Part 7 (1/2)

Jim ran over these rapidly. ”Your mathematics is good, Newton,” said the schoolmaster, ”but if you expect to pa.s.s in penmans.h.i.+p, you'll have to take more pains.”

”How about the grammar?” asked Newton. ”The writing is pretty bad, I'll own up.”

”The grammar is good this morning. You're gradually mastering the art of stating a problem in arithmetic in English--and that's improvement.”

The hands of Jim Irwin's dollar watch gradually approached the position indicating nine o'clock--at which time the schoolmaster rapped on his desk and the school came to order. Then, for a while, it became like other schools. A glance over the room enabled him to enter the names of the absentees, and those tardy. There was a song by the school, the recitation in concert of _Little Brown Hands_, some general remarks and directions by the teacher, and the primary pupils came forward for their reading exercises. A few cla.s.ses began poring over their text-books, but most of the pupils had their work pa.s.sed out to them in the form of hectograph copies of exercises prepared in the school itself.

As the little ones finished their recitations, they pa.s.sed to the dishes of wheat, and began aiding Raymond's squad in the counting and cla.s.sifying of the various seeds. They counted to five, and they counted the fives.

They laughed in a subdued way, and whispered constantly, but n.o.body seemed disturbed.

”Do they help much, Calista?” asked the teacher, as the oldest Simms girl came to his desk for more wheat.

”No, seh, not much,” replied Calista, beaming, ”but they don't hold us back any--and maybe they do he'p a little.”

”That's good,” said Jim, ”and they enjoy it, don't they?”

”Oh, yes, Mr. Jim,” a.s.sented Calista, ”and the way Buddy is learnin' to count is fine! They-all will soon know all the addition they is, and a lot of multiplication. Angie Talcott knows the kinds of seeds better'n what I do!”

CHAPTER VIII

AND THE OLD BOTTLES

The day pa.s.sed. Four o'clock came. In order that all might reach home for supper, there was no staying, except that Newt Bronson and Raymond Simms remained to sweep and dust the schoolroom, and prepare kindling for the next morning's fire--a work they had taken upon themselves, so as to enable the teacher to put on the blackboards such outlines for the morrow's cla.s.s work as might be required. Jim was writing on the board a list of words const.i.tuting a spelling exercise. They were not from the text-book, but grew naturally out of the study of the seed wheat--”c.o.c.kle,” ”morning-glory,” ”convolvulus,” ”viable,” ”viability,”

”sprouting,” ”iron-weed” and the like. A tap was heard at the door, and Raymond Simms opened it.

In filed three women--and Jim Irwin knew as he looked at them that he was greeting a deputation, and felt that it meant a struggle. For they were the wives of the members of the school board. He placed for them the three available chairs, and in the absence of any for himself remained standing before them, a gaunt shabby-looking revolutionist at the bar of settled usage and fixed public opinion.

Mrs. Haakon Peterson was a tall blonde woman who, when she spoke betrayed her Scandinavian origin by the northern burr to her ”r's,” and a slight difficulty with her ”j's,” her ”y's” and long ”a's.” She was slow-spoken and dignified, and Jim felt an instinctive respect for her personality.

Mrs. Bronson was a good motherly woman, noted for her housekeeping, and for her church activities. She looked oftener at her son, and his friend Raymond than at the schoolmaster. Mrs. Bonner was the most voluble of the three, and was the only one who shook hands with Jim; but in spite of her rather offhand manner, Jim sensed in the little, black-eyed Irishwoman the real commander of the expedition against him--for such he knew it to be.

”You may think it strange of us coming after hours,” said she, ”but we wanted to speak to you, teacher, without the children here.”

”I wish more of the parents would call,” said Jim. ”At any hour of the day.”

”Or night either, I dare say,” suggested Mrs. Bonner. ”I hear you've the scholars here at all hours, Jim.”

Jim smiled his slow patient smile.

”We do break the union rules, I guess, Mrs. Bonner,” said he; ”there seems to be more to do than we can get done during school hours.”

”What right have ye,” struck in Mrs. Bonner, ”to be burning the district's fuel, and wearing out the school's property out of hours like that--not that it's anny of my business,” she interposed, hastily, as if she had been diverted from her chosen point of attack. ”I just thought of it, that's all. What we came for, Mr. Irwin, is to object to the way the teachin's being done--corn and wheat, and hogs and the like, instead of the learnin' schools was made to teach.”

”Schools were made to prepare children for life, weren't they, Mrs.

Bonner?”

”To be sure,” went on Mrs. Bonner, ”I can see an' the whole district can see that it's easier for a man that's been a farm-hand to teach farm-hand knowledge, than the learnin' schools was set up to teach; but if so be he hasn't the book education to do the right thing, we think he should get out and give a real teacher a chance.”

”What am I neglecting?” asked Jim mildly.