 | CHAPTER IV. Dukesborough tales |  |
4. CHAPTER IV.
It was the custom of the pupils in the Goosepond, as in most of
the other country schools of those times, to study aloud. Whether
the teachers thought that the mind could not act unless the tongue
was a-going, or that the tongue a-going was the only evidence that
the mind was acting, it never did appear. Such had been the custom,
and Mr. Meadows did not aspire to be an innovator. It was his rule,
however, that there should be perfect silence on his arrival, in order
to give him an opportunity of saying or doing anything he might wish.
This morning there did not seem to be anything on his mind which required
to be lifted off. He, however, looked at Brinkly Glisson with
some disappointment of expression. He had beaten him unmercifully
the morning before for not having gotten there in time, though the
boy's excuse was that he had gone a mile out of his way on an errand
for his mother. He looked at him as if he had expected to have had
some business with him, which now unexpectedly had to be postponed.
He then looked around over the school and said:
“Go to studyin'.”
It was plain that in that house Mr. Meadows had been in the habit
of speaking but to command, and of commanding but to be obeyed.
Instantaneously was heard, then and there, that unintelligible tumult,
the almost invariable incident of the country schools of that generation.
There were spellers and readers, geographers and arithmeticians,
all engaged in their several pursuits, in the most inexplicable
confusion. Sometimes the spellers would have the heels of the others,
and sometimes the readers. The geographers were always third, and
the arithmeticians always behind. It was very plain to be seen that
these last never would catch the others. The faster they added or
subtracted, the oftener they had to rub out and commence anew. It
so they generally concluded to adopt the maxim of the philosopher, of
being slow in making haste. The geographers were a little faster and
a little louder. But the spellers and readers had it, I tell you. Each
speller and each reader went through the whole gamut of sounds, from
low up to high, and from high down to low again; sometimes by regular
ascension and descension, one note at a time, sounding what musicians
call the diatonic intervals; at other times, going up and coming
down upon the perfect fifths only. Oh! it was so refreshing to see the
passionate eagerness which these urchins manifested for the acquisition
of knowledge. To have sliced out about five seconds of that
studying, and put the words together, would have made a sentence
somewhat like the following:
“C-d-e twice e-an c-three r-ding-i-two l-v-old. My seven vill times
a-de-l-cru-i-l coin-g-f-is man o-six-h-nin-four ni-h-eight cat p-c-a-t-r ten
e-light is ca-light i-light x tween-by-tions fix de-a-bisel-cru-fa-cor-a-light-bisel-rapt-double-fe-good
ty-light man cra-forn-ner-ci-spress-fix-Oh!!!”
To have heard them for the first time, one would have been reminded
of the Apostles' preaching at Pentecost, and it might not have been
difficult to persuade a stranger, unused to such things, that there were
then and there spoken the languages of the Parthians and Medes,
Elamites and the dwellers in Mesopotamia, and in Judea and Cappadocia;
in Pontus and Asia; Phrygia and Pamphylia; in Egypt and
in the parts of Syria about Cyrene; and strangers of Rome, Jews and
Proselytes, Cretes and Arabians. Sometimes these cloven tongues
would subside a little, when it might be half a dozen would stop to
blow; but in a moment more, the chorus would swell again in a new
and livelier accrescendo. — When this process had gone on for half an
hour, Mr. Meadows lifted up his voice and shouted “Silence!” and all
was still.
Now were to commence the recitations, during which perfect silence
was required. For as great a help to study as this jargon was, Mr.
Meadows found that it did not contribute any aid to the doing of his
work.
He now performed a feat which he had never performed before in
exactly that manner. He put his hand behind the lappel of his coat-collar
for a moment, and then, after withdrawing it and holding it up, his
thumb and forefinger joined together, he said:
“There is too much fuss here. I'm going to drop this pin, and I
falls. Thar!”
“I heerd it, Mr. Meadows! I heerd it, Mr. Meadows!” exclaimed
simultaneously, five or six little fellows.
“Come up here, you little rascals. You are a liar!” said he to each
one. “I never drapped it; I never had nary one to drap. It just
shows what liars you are. Set down and wait a while, I'll show you how
to tell me lies.”
The little liars slunk to their seats, and the recitations commenced.
Memory was the only faculty of mind that underwent the smallest
development at this school. Whoever could say exactly what the book
said was adjudged to know his lesson. About half of the pupils on
this morning were successful. The other half were found to be delinquent.
Among these was Asa Boatright's class. That calculating
young gentleman knew his words and felt safe. The class had spelled
around three or four times, when lo! the contingency which Allen
Thigpen had suggested did come to pass. Betsy Wiggins missed her
word; Heneritter Bangs (in the language of Allen) hern, and Mandy
Grizzle hern; and thus responsibilities were suddenly cast upon Asa
which he was wholly unprepared to meet, and which, from the look of
mighty reproach which he gave each of these young ladies as she
handed over to him her word, he evidently thought it the height of
injustice that he should have been called upon to meet. Mr. Meadows
closing the book, tossed it to Asa, who, catching it as it was falling
at his feet, turned, and his eyes swimming with tears, went back to his
seat. As he passed Allen Thigpen, the latter whispered:
“What did I tell you? You heerd the pin drap too!”
Now, Allen was in no plight to have given this taunt to Asa. He
had not given five minutes' study to his arithmetic during the whole
morning. But Mr. Meadows made a rule (this one with himself, though
all the pupils knew it better than any rule he had), never to allow Allen
to miss a lesson; and as he had kindly taken this responsibility upon
himself, Allen was wont to give himself no trouble about the matter.
Brinkly Glisson was the last to recite. Brinkly was no great hand
at pronunciation. He had been reading but a short time when Mr.
Meadows advanced him into geography, with the purpose, as Brinkly
afterwards came to believe, of getting the half dollar extra tuition.
This morning he thought he knew his lesson; and he did, as he understood
it. When called to recite, he went up with a countenance expressive
his hands in his pockets, awaited the questions. And now it was an
interesting sight to see Mr. Meadows smile as Brinkly talked of is-lands
and promonitaries, thismuses and hemispheries. The lad misunderstood
that smile, and his heart was glad for the unexpected reception
of a little complacency from the master. But he was not long in error.
“Is-lands, eh? Thismuses, eh? Take this book and see if you can
find any is-lands and promonitaries, and then bring them to me. I
want to see them things, I do. Find 'em if you please.”
Brinkly took the book, and it would have melted the heart of any
other man than Israel Meadows to have seen the deep despair of his
heart as he looked on it and was spelling over to himself the words as
he came to them.
“Mr. Meadows,” he said, in pleading tones, “I thought it was is-land.
Here it is, Is-l-a-n-d-land: is-land;” and he looked into his face beseechingly.
“Is-land, eh? Is-land! Now, thismuses and promonitaries and
hemispheries—”
“Mr. Meadows, I did not know how to pronounce them words. I
asked you how to pronounce 'em, and you wouldn't tell me; and I
asked Allen, and he told me the way I said them.”
“I believe that to be a lie.”
Brinkly's face reddened, and his breathing was fast and hard. He
looked at the master as but once or twice before during the term he
had looked at him, but made no answer. At that moment Allen leaned
carelessly on his desk, his elbows resting on it, and his chin on his
hands, and said, dryly:
“Yes, I did tell him so.”
Mr. Meadows now reddened a little. After a moment's pause, however,
he said:
“How often have I got to tell you not to ask anybody but me how
to pronounce words? That'll do, sir; sit down, sir.”
Brinkly went to his seat, and looking gloomily towards the door a
minute or two, he opened his book, but studied it no more.
| CHAPTER IV. Dukesborough tales | |