Part 10 (1/2)
THE QUEST OF KNOWLEDGE.
Our district schoolhouse was a shadeless, unpainted box. Within, whittled desks, staring windows and broken plastering made it a fit prison for the boys, whose rough ways were proof of the refining influence of their daily intercourse with the hired men. I wonder such places are tolerated. What a contrast to Barnard's white and gold!
John Burke was our teacher the following winter. He was only seventeen then, but already tall and well grown, in appearance quite a man. He was a student working his way to an education, and his example was a help to me.
For I no longer hated lessons. Miss Coleman's talk had filled me with such zeal for knowledge that I became, before the term was over, the phenomenon of the school. Mr. Burke boarded at our house and he would bring home s.h.i.+ning tales of my prowess, and often I would listen open-mouthed as we sat about the table at night and he told stories of the State University and the students and the merry life they led.
Every one was amazed at my industry. I played as heartily as I worked, but I studied with a will, too, and pa.s.sed a score of mates. That was easy enough, for home study was never dreamed of by most of them, and leisure hours in school were pa.s.sed in marking ”t.i.t-tat-to” upon slates or eating apples under the friendly shelter of the desks.
At the end of the term I received a prize--a highly coloured print of ”Was.h.i.+ngton Crossing the Delaware,” which Pa and Ma used long after to bring out and exhibit with pride. It is still somewhere in the old house-- hung up in Ma's bedroom, I think, along with the blue-and-tinseled crown, marked ”Charity” in gilt letters across the front, which I wore in the exciting dialogue of ”Faith, Hope and Charity” at a Sunday school exhibition.
But more than any prize I valued the help and friends.h.i.+p of John Burke and the consciousness that he considered me his most promising pupil. Upborne by new ideals, I resolved to study through the vacation that followed, and to my surprise this was not an infliction but a pleasure, now that I was my own task-mistress.
Next term the ”girl teacher”--for economy's sake we had them in summer when there were no big boys to thrash--was astonished at my industry and wisdom, and as I could see, a little afraid of them. At the end of the first week I went home bursting with an idea that in secret I had long cherished. Aunt Keren was at tea, I remember, and the talk fell upon my work in school, giving me my opportunity.
”Who'd a thought a mischeevious little tyke like her would ha' turned out a first-rate learner, after all?” queried Auntie, beaming upon me good- naturedly from behind her gold-bowed spectacles. ”I al'ays tol' ye, Ezry, ye'd be proud o' her some day.”
”I guess Sue Arkwright's a famous good teacher; that's one thing,” said Ma, amiably. ”Sis never done near so well before; at least, not till last term.”
”I never thought Sue was anythin' remarkable,” Pa broke in. ”How is that, Sis? Is she a good teacher?”
”No, she ain't,” I responded, with quickened beating of the heart.
Criticism of teachers was admissible in my code of ethics, but justification must follow; there must be proof--or reproof.
”What's that?” said Pa, looking at me curiously. ”Ever ketch her in a mistake?”
”Yes, Sir.”
”Bring the book.”
I ran and fetched a well-thumbed book from the sewing machine and turned to the definitions of familiar foreign words.
”There,” said I, spreading the speller flat on the table and pointing with my finger. ”French word for 'Mister.' Teacher called it 'Monshure,' just as they all do. But that's wrong. To-day I showed her how it is. See, the book says it's p.r.o.nounced 'm-o-s-s-e-r' and that little mark means an accent on the last syllable and it's 'long e.' 'Mosseer' is right. But when I showed it to teacher, she looked at it awhile, and then she wrinkled up her eye-brows, and whispered it once or twice and said: 'Oh, yes; ”mosser.”' And she made us call it 'mosser' all the rest of the day, too,” I ended triumphantly.
”Why, o' course that ain't right; 'mosser' ain't it!” volunteered one of the hired men, who had lingered to hear the discussion. ”I've heerd that word a thousan' times; right way seems like 'M'shoo.' Shucks! Can't get my tongue 'round it, nohow.”
”Yes, I know”, said Pa ”you go call Frenchy.”
Joe Lavigne, summoned from the barn, came, followed by all the rest, curious to see what was wanted--a rough, kindly gang of men in blue overalls and big, clumping boots.
”Joe,” said Pa; ”you say 'Mister' in French.”
”Ya-a-as, M'sieu' Weensheep, so I call heem: M'sieu'; M'sieu'; M'sieu'.”
Very carefully Frenchy p.r.o.nounced the clipped word.
”That's all, Joe; I s'pose book French is a good deal diff'rent from ord'nary Kanuck. 'Mosseer' is right anyhow, for the book says so. Teacher had ought to know enough to go by the book, I sh' think.”
”Tain't her fault, Pa,” I said, relenting. ”She never went to any good school. I want to go somewhere where the teachers know a real lot; not just a little bit more than me. I want to go”--I paused to gain courage-- ”I want to go to the University, like--like Mr. Burke.”
”The State University!” Pa repeated, in a tone of awe; ”Thunder! Don't believe we could manage that, Sis.”