that Cecily King looked consumptive, just like her Aunt Felicity; and I hated her fiercely for it. Sara Ray also managed to get through respectably, although she was pitiably nervous. Her bow was naught but a short nod—“as if her head worked on wires,” whispered Felicity uncharitably—and the wave of her lily-white hand more nearly resembled an agonized jerk than a wave. We all felt relieved when she finished. She was, in a sense, one of “our crowd,” and we had been afraid she would disgrace us by breaking down. Felicity followed her and recited her selection without haste, without rest, and absolutely without any expression whatever. But what mattered it how she recited? To look at her was sufficient. What with her splendid fleece of golden curls, her great, brilliant blue eyes, her exquisitely tinted face, her dimpled hands and arms, every member of the audience must have felt it was worth the ten cents he had paid merely to see her. The Story Girl followed. An expectant silence fell over the room, and Mr. Perkins’ face lost the look of tense anxiety it had worn all the evening. Here was a performer who could be depended on. No need to fear stage fright or forgetfulness on her part. The Story Girl was not looking her best that night. White never became her, and her face was pale, though her eyes were splendid. But nobody thought about her appearance when the power and magic of her voice caught and held her listeners spellbound. Her recitation was an old one, figuring in one of the School Readers, and we scholars all knew it off by heart. Sara Ray alone had not heard the Story Girl recite it. The latter had not been drilled at practices as had the other pupils, Mr. Perkins choosing not to waste time teaching her what she already knew far better than he did. The only time she had recited it had been at the “dress rehearsal” two nights before, at which Sara Ray had not been present. In the poem a Florentine lady of old time, wedded to a cold and cruel husband, had died, or was supposed to have died, and had been carried to “the rich, the beautiful, the dreadful tomb” of her proud family. In the night she wakened from her trance and made her escape. Chilled and terrified, she had made her way to her husband’s door, only to be driven away brutally as a restless ghost by the horror-stricken inmates. A similar reception awaited her at her father’s. Then she had wandered blindly through the streets of Florence until she had fallen exhausted at the door of the lover of her girlhood. He, unafraid, had taken her in and cared for her. On the morrow, the husband and father, having discovered the empty tomb, came to claim her. She refused to return to them and the case was carried to the court of law. The verdict given was that a woman who had been “to burial borne” and left for dead, who had been driven from her husband’s door and from her childhood home, “must be adjudged as dead in law and fact,” was no more daughter or wife, but was set free to form what new ties she would. The climax of the whole selection came in the line, “The court pronounces the defendant—DEAD!” and the Story Girl was wont to render it with such dramatic intensity and power that the veriest dullard among her listeners could not have missed its force and significance. She swept along through the poem royally, playing on the emotions of her audience as she had so often played on ours in the old orchard. Pity, terror, indignation, suspense, possessed her hearers in turn. In the court scene she surpassed herself. She was, in very truth, the Florentine judge, stern, stately, impassive. Her voice dropped into the solemnity of the all-important line, “‘The court pronounces the defendant—‘” She paused for a breathless moment, the better to bring out the tragic import of the last word. “DEAD,” piped up Sara Ray in her shrill, plaintive little voice. The effect, to use a hackneyed but convenient phrase, can better be imagined than described. Instead of the sigh of relieved tension that should have swept over the audience at the conclusion of the line, a burst of laughter greeted it. The Story Girl’s performance was completely spoiled. She dealt the luckless Sara a glance that would have slain her on the spot could glances kill, stumbled lamely and impotently through the few remaining lines of her recitation, and fled with crimson cheeks to hide her mortification in the little corner that had been curtained off for a dressing-room. Mr. Perkins looked things not lawful to be uttered, and the audience tittered at intervals for the rest of the performance. Sara Ray alone remained serenely satisfied until the close of the concert, when we surrounded her with a whirlwind of reproaches. “Why,” she stammered aghast, “what did I do? I—I thought she was stuck and that I ought to prompt her quick.” “You little fool, she just paused for effect,” cried Felicity angrily. Felicity might be rather jealous of the Story Girl’s gift, but she was furious at beholding “one of our family” made ridiculous in such a fashion. “You have less sense than anyone I ever heard of, Sara Ray.” Poor Sara dissolved in tears. “I didn’t know. I thought she was stuck,” she wailed again. She cried all the way home, but we did not try to comfort her. We felt quite out of patience with her. Even Cecily was seriously annoyed. This second blunder of Sara’s was too much even for her loyalty. We saw her turn in at her own gate and go sobbing up her lane with no relenting. The Story Girl was home before us, having fled from the schoolhouse as soon as the programme was over. We tried to sympathize with her but she would not be sympathized with. “Please don’t ever mention it to me again,” she said, with compressed lips. “I never want to be reminded of it. Oh, that little IDIOT!” “She spoiled Peter’s sermon last summer and now she’s spoiled your recitation,” said Felicity. “I think it’s time we gave up associating with Sara Ray.” “Oh, don’t be quite so hard on her,” pleaded Cecily. “Think of the life the poor child has to live at home. I know she’ll cry all night.” “Oh, let’s go to bed,” growled Dan. “I’m good and ready for it. I’ve had enough of school concerts.” About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. L. M. Montgomery (2008). The Golden Road. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/316/pg316-images.html This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org , located at https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html .

SARA RAY HELPS OUT

Trial by Fire

The Story Girl by L. M. Montgomery, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here . A DAUGHTER OF EVE CHAPTER X. A DAUGHTER OF EVE “I hate the thought of growing up,” said the Story Girl reflectively, “because I can never go barefooted then, and nobody will ever see what beautiful feet I have.” She was sitting, the July sunlight, on the ledge of the open hayloft window in Uncle Roger’s big barn; and the bare feet below her print skirt WERE beautiful. They were slender and shapely and satin smooth with arched insteps, the daintiest of toes, and nails like pink shells. We were all in the hayloft. The Story Girl had been telling us a tale “Of old, unhappy, far-off things, And battles long ago.” Felicity and Cecily were curled up in a corner, and we boys sprawled idly on the fragrant, sun-warm heaps. We had “stowed” the hay in the loft that morning for Uncle Roger, so we felt that we had earned the right to loll on our sweet-smelling couch. Haylofts are delicious places, with just enough of shadow and soft, uncertain noises to give an agreeable tang of mystery. The swallows flew in and out of their nest above our heads, and whenever a sunbeam fell through a chink the air swarmed with golden dust. Outside of the loft was a vast, sunshiny gulf of blue sky and mellow air, wherein floated argosies of fluffy cloud, and airy tops of maple and spruce. Pat was with us, of course, prowling about stealthily, or making frantic, bootless leaps at the swallows. A cat in a hayloft is a beautiful example of the eternal fitness of things. We had not heard of this fitness then, but we all felt that Paddy was in his own place in a hayloft. “I think it is very vain to talk about anything you have yourself being beautiful,” said Felicity. “I am not a bit vain,” said the Story Girl, with entire truthfulness. “It is not vanity to know your own good points. It would just be stupidity if you didn’t. It’s only vanity when you get puffed up about them. I am not a bit pretty. My only good points are my hair and eyes and feet. So I think it’s real mean that one of them has to be covered up the most of the time. I’m always glad when it gets warm enough to go barefooted. But, when I grow up they’ll have to covered all the time. It IS mean.” “You’ll have to put your shoes and stockings on when you go to the magic lantern show to-night,” said Felicity in a tone of satisfaction. “I don’t know that. I’m thinking of going barefooted.” “Oh, you wouldn’t! Sara Stanley, you’re not in earnest!” exclaimed Felicity, her blue eyes filling with horror. The Story Girl winked with the side of her face next to Felix and me, but the side next the girls changed not a muscle. She dearly loved to “take a rise” out of Felicity now and then. “Indeed, I would if I just made up my mind to. Why not? Why not bare feet—if they’re clean—as well as bare hands and face?” “Oh, you wouldn’t! It would be such a disgrace!” said poor Felicity in real distress. “We went to school barefooted all June,” argued that wicked Story Girl. “What is the difference between going to the schoolhouse barefooted in the daytime and going in the evening?” “Oh, there’s EVERY difference. I can’t just explain it—but every one KNOWS there is a difference. You know it yourself. Oh, PLEASE, don’t do such a thing, Sara.” “Well, I won’t, just to oblige you,” said the Story Girl, who would have died the death before she would have gone to a “public meeting” barefooted. We were all rather excited over the magic lantern show which an itinerant lecturer was to give in the schoolhouse that evening. Even Felix and I, who had seen such shows galore, were interested, and the rest were quite wild. There had never been such a thing in Carlisle before. We were all going, Peter included. Peter went everywhere with us now. He was a regular attendant at church and Sunday School, where his behaviour was as irreproachable as if he had been “raised” in the caste of Vere de Vere. It was a feather in the Story Girl’s cap, for she took all the credit of having started Peter on the right road. Felicity was resigned, although the fatal patch on Peter’s best trousers was still an eyesore to her. She declared she never got any good of the singing, because Peter stood up then and every one could see the patch. Mrs. James Clark, whose pew was behind ours, never took her eye off it—or so Felicity averred. But Peter’s stockings were always darned. Aunt Olivia had seen to that, “Of old, unhappy, far-off things, And battles long ago.”ever since she heard of Peter’s singular device regarding them on his first Sunday. She had also given Peter a Bible, of which he was so proud that he hated to use it lest he should soil it. “I think I’ll wrap it up and keep it in my box,” he said. “I’ve an old Bible of Aunt Jane’s at home that I can use. I s’pose it’s just the same, even if it is old, isn’t it?” “Oh, yes,” Cecily had assured him. “The Bible is always the same.” “I thought maybe they’d got some new improvements on it since Aunt Jane’s day,” said Peter, relieved. “Sara Ray is coming along the lane, and she’s crying,” announced Dan, who was peering out of a knot-hole on the opposite side of the loft. “Sara Ray is crying half her time,” said Cecily impatiently. “I’m sure she cries a quartful of tears a month. There are times when you can’t help crying. But I hide then. Sara just goes and cries in public.” The lachrymose Sara presently joined us and we discovered the cause of her tears to be the doleful fact that her mother had forbidden her to go to the magic lantern show that night. We all showed the sympathy we felt. “She SAID yesterday you could go,” said the Story Girl indignantly. “Why has she changed her mind?” “Because of the measles in Markdale,” sobbed Sara. “She says Markdale is full of them, and there’ll be sure to be some of the Markdale people at the show. So I’m not to go. And I’ve never seen a magic lantern—I’ve never seen ANYTHING.” “I don’t believe there’s any danger of catching measles,” said Felicity. “If there was we wouldn’t be allowed to go.” “I wish I COULD get the measles,” said Sara defiantly. “Maybe I’d be of some importance to ma then.” “Suppose Cecily goes down with you and coaxes your mother,” suggested the Story Girl. “Perhaps she’d let you go then. She likes Cecily. She doesn’t like either Felicity or me, so it would only make matters worse for us to try.” “Ma’s gone to town—pa and her went this afternoon—and they’re not coming back till to-morrow. There’s nobody home but Judy Pineau and me.” “Then,” said the Story Girl, “why don’t you just go to the show anyhow? Your mother won’t ever know, if you coax Judy to hold her tongue.” “Oh, but that’s wrong,” said Felicity. “You shouldn’t put Sara up to disobeying her mother.” Now, Felicity for once was undoubtedly right. The Story Girl’s suggestion WAS wrong; and if it had been Cecily who protested, the Story Girl would probably have listened to her, and proceeded no further in the matter. But Felicity was one of those unfortunate people whose protests against wrong-doing serve only to drive the wrong-doer further on her sinful way. The Story Girl resented Felicity’s superior tone, and proceeded to tempt Sara in right good earnest. The rest of us held our tongues. It was, we told ourselves, Sara’s own lookout. “I have a good mind to do it,” said Sara, “but I can’t get my good clothes; they’re in the spare room, and ma locked the door, for fear somebody would get at the fruit cake. I haven’t a single thing to wear, except my school gingham.” “Well, that’s new and pretty,” said the Story Girl. “We’ll lend you some things. You can have my lace collar. That’ll make the gingham quite elegant. And Cecily will lend you her second best hat.” “But I’ve no shoes or stockings. They’re locked up too.” “You can have a pair of mine,” said Felicity, who probably thought that since Sara was certain to yield to temptation, she might as well be garbed decently for her transgression. Sara did yield. When the Story Girl’s voice entreated it was not easy to resist its temptation, even if you wanted to. That evening, when we started for the schoolhouse, Sara Ray was among us, decked out in borrowed plumes. “Suppose she DOES catch the measles?” Felicity said aside. “I don’t believe there’ll be anybody there from Markdale. The lecturer is going to Markdale next week. They’ll wait for that,” said the Story Girl airily. It was a cool, dewy evening, and we walked down the long, red hill in the highest of spirits. Over a valley filled with beech and spruce was a sunset afterglow—creamy yellow and a hue that was not so much red as the dream of red, with a young moon swung low in it. The air was sweet with the breath of mown hayfields where swaths of clover had been steeping in the sun. Wild roses grew pinkly along the fences, and the roadsides were star-dusted with buttercups. Those of us who had nothing the matter with our consciences enjoyed our walk to the little whitewashed schoolhouse in the valley. Felicity and Cecily were void of offence towards all men. The Story Girl walked uprightly like an incarnate flame in her crimson silk. Her pretty feet were hidden in the tan-coloured, buttoned Paris boots which were the secret envy of every school girl in Carlisle. But Sara Ray was not happy. Her face was so melancholy that the Story Girl lost patience with her. The Story Girl herself was not altogether at ease. Probably her own conscience was troubling her. But admit it she would not. “Now, Sara,” she said, “you just take my advice and go into this with all your heart if you go at all. Never mind if it is bad. There’s no use being naughty if you spoil your fun by wishing all the time you were good. You can repent afterwards, but there is no use in mixing the two things together.” “I’m not repenting,” protested Sara. “I’m only scared of ma finding it out.” “Oh!” The Story Girl’s voice expressed her scorn. For remorse she had understanding and sympathy; but fear of her fellow creatures was something unknown to her. “Didn’t Judy Pineau promise you solemnly she wouldn’t tell?” “Yes; but maybe some one who sees me there will mention it to ma.” “Well, if you’re so scared you’d better not go. It isn’t too late. Here’s your own gate,” said Cecily. But Sara could not give up the delights of the show. So she walked on, a small, miserable testimony that the way of the transgressor is never easy, even when said transgressor is only a damsel of eleven. The magic lantern show was a splendid one. The views were good and the lecturer witty. We repeated his jokes to each other all the way home. Sara, who had not enjoyed the exhibition at all, seemed to feel more cheerful when it was over and she was going home. The Story Girl on the contrary was gloomy. “There WERE Markdale people there,” she confided to me, “and the Williamsons live next door to the Cowans, who have measles. I wish I’d never egged Sara on to going—but don’t tell Felicity I said so. If Sara Ray had really enjoyed the show I wouldn’t mind. But she didn’t. I could see that. So I’ve done wrong and made her do wrong—and there’s nothing to show for it.” The night was scented and mysterious. The wind was playing an eerie fleshless melody in the reeds of the brook hollow. The sky was dark and starry, and across it the Milky Way flung its shimmering misty ribbons. “There’s four hundred million stars in the Milky Way,” quoth Peter, who frequently astonished us by knowing more than any hired boy could be expected to. He had a retentive memory, and never forgot anything he heard or read. The few books left to him by his oft-referred-to Aunt Jane had stocked his mind with a miscellaneous information which sometimes made Felix and me doubt if we knew as much as Peter after all. Felicity was so impressed by his knowledge of astronomy that she dropped back from the other girls and walked beside him. She had not done so before because he was barefooted. It was permissible for hired boys to go to public meetings—when not held in the church—with bare feet, and no particular disgrace attached to it. But Felicity would not walk with a barefooted companion. It was dark now, so nobody would notice his feet. “I know a story about the Milky Way,” said the Story Girl, brightening up. “I read it in a book of Aunt Louisa’s in town, and I learned it off by heart. Once there were two archangels in heaven, named Zerah and Zulamith—” “Have angels names—same as people?” interrupted Peter. “Yes, of course. They MUST have. They’d be all mixed up if they hadn’t.” “And when I’m an angel—if I ever get to be one—will my name still be Peter?” “No. You’ll have a new name up there,” said Cecily gently. “It says so in the Bible.” “Well, I’m glad of that. Peter would be such a funny name for an angel. And what is the difference between angels and archangels?” “Oh, archangels are angels that have been angels so long that they’ve had time to grow better and brighter and more beautiful than newer angels,” said the Story Girl, who probably made that explanation up on the spur of the moment, just to pacify Peter. “How long does it take for an angel to grow into an archangel?” pursued Peter. “Oh, I don’t know. Millions of years likely. And even then I don’t suppose ALL the angels do. A good many of them must just stay plain angels, I expect.” “I shall be satisfied just to be a plain angel,” said Felicity modestly. “Oh, see here, if you’re going to interrupt and argue over everything, we’ll never get the story told,” said Felix. “Dry up, all of you, and let the Story Girl go on.” We dried up, and the Story Girl went on. “Zerah and Zulamith loved each other, just as mortals love, and this is forbidden by the laws of the Almighty. And because Zerah and Zulamith had so broken God’s law they were banished from His presence to the uttermost bounds of the universe. If they had been banished TOGETHER it would have been no punishment; so Zerah was exiled to a star on one side of the universe, and Zulamith was sent to a star on the other side of the universe; and between them was a fathomless abyss which thought itself could not cross. Only one thing could cross it—and that was love. Zulamith yearned for Zerah with such fidelity and longing that he began to build up a bridge of light from his star; and Zerah, not knowing this, but loving and longing for him, began to build a similar bridge of light from her star. For a thousand thousand years they both built the bridge of light, and at last they met and sprang into each other’s arms. Their toil and loneliness and suffering were all over and forgotten, and the bridge they had built spanned the gulf between their stars of exile. “Now, when the other archangels saw what had been done they flew in fear and anger to God’s white throne, and cried to Him, “‘See what these rebellious ones have done! They have built them a bridge of light across the universe, and set Thy decree of separation at naught. Do Thou, then, stretch forth Thine arm and destroy their impious work.’ “They ceased—and all heaven was hushed. Through the silence sounded the voice of the Almighty. “‘Nay,’ He said, ‘whatsoever in my universe true love hath builded not even the Almighty can destroy. The bridge must stand forever.’ “And,” concluded the Story Girl, her face upturned to the sky and her big eyes filled with starlight, “it stands still. That bridge is the Milky Way.” “What a lovely story,” sighed Sara Ray, who had been wooed to a temporary forgetfulness of her woes by its charm. The rest of us came back to earth, feeling that we had been wandering among the hosts of heaven. We were not old enough to appreciate fully the wonderful meaning of the legend; but we felt its beauty and its appeal. To us forevermore the Milky Way would be, not Peter’s overwhelming garland of suns, but the lucent bridge, love-created, on which the banished archangels crossed from star to star. We had to go up Sara Ray’s lane with her to her very door, for she was afraid Peg Bowen would catch her if she went alone. Then the Story Girl and I walked up the hill together. Peter and Felicity lagged behind. Cecily and Dan and Felix were walking before us, hand in hand, singing a hymn. Cecily had a very sweet voice, and I listened in delight. But the Story Girl sighed. “What if Sara does take the measles?” she asked miserably. “Everyone has to have the measles sometime,” I said comfortingly, “and the younger you are the better.” About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. L. M. Montgomery (2004). The Story Girl. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/5342/pg5342-images.html This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org , located at https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html .

A DAUGHTER OF EVE

Kilmeny of the Orchard by L. M. Montgomery, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here . THE MASTER OF LINDSAY SCHOOL CHAPTER III. THE MASTER OF LINDSAY SCHOOL One evening, a month later, Eric Marshall came out of the old, white-washed schoolhouse at Lindsay, and locked the door—which was carved over with initials innumerable, and built of double plank in order that it might withstand all the assaults and batteries to which it might be subjected. Eric’s pupils had gone home an hour before, but he had stayed to solve some algebra problems, and correct some Latin exercises for his advanced students. The sun was slanting in warm yellow lines through the thick grove of maples to the west of the building, and the dim green air beneath them burst into golden bloom. A couple of sheep were nibbling the lush grass in a far corner of the play-ground; a cow-bell, somewhere in the maple woods, tinkled faintly and musically, on the still crystal air, which, in spite of its blandness, still retained a touch of the wholesome austerity and poignancy of a Canadian spring. The whole world seemed to have fallen, for the time being, into a pleasant untroubled dream. The scene was very peaceful and pastoral—almost too much so, the young man thought, with a shrug of his shoulders, as he stood in the worn steps and gazed about him. How was he going to put in a whole month here, he wondered, with a little smile at his own expense. “Father would chuckle if he knew I was sick of it already,” he thought, as he walked across the play-ground to the long red road that ran past the school. “Well, one week is ended, at any rate. I’ve earned my own living for five whole days, and that is something I could never say before in all my twenty-four years of existence. It is an exhilarating thought. But teaching the Lindsay district school is distinctly NOT exhilarating—at least in such a well-behaved school as this, where the pupils are so painfully good that I haven’t even the traditional excitement of thrashing obstreperous bad boys. Everything seems to go by clock work in Lindsay educational institution. Larry must certainly have possessed a marked gift for organizing and drilling. I feel as if I were merely a big cog in an orderly machine that ran itself. However, I understand that there are some pupils who haven’t shown up yet, and who, according to all reports, have not yet had the old Adam totally drilled out of them. They may make things more interesting. Also a few more compositions, such as John Reid’s, would furnish some spice to professional life.” Eric’s laughter wakened the echoes as he swung into the road down the long sloping hill. He had given his fourth grade pupils their own choice of subjects in the composition class that morning, and John Reid, a sober, matter-of-fact little urchin, with not the slightest embryonic development of a sense of humour, had, acting upon the whispered suggestion of a roguish desk-mate, elected to write upon “Courting.” His opening sentence made Eric’s face twitch mutinously whenever he recalled it during the day. “Courting is a very pleasant thing which a great many people go too far with.” The distant hills and wooded uplands were tremulous and aerial in delicate spring-time gauzes of pearl and purple. The young, green-leafed maples crowded thickly to the very edge of the road on either side, but beyond them were emerald fields basking in sunshine, over which cloud shadows rolled, broadened, and vanished. Far below the fields a calm ocean slept bluely, and sighed in its sleep, with the murmur that rings for ever in the ear of those whose good fortune it is to have been born within the sound of it. Now and then Eric met some callow, check-shirted, bare-legged lad on horseback, or a shrewd-faced farmer in a cart, who nodded and called out cheerily, “Howdy, Master?” A young girl, with a rosy, oval face, dimpled cheeks, and pretty dark eyes filled with shy coquetry, passed him, looking as if she would not be at all averse to a better acquaintance with the new teacher. Half way down the hill Eric met a shambling, old gray horse drawing an express wagon which had seen better days. The driver was a woman: she appeared to be one of those drab-tinted individuals who can never have felt a rosy emotion in all their lives. She stopped her horse, and beckoned Eric over to her with the knobby handle of a faded and bony umbrella. “Reckon you’re the new Master, ain’t you?” she asked. Eric admitted that he was. “Well, I’m glad to see you,” she said, offering him a hand in a much darned cotton glove that had once been black. “I was right sorry to see Mr. West go, for he was a right good teacher, and as harmless, inoffensive a creetur as ever lived. But I always told him every time I laid eyes on him that he was in consumption, if ever a man was. YOU look real healthy—though you can’t aways tell by looks, either. I had a brother complected like you, but he was killed in a railroad accident out west when he was real young. “I’ve got a boy I’ll be sending to school to you next week. He’d oughter gone this week, but I had to keep him home to help me put the pertaters in; for his father won’t work and doesn’t work and can’t be made to work. “Sandy—his full name is Edward Alexander—called after both his grandfathers—hates the idee of going to school worse ‘n pisen—always did. But go he shall, for I’m determined he’s got to have more larning hammered into his head yet. I reckon you’ll have trouble with him, Master, for he’s as stupid as an owl, and as stubborn as Solomon’s mule. But mind this, Master, I’ll back you up. You just lick Sandy good and plenty when he needs it, and send me a scrape of the pen home with him, and I’ll give him another dose. “There’s people that always sides in with their young ones when there’s any rumpus kicked up in the school, but I don’t hold to that, and never did. You can depend on Rebecca Reid every time, Master.” “Thank you. I am sure I can,” said Eric, in his most winning tones. He kept his face straight until it was safe to relax, and Mrs. Reid drove on with a soft feeling in her leathery old heart, which had been so toughened by long endurance of poverty and toil, and a husband who wouldn’t work and couldn’t be made to work, that it was no longer a very susceptible organ where members of the opposite sex were concerned. Mrs. Reid reflected that this young man had a way with him. Eric already knew most of the Lindsay folks by sight; but at the foot of the hill he met two people, a man and a boy, whom he did not know. They were sitting in a shabby, old-fashioned wagon, and were watering their horse at the brook, which gurgled limpidly under the little plank bridge in the hollow. Eric surveyed them with some curiosity. They did not look in the least like the ordinary run of Lindsay people. The boy, in particular, had a distinctly foreign appearance, in spite of the gingham shirt and homespun trousers, which seemed to be the regulation, work-a-day outfit for the Lindsay farmer lads. He had a lithe, supple body, with sloping shoulders, and a lean, satiny brown throat above his open shirt collar. His head was covered with thick, silky, black curls, and the hand that hung down by the side of the wagon was unusually long and slender. His face was richly, though somewhat heavily featured, olive tinted, save for the cheeks, which had a dusky crimson bloom. His mouth was as red and beguiling as a girl’s, and his eyes were large, bold and black. All in all, he was a strikingly handsome fellow; but the expression of his face was sullen, and he somehow gave Eric the impression of a sinuous, feline creature basking in lazy grace, but ever ready for an unexpected spring. The other occupant of the wagon was a man between sixty-five and seventy, with iron-gray hair, a long, full, gray beard, a harsh-featured face, and deep-set hazel eyes under bushy, bristling brows. He was evidently tall, with a spare, ungainly figure, and stooping shoulders. His mouth was close-lipped and relentless, and did not look as if it had ever smiled. Indeed, the idea of smiling could not be connected with this man—it was utterly incongruous. Yet there was nothing repellent about his face; and there was something in it that compelled Eric’s attention. He rather prided himself on being a student of physiognomy, and he felt quite sure that this man was no ordinary Lindsay farmer of the genial, garrulous type with which he was familiar. Long after the old wagon, with its oddly assorted pair, had gone lumbering up the hill, Eric found himself thinking of the stern, heavy browed man and the black-eyed, red-lipped boy. About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. L. M. Montgomery (2004). Kilmeny of the Orchard. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/5341/pg5341-images.html This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org , located at https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html.

THE MASTER OF LINDSAY SCHOOL

Anne of Green Gables by L. M. Montgomery, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here . The Pass List Is Out CHAPTER XXXII. The Pass List Is Out WITH the end of June came the close of the term and the close of Miss Stacy’s rule in Avonlea school. Anne and Diana walked home that evening feeling very sober indeed. Red eyes and damp handkerchiefs bore convincing testimony to the fact that Miss Stacy’s farewell words must have been quite as touching as Mr. Phillips’s had been under similar circumstances three years before. Diana looked back at the schoolhouse from the foot of the spruce hill and sighed deeply. “It does seem as if it was the end of everything, doesn’t it?” she said dismally. “You oughtn’t to feel half as badly as I do,” said Anne, hunting vainly for a dry spot on her handkerchief. “You’ll be back again next winter, but I suppose I’ve left the dear old school forever—if I have good luck, that is.” “It won’t be a bit the same. Miss Stacy won’t be there, nor you nor Jane nor Ruby probably. I shall have to sit all alone, for I couldn’t bear to have another deskmate after you. Oh, we have had jolly times, haven’t we, Anne? It’s dreadful to think they’re all over.” Two big tears rolled down by Diana’s nose. “If you would stop crying I could,” said Anne imploringly. “Just as soon as I put away my hanky I see you brimming up and that starts me off again. As Mrs. Lynde says, ‘If you can’t be cheerful, be as cheerful as you can.’ After all, I dare say I’ll be back next year. This is one of the times I know I’m not going to pass. They’re getting alarmingly frequent.” “Why, you came out splendidly in the exams Miss Stacy gave.” “Yes, but those exams didn’t make me nervous. When I think of the real thing you can’t imagine what a horrid cold fluttery feeling comes round my heart. And then my number is thirteen and Josie Pye says it’s so unlucky. I am not superstitious and I know it can make no difference. But still I wish it wasn’t thirteen.” “I do wish I was going in with you,” said Diana. “Wouldn’t we have a perfectly elegant time? But I suppose you’ll have to cram in the evenings.” “No; Miss Stacy has made us promise not to open a book at all. She says it would only tire and confuse us and we are to go out walking and not think about the exams at all and go to bed early. It’s good advice, but I expect it will be hard to follow; good advice is apt to be, I think. Prissy Andrews told me that she sat up half the night every night of her Entrance week and crammed for dear life; and I had determined to sit up at least as long as she did. It was so kind of your Aunt Josephine to ask me to stay at Beechwood while I’m in town.” “You’ll write to me while you’re in, won’t you?” “I’ll write Tuesday night and tell you how the first day goes,” promised Anne. “I’ll be haunting the post office Wednesday,” vowed Diana. Anne went to town the following Monday and on Wednesday Diana haunted the post office, as agreed, and got her letter. “Dearest Diana” [wrote Anne], “Here it is Tuesday night and I’m writing this in the library at Beechwood. Last night I was horribly lonesome all alone in my room and wished so much you were with me. I couldn’t ‘cram’ because I’d promised Miss Stacy not to, but it was as hard to keep from opening my history as it used to be to keep from reading a story before my lessons were learned. “This morning Miss Stacy came for me and we went to the Academy, calling for Jane and Ruby and Josie on our way. Ruby asked me to feel her hands and they were as cold as ice. Josie said I looked as if I hadn’t slept a wink and she didn’t believe I was strong enough to stand the grind of the teacher’s course even if I did get through. There are times and seasons even yet when I don’t feel that I’ve made any great headway in learning to like Josie Pye! “When we reached the Academy there were scores of students there from all over the Island. The first person we saw was Moody Spurgeon sitting on the steps and muttering away to himself. Jane asked him what on earth he was doing and he said he was repeating the multiplication table over and over to steady his nerves and for pity’s sake not to interrupt him, because if he stopped for a moment he got frightened and forgot everything he ever knew, but the multiplication table kept all his facts firmly in their proper place! “When we were assigned to our rooms Miss Stacy had to leave us. Jane and I sat together and Jane was so composed that I envied her. No need of the multiplication table for good, steady, sensible Jane! I wondered if I looked as I felt and if they could hear my heart thumping clear across the room. Then a man came in and began distributing the English examination sheets. My hands grew cold then and my head fairly whirled around as I picked it up. Just one awful moment—Diana, I felt exactly as I did four years ago when I asked Marilla if I might stay at Green Gables—and then everything cleared up in my mind and my heart began beating again—I forgot to say that it had stopped altogether!—for I knew I could do something with that paper anyhow. “At noon we went home for dinner and then back again for history in the afternoon. The history was a pretty hard paper and I got dreadfully mixed up in the dates. Still, I think I did fairly well today. But oh, Diana, tomorrow the geometry exam comes off and when I think of it it takes every bit of determination I possess to keep from opening my Euclid. If I thought the multiplication table would help me any I would recite it from now till tomorrow morning. “I went down to see the other girls this evening. On my way I met Moody Spurgeon wandering distractedly around. He said he knew he had failed in history and he was born to be a disappointment to his parents and he was going home on the morning train; and it would be easier to be a carpenter than a minister, anyhow. I cheered him up and persuaded him to stay to the end because it would be unfair to Miss Stacy if he didn’t. Sometimes I have wished I was born a boy, but when I see Moody Spurgeon I’m always glad I’m a girl and not his sister. “Ruby was in hysterics when I reached their boardinghouse; she had just discovered a fearful mistake she had made in her English paper. When she recovered we went uptown and had an ice cream. How we wished you had been with us. “Oh, Diana, if only the geometry examination were over! But there, as Mrs. Lynde would say, the sun will go on rising and setting whether I fail in geometry or not. That is true but not especially comforting. I think I’d rather it didn’t go on if I failed! “Yours devotedly, “Anne” The geometry examination and all the others were over in due time and Anne arrived home on Friday evening, rather tired but with an air of chastened triumph about her. Diana was over at Green Gables when she arrived and they met as if they had been parted for years. “You old darling, it’s perfectly splendid to see you back again. It seems like an age since you went to town and oh, Anne, how did you get along?” “Pretty well, I think, in everything but the geometry. I don’t know whether I passed in it or not and I have a creepy, crawly presentiment that I didn’t. Oh, how good it is to be back! Green Gables is the dearest, loveliest spot in the world.” “How did the others do?” “The girls say they know they didn’t pass, but I think they did pretty well. Josie says the geometry was so easy a child of ten could do it! Moody Spurgeon still thinks he failed in history and Charlie says he failed in algebra. But we don’t really know anything about it and won’t until the pass list is out. That won’t be for a fortnight. Fancy living a fortnight in such suspense! I wish I could go to sleep and never wake up until it is over.” Diana knew it would be useless to ask how Gilbert Blythe had fared, so she merely said: “Oh, you’ll pass all right. Don’t worry.” “I’d rather not pass at all than not come out pretty well up on the list,” flashed Anne, by which she meant—and Diana knew she meant—that success would be incomplete and bitter if she did not come out ahead of Gilbert Blythe. With this end in view Anne had strained every nerve during the examinations. So had Gilbert. They had met and passed each other on the street a dozen times without any sign of recognition and every time Anne had held her head a little higher and wished a little more earnestly that she had made friends with Gilbert when he asked her, and vowed a little more determinedly to surpass him in the examination. She knew that all Avonlea junior was wondering which would come out first; she even knew that Jimmy Glover and Ned Wright had a bet on the question and that Josie Pye had said there was no doubt in the world that Gilbert would be first; and she felt that her humiliation would be unbearable if she failed. But she had another and nobler motive for wishing to do well. She wanted to “pass high” for the sake of Matthew and Marilla—especially Matthew. Matthew had declared to her his conviction that she “would beat the whole Island.” That, Anne felt, was something it would be foolish to hope for even in the wildest dreams. But she did hope fervently that she would be among the first ten at least, so that she might see Matthew’s kindly brown eyes gleam with pride in her achievement. That, she felt, would be a sweet reward indeed for all her hard work and patient grubbing among unimaginative equations and conjugations. At the end of the fortnight Anne took to “haunting” the post office also, in the distracted company of Jane, Ruby, and Josie, opening the Charlottetown dailies with shaking hands and cold, sinkaway feelings as bad as any experienced during the Entrance week. Charlie and Gilbert were not above doing this too, but Moody Spurgeon stayed resolutely away. “I haven’t got the grit to go there and look at a paper in cold blood,” he told Anne. “I’m just going to wait until somebody comes and tells me suddenly whether I’ve passed or not.” When three weeks had gone by without the pass list appearing Anne began to feel that she really couldn’t stand the strain much longer. Her appetite failed and her interest in Avonlea doings languished. Mrs. Lynde wanted to know what else you could expect with a Tory superintendent of education at the head of affairs, and Matthew, noting Anne’s paleness and indifference and the lagging steps that bore her home from the post office every afternoon, began seriously to wonder if he hadn’t better vote Grit at the next election. But one evening the news came. Anne was sitting at her open window, for the time forgetful of the woes of examinations and the cares of the world, as she drank in the beauty of the summer dusk, sweet-scented with flower breaths from the garden below and sibilant and rustling from the stir of poplars. The eastern sky above the firs was flushed faintly pink from the reflection of the west, and Anne was wondering dreamily if the spirit of color looked like that, when she saw Diana come flying down through the firs, over the log bridge, and up the slope, with a fluttering newspaper in her hand. Anne sprang to her feet, knowing at once what that paper contained. The pass list was out! Her head whirled and her heart beat until it hurt her. She could not move a step. It seemed an hour to her before Diana came rushing along the hall and burst into the room without even knocking, so great was her excitement. “Anne, you’ve passed,” she cried, “passed the very first—you and Gilbert both—you’re ties—but your name is first. Oh, I’m so proud!” Diana flung the paper on the table and herself on Anne’s bed, utterly breathless and incapable of further speech. Anne lighted the lamp, oversetting the match safe and using up half a dozen matches before her shaking hands could accomplish the task. Then she snatched up the paper. Yes, she had passed—there was her name at the very top of a list of two hundred! That moment was worth living for. “You did just splendidly, Anne,” puffed Diana, recovering sufficiently to sit up and speak, for Anne, starry eyed and rapt, had not uttered a word. “Father brought the paper home from Bright River not ten minutes ago—it came out on the afternoon train, you know, and won’t be here till tomorrow by mail—and when I saw the pass list I just rushed over like a wild thing. You’ve all passed, every one of you, Moody Spurgeon and all, although he’s conditioned in history. Jane and Ruby did pretty well—they’re halfway up—and so did Charlie. Josie just scraped through with three marks to spare, but you’ll see she’ll put on as many airs as if she’d led. Won’t Miss Stacy be delighted? Oh, Anne, what does it feel like to see your name at the head of a pass list like that? If it were me I know I’d go crazy with joy. I am pretty near crazy as it is, but you’re as calm and cool as a spring evening.” “I’m just dazzled inside,” said Anne. “I want to say a hundred things, and I can’t find words to say them in. I never dreamed of this—yes, I did too, just once! I let myself think once, ‘What if I should come out first?’ quakingly, you know, for it seemed so vain and presumptuous to think I could lead the Island. Excuse me a minute, Diana. I must run right out to the field to tell Matthew. Then we’ll go up the road and tell the good news to the others.” They hurried to the hayfield below the barn where Matthew was coiling hay, and, as luck would have it, Mrs. Lynde was talking to Marilla at the lane fence. “Oh, Matthew,” exclaimed Anne, “I’ve passed and I’m first—or one of the first! I’m not vain, but I’m thankful.” “Well now, I always said it,” said Matthew, gazing at the pass list delightedly. “I knew you could beat them all easy.” “You’ve done pretty well, I must say, Anne,” said Marilla, trying to hide her extreme pride in Anne from Mrs. Rachel’s critical eye. But that good soul said heartily: “I just guess she has done well, and far be it from me to be backward in saying it. You’re a credit to your friends, Anne, that’s what, and we’re all proud of you.” That night Anne, who had wound up the delightful evening with a serious little talk with Mrs. Allan at the manse, knelt sweetly by her open window in a great sheen of moonshine and murmured a prayer of gratitude and aspiration that came straight from her heart. There was in it thankfulness for the past and reverent petition for the future; and when she slept on her white pillow her dreams were as fair and bright and beautiful as maidenhood might desire. About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. L. M. Montgomery (2008). Anne of Green Gables. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/45/pg45-images.html This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org , located at https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html . The lead image was generated using HackerNoon's Stable Disffusion Al Image Generator feature, via the prompt "Anne of Green Fables".

The Pass List Is Out

Anne of Green Gables by L. M. Montgomery, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here . Miss Stacy and Her Pupils Get Up a Concert CHAPTER XXIV. Miss Stacy and Her Pupils Get Up a Concert IT was October again when Anne was ready to go back to school—a glorious October, all red and gold, with mellow mornings when the valleys were filled with delicate mists as if the spirit of autumn had poured them in for the sun to drain—amethyst, pearl, silver, rose, and smoke-blue. The dews were so heavy that the fields glistened like cloth of silver and there were such heaps of rustling leaves in the hollows of many-stemmed woods to run crisply through. The Birch Path was a canopy of yellow and the ferns were sear and brown all along it. There was a tang in the very air that inspired the hearts of small maidens tripping, unlike snails, swiftly and willingly to school; and it was jolly to be back again at the little brown desk beside Diana, with Ruby Gillis nodding across the aisle and Carrie Sloane sending up notes and Julia Bell passing a “chew” of gum down from the back seat. Anne drew a long breath of happiness as she sharpened her pencil and arranged her picture cards in her desk. Life was certainly very interesting. In the new teacher she found another true and helpful friend. Miss Stacy was a bright, sympathetic young woman with the happy gift of winning and holding the affections of her pupils and bringing out the best that was in them mentally and morally. Anne expanded like a flower under this wholesome influence and carried home to the admiring Matthew and the critical Marilla glowing accounts of schoolwork and aims. “I love Miss Stacy with my whole heart, Marilla. She is so ladylike and she has such a sweet voice. When she pronounces my name I feel instinctively that she’s spelling it with an E. We had recitations this afternoon. I just wish you could have been there to hear me recite ‘Mary, Queen of Scots.’ I just put my whole soul into it. Ruby Gillis told me coming home that the way I said the line, ‘Now for my father’s arm,’ she said, ‘my woman’s heart farewell,’ just made her blood run cold.” “Well now, you might recite it for me some of these days, out in the barn,” suggested Matthew. “Of course I will,” said Anne meditatively, “but I won’t be able to do it so well, I know. It won’t be so exciting as it is when you have a whole schoolful before you hanging breathlessly on your words. I know I won’t be able to make your blood run cold.” “Mrs. Lynde says it made her blood run cold to see the boys climbing to the very tops of those big trees on Bell’s hill after crows’ nests last Friday,” said Marilla. “I wonder at Miss Stacy for encouraging it.” “But we wanted a crow’s nest for nature study,” explained Anne. “That was on our field afternoon. Field afternoons are splendid, Marilla. And Miss Stacy explains everything so beautifully. We have to write compositions on our field afternoons and I write the best ones.” “It’s very vain of you to say so then. You’d better let your teacher say it.” “But she did say it, Marilla. And indeed I’m not vain about it. How can I be, when I’m such a dunce at geometry? Although I’m really beginning to see through it a little, too. Miss Stacy makes it so clear. Still, I’ll never be good at it and I assure you it is a humbling reflection. But I love writing compositions. Mostly Miss Stacy lets us choose our own subjects; but next week we are to write a composition on some remarkable person. It’s hard to choose among so many remarkable people who have lived. Mustn’t it be splendid to be remarkable and have compositions written about you after you’re dead? Oh, I would dearly love to be remarkable. I think when I grow up I’ll be a trained nurse and go with the Red Crosses to the field of battle as a messenger of mercy. That is, if I don’t go out as a foreign missionary. That would be very romantic, but one would have to be very good to be a missionary, and that would be a stumbling block. We have physical culture exercises every day, too. They make you graceful and promote digestion.” “Promote fiddlesticks!” said Marilla, who honestly thought it was all nonsense. But all the field afternoons and recitation Fridays and physical culture contortions paled before a project which Miss Stacy brought forward in November. This was that the scholars of Avonlea school should get up a concert and hold it in the hall on Christmas Night, for the laudable purpose of helping to pay for a schoolhouse flag. The pupils one and all taking graciously to this plan, the preparations for a program were begun at once. And of all the excited performers-elect none was so excited as Anne Shirley, who threw herself into the undertaking heart and soul, hampered as she was by Marilla’s disapproval. Marilla thought it all rank foolishness. “It’s just filling your heads up with nonsense and taking time that ought to be put on your lessons,” she grumbled. “I don’t approve of children’s getting up concerts and racing about to practices. It makes them vain and forward and fond of gadding.” “But think of the worthy object,” pleaded Anne. “A flag will cultivate a spirit of patriotism, Marilla.” “Fudge! There’s precious little patriotism in the thoughts of any of you. All you want is a good time.” “Well, when you can combine patriotism and fun, isn’t it all right? Of course it’s real nice to be getting up a concert. We’re going to have six choruses and Diana is to sing a solo. I’m in two dialogues—‘The Society for the Suppression of Gossip’ and ‘The Fairy Queen.’ The boys are going to have a dialogue too. And I’m to have two recitations, Marilla. I just tremble when I think of it, but it’s a nice thrilly kind of tremble. And we’re to have a tableau at the last—‘Faith, Hope and Charity.’ Diana and Ruby and I are to be in it, all draped in white with flowing hair. I’m to be Hope, with my hands clasped—so—and my eyes uplifted. I’m going to practice my recitations in the garret. Don’t be alarmed if you hear me groaning. I have to groan heartrendingly in one of them, and it’s really hard to get up a good artistic groan, Marilla. Josie Pye is sulky because she didn’t get the part she wanted in the dialogue. She wanted to be the fairy queen. That would have been ridiculous, for who ever heard of a fairy queen as fat as Josie? Fairy queens must be slender. Jane Andrews is to be the queen and I am to be one of her maids of honor. Josie says she thinks a red-haired fairy is just as ridiculous as a fat one, but I do not let myself mind what Josie says. I’m to have a wreath of white roses on my hair and Ruby Gillis is going to lend me her slippers because I haven’t any of my own. It’s necessary for fairies to have slippers, you know. You couldn’t imagine a fairy wearing boots, could you? Especially with copper toes? We are going to decorate the hall with creeping spruce and fir mottoes with pink tissue-paper roses in them. And we are all to march in two by two after the audience is seated, while Emma White plays a march on the organ. Oh, Marilla, I know you are not so enthusiastic about it as I am, but don’t you hope your little Anne will distinguish herself?” “All I hope is that you’ll behave yourself. I’ll be heartily glad when all this fuss is over and you’ll be able to settle down. You are simply good for nothing just now with your head stuffed full of dialogues and groans and tableaus. As for your tongue, it’s a marvel it’s not clean worn out.” Anne sighed and betook herself to the back yard, over which a young new moon was shining through the leafless poplar boughs from an apple-green western sky, and where Matthew was splitting wood. Anne perched herself on a block and talked the concert over with him, sure of an appreciative and sympathetic listener in this instance at least. “Well now, I reckon it’s going to be a pretty good concert. And I expect you’ll do your part fine,” he said, smiling down into her eager, vivacious little face. Anne smiled back at him. Those two were the best of friends and Matthew thanked his stars many a time and oft that he had nothing to do with bringing her up. That was Marilla’s exclusive duty; if it had been his he would have been worried over frequent conflicts between inclination and said duty. As it was, he was free to, “spoil Anne”—Marilla’s phrasing—as much as he liked. But it was not such a bad arrangement after all; a little “appreciation” sometimes does quite as much good as all the conscientious “bringing up” in the world. About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. L. M. Montgomery (2008). Anne of Green Gables. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/45/pg45-images.html This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org , located at https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html . The lead image was generated using HackerNoon's Stable Disffusion Al Image Generator feature, via the prompt "Anne of Green Fables".

Miss Stacy and Her Pupils Get Up a Concert

A Tempest in the School Teapot

Anne of Avonlea by L. M. Montgomery, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here . The Beginning of Vacation Chapter XV - The Beginning of Vacation Anne locked the schoolhouse door on a still, yellow evening, when the winds were purring in the spruces around the playground, and the shadows were long and lazy by the edge of the woods. She dropped the key into her pocket with a sigh of satisfaction. The school year was ended, she had been reengaged for the next, with many expressions of satisfaction. . . . only Mr. Harmon Andrews told her she ought to use the strap oftener . . . and two delightful months of a well-earned vacation beckoned her invitingly. Anne felt at peace with the world and herself as she walked down the hill with her basket of flowers in her hand. Since the earliest mayflowers Anne had never missed her weekly pilgrimage to Matthew’s grave. Everyone else in Avonlea, except Marilla, had already forgotten quiet, shy, unimportant Matthew Cuthbert; but his memory was still green in Anne’s heart and always would be. She could never forget the kind old man who had been the first to give her the love and sympathy her starved childhood had craved. At the foot of the hill a boy was sitting on the fence in the shadow of the spruces . . . a boy with big, dreamy eyes and a beautiful, sensitive face. He swung down and joined Anne, smiling; but there were traces of tears on his cheeks. “I thought I’d wait for you, teacher, because I knew you were going to the graveyard,” he said, slipping his hand into hers. “I’m going there, too . . . I’m taking this bouquet of geraniums to put on Grandpa Irving’s grave for grandma. And look, teacher, I’m going to put this bunch of white roses beside Grandpa’s grave in memory of my little mother. . . because I can’t go to her grave to put it there. But don’t you think she’ll know all about it, just the same?” “Yes, I am sure she will, Paul.” “You see, teacher, it’s just three years today since my little mother died. It’s such a long, long time but it hurts just as much as ever . . . and I miss her just as much as ever. Sometimes it seems to me that I just can’t bear it, it hurts so.” Paul’s voice quivered and his lip trembled. He looked down at his roses, hoping that his teacher would not notice the tears in his eyes. “And yet,” said Anne, very softly, “you wouldn’t want it to stop hurting . . . you wouldn’t want to forget your little mother even if you could.” “No, indeed, I wouldn’t . . . that’s just the way I feel. You’re so good at understanding, teacher. Nobody else understands so well . . . not even grandma, although she’s so good to me. Father understood pretty well, but still I couldn’t talk much to him about mother, because it made him feel so bad. When he put his hand over his face I always knew it was time to stop. Poor father, he must be dreadfully lonesome without me; but you see he has nobody but a housekeeper now and he thinks housekeepers are no good to bring up little boys, especially when he has to be away from home so much on business. Grandmothers are better, next to mothers. Someday, when I’m brought up, I’ll go back to father and we’re never going to be parted again.” Paul had talked so much to Anne about his mother and father that she felt as if she had known them. She thought his mother must have been very like what he was himself, in temperament and disposition; and she had an idea that Stephen Irving was a rather reserved man with a deep and tender nature which he kept hidden scrupulously from the world. “Father’s not very easy to get acquainted with,” Paul had said once. “I never got really acquainted with him until after my little mother died. But he’s splendid when you do get to know him. I love him the best in all the world, and Grandma Irving next, and then you, teacher. I’d love you next to father if it wasn’t my duty to love Grandma Irving best, because she’s doing so much for me. You know, teacher. I wish she would leave the lamp in my room till I go to sleep, though. She takes it right out as soon as she tucks me up because she says I mustn’t be a coward. I’m not scared, but I’d rather have the light. My little mother used always to sit beside me and hold my hand till I went to sleep. I expect she spoiled me. Mothers do sometimes, you know.” No, Anne did not know this, although she might imagine it. She thought sadly of her “little mother,” the mother who had thought her so “perfectly beautiful” and who had died so long ago and was buried beside her boyish husband in that unvisited grave far away. Anne could not remember her mother and for this reason she almost envied Paul. “My birthday is next week,” said Paul, as they walked up the long red hill, basking in the June sunshine, “and father wrote me that he is sending me something that he thinks I’ll like better than anything else he could send. I believe it has come already, for Grandma is keeping the bookcase drawer locked and that is something new. And when I asked her why, she just looked mysterious and said little boys mustn’t be too curious. It’s very exciting to have a birthday, isn’t it? I’ll be eleven. You’d never think it to look at me, would you? Grandma says I’m very small for my age and that it’s all because I don’t eat enough porridge. I do my very best, but Grandma gives such generous platefuls . . . there’s nothing mean about Grandma, I can tell you. Ever since you and I had that talk about praying going home from Sunday School that day, teacher . . . when you said we ought to pray about all our difficulties . . . I’ve prayed every night that God would give me enough grace to enable me to eat every bit of my porridge in the mornings. But I’ve never been able to do it yet, and whether it’s because I have too little grace or too much porridge I really can’t decide. Grandma says father was brought up on porridge, and it certainly did work well in his case, for you ought to see the shoulders he has. But sometimes,” concluded Paul with a sigh and a meditative air “I really think porridge will be the death of me.” Anne permitted herself a smile, since Paul was not looking at her. All Avonlea knew that old Mrs. Irving was bringing her grandson up in accordance with the good, old-fashioned methods of diet and morals. “Let us hope not, dear,” she said cheerfully. “How are your rock people coming on? Does the oldest Twin still continue to behave himself?” “He has to,” said Paul emphatically. “He knows I won’t associate with him if he doesn’t. He is really full of wickedness, I think.” “And has Nora found out about the Golden Lady yet?” “No; but I think she suspects. I’m almost sure she watched me the last time I went to the cave. I don’t mind if she finds out . . . it is only for her sake I don’t want her to . . . so that her feelings won’t be hurt. But if she is determined to have her feelings hurt it can’t be helped.” “If I were to go to the shore some night with you do you think I could see your rock people too?” Paul shook his head gravely. “No, I don’t think you could see my rock people. I’m the only person who can see them. But you could see rock people of your own. You’re one of the kind that can. We’re both that kind. You know, teacher,” he added, squeezing her hand chummily. “Isn’t it splendid to be that kind, teacher?” “Splendid,” Anne agreed, gray shining eyes looking down into blue shining ones. Anne and Paul both knew “How fair the realm Imagination opens to the view,” and both knew the way to that happy land. There the rose of joy bloomed immortal by dale and stream; clouds never darkened the sunny sky; sweet bells never jangled out of tune; and kindred spirits abounded. The knowledge of that land’s geography . . . “east o’ the sun, west o’ the moon” . . . is priceless lore, not to be bought in any market place. It must be the gift of the good fairies at birth and the years can never deface it or take it away. It is better to possess it, living in a garret, than to be the inhabitant of palaces without it. The Avonlea graveyard was as yet the grass-grown solitude it had always been. To be sure, the Improvers had an eye on it, and Priscilla Grant had read a paper on cemeteries before the last meeting of the Society. At some future time the Improvers meant to have the lichened, wayward old board fence replaced by a neat wire railing, the grass mown and the leaning monuments straightened up. Anne put on Matthew’s grave the flowers she had brought for it, and then went over to the little poplar shaded corner where Hester Gray slept. Ever since the day of the spring picnic Anne had put flowers on Hester’s grave when she visited Matthew’s. The evening before she had made a pilgrimage back to the little deserted garden in the woods and brought therefrom some of Hester’s own white roses. “I thought you would like them better than any others, dear,” she said softly. Anne was still sitting there when a shadow fell over the grass and she looked up to see Mrs. Allan. They walked home together. Mrs. Allan’s face was not the face of the girlbride whom the minister had brought to Avonlea five years before. It had lost some of its bloom and youthful curves, and there were fine, patient lines about eyes and mouth. A tiny grave in that very cemetery accounted for some of them; and some new ones had come during the recent illness, now happily over, of her little son. But Mrs. Allan’s dimples were as sweet and sudden as ever, her eyes as clear and bright and true; and what her face lacked of girlish beauty was now more than atoned for in added tenderness and strength. “I suppose you are looking forward to your vacation, Anne?” she said, as they left the graveyard. Anne nodded. “Yes. . . . I could roll the word as a sweet morsel under my tongue. I think the summer is going to be lovely. For one thing, Mrs. Morgan is coming to the Island in July and Priscilla is going to bring her up. I feel one of my old ‘thrills’ at the mere thought.” “I hope you’ll have a good time, Anne. You’ve worked very hard this past year and you have succeeded.” “Oh, I don’t know. I’ve come so far short in so many things. I haven’t done what I meant to do when I began to teach last fall. I haven’t lived up to my ideals.” “None of us ever do,” said Mrs. Allan with a sigh. “But then, Anne, you know what Lowell says, ‘Not failure but low aim is crime.’ We must have ideals and try to live up to them, even if we never quite succeed. Life would be a sorry business without them. With them it’s grand and great. Hold fast to your ideals, Anne.” “I shall try. But I have to let go most of my theories,” said Anne, laughing a little. “I had the most beautiful set of theories you ever knew when I started out as a schoolma’am, but every one of them has failed me at some pinch or another.” “Even the theory on corporal punishment,” teased Mrs. Allan. But Anne flushed. “I shall never forgive myself for whipping Anthony.” “Nonsense, dear, he deserved it. And it agreed with him. You have had no trouble with him since and he has come to think there’s nobody like you. Your kindness won his love after the idea that a ‘girl was no good’ was rooted out of his stubborn mind.” “He may have deserved it, but that is not the point. If I had calmly and deliberately decided to whip him because I thought it a just punishment for him I would not feel over it as I do. But the truth is, Mrs. Allan, that I just flew into a temper and whipped him because of that. I wasn’t thinking whether it was just or unjust . . . even if he hadn’t deserved it I’d have done it just the same. That is what humiliates me.” “Well, we all make mistakes, dear, so just put it behind you. We should regret our mistakes and learn from them, but never carry them forward into the future with us. There goes Gilbert Blythe on his wheel . . . home for his vacation too, I suppose. How are you and he getting on with your studies?” “Pretty well. We plan to finish the Virgil tonight . . . there are only twenty lines to do. Then we are not going to study any more until September.” “Do you think you will ever get to college?” “Oh, I don’t know.” Anne looked dreamily afar to the opal-tinted horizon. “Marilla’s eyes will never be much better than they are now, although we are so thankful to think that they will not get worse. And then there are the twins . . . somehow I don’t believe their uncle will ever really send for them. Perhaps college may be around the bend in the road, but I haven’t got to the bend yet and I don’t think much about it lest I might grow discontented.” “Well, I should like to see you go to college, Anne; but if you never do, don’t be discontented about it. We make our own lives wherever we are, after all . . . college can only help us to do it more easily. They are broad or narrow according to what we put into them, not what we get out. Life is rich and full here . . . everywhere . . . if we can only learn how to open our whole hearts to its richness and fulness.” “I think I understand what you mean,” said Anne thoughtfully, “and I know I have so much to feel thankful for . . . oh, so much . . . my work, and Paul Irving, and the dear twins, and all my friends. Do you know, Mrs. Allan, I’m so thankful for friendship. It beautifies life so much.” “True friendship is a very helpful thing indeed,” said Mrs. Allan, “and we should have a very high ideal of it, and never sully it by any failure in truth and sincerity. I fear the name of friendship is often degraded to a kind of intimacy that has nothing of real friendship in it.” “Yes . . . like Gertie Pye’s and Julia Bell’s. They are very intimate and go everywhere together; but Gertie is always saying nasty things of Julia behind her back and everybody thinks she is jealous of her because she is always so pleased when anybody criticizes Julia. I think it is desecration to call that friendship. If we have friends we should look only for the best in them and give them the best that is in us, don’t you think? Then friendship would be the most beautiful thing in the world.” “Friendship is very beautiful,” smiled Mrs. Allan, “but some day . . .” Then she paused abruptly. In the delicate, white-browed face beside her, with its candid eyes and mobile features, there was still far more of the child than of the woman. Anne’s heart so far harbored only dreams of friendship and ambition, and Mrs. Allan did not wish to brush the bloom from her sweet unconsciousness. So she left her sentence for the future years to finish. About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. L. M. Montgomery (2022). Anne of Avonlea. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/47/pg47-images.html This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org , located at https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html. The lead image was generated using HackerNoon's Stable Disffusion Al Image Generator feature, via the prompt "Anne of Avonlea".

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