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       Your loving

       BECKY.

Chapter III.

       Wisdom’s Ways

       Table of Contents

      The day of Rebecca’s arrival had been Friday, and on the Monday following she began her education at the school which was in Riverboro Centre, about a mile distant. Miss Sawyer borrowed a neighbor’s horse and wagon and drove her to the schoolhouse, interviewing the teacher, Miss Dearborn, arranging for books, and generally starting the child on the path that was to lead to boundless knowledge.

      Rebecca walked to school after the first morning. She loved this part of the day’s programme. When the dew was not too heavy and the weather was fair there was a short cut through the woods. She turned off the main road, crept through Joshua Woodman’s bars, waved away Mrs. Carter’s cows, trod the short grass of the pasture, with its well-worn path running through gardens of buttercups and whiteweed, and groves of boxberry leaves and sweet fern. She descended a little hill, jumped from stone to stone across a woodland brook, startling the drowsy frogs, who were always winking and blinking in the morning sun. Then came the “woodsy bit,” with her feet pressing the slippery carpet of brown pine needles; the woodsy bit so full of dewy morning surprises,—fungous growths of brilliant orange and crimson springing up around the stumps of dead trees, beautiful things born in a single night; and now and then the miracle of a little clump of waxen Indian pipes, seen just quickly enough to be saved from her careless tread. Then she climbed a stile, went through a grassy meadow, slid under another pair of bars, and came out into the road again, having gained nearly half a mile.

      How delicious it all was! Rebecca clasped her Quackenbos’s Grammar and Greenleaf’s Arithmetic with a joyful sense of knowing her lessons. Her dinner pail swung from her right hand, and she had a blissful consciousness of the two soda biscuits spread with butter and syrup, the baked cup-custard, the doughnut, and the square of hard gingerbread. Sometimes she said whatever “piece” she was going to speak on the next Friday afternoon.

      “A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers, There was lack of woman’s nursing, there was dearth of woman’s tears.”

      How she loved the swing and the sentiment of it! How her young voice quivered whenever she came to the refrain:—

      “But we’ll meet no more at Bingen, dear Bingen on the Rhine.”

      It always sounded beautiful in her ears, as she sent her tearful little treble into the clear morning air.

      Another early favorite (for we must remember that Rebecca’s only knowledge of the great world of poetry consisted of the selections in vogue in the old school Readers) was:—

      “Woodman, spare that tree!

       Touch not a single bough!

       In youth it sheltered me,

       And I’ll protect it now.”

      When Emma Jane Perkins walked through the “short cut” with her, the two children used to render this with appropriate dramatic action. Emma Jane always chose to be the woodman because she had nothing to do but raise on high an imaginary axe. On the one occasion when she essayed the part of the tree’s romantic protector, she represented herself as feeling “so awful foolish” that she refused to undertake it again, much to the secret delight of Rebecca, who found the woodman’s role much too tame for her vaulting ambition. She reveled in the impassioned appeal of the poet, and implored the ruthless woodman to be as brutal as possible with the axe, so that she might properly put greater spirit into her lines. One morning, feeling more frisky than usual, she fell upon her knees and wept in the woodman’s petticoat. Curiously enough, her sense of proportion rejected this as soon as it was done.

      “That wasn’t right, it was silly, Emma Jane; but I’ll tell you where it might come in—in ‘Give me Three Grains of Corn.’ You be the mother, and I’ll be the famishing Irish child. For pity’s sake put the axe down; you are not the woodman any longer!”

      “What’ll I do with my hands, then?” asked Emma Jane.

      “Whatever you like,” Rebecca answered wearily; “you’re just a mother—that’s all. What does your mother do with her hands? Nowhere goes!

      “‘Give me three grains of corn, mother,

       Only three grains of corn,

       It will keep the little life I have

       Till the coming of the morn.’”

      This sort of thing made Emma Jane nervous and fidgety, but she was Rebecca’s slave and obeyed her lightest commands. At the last pair of bars the two girls were sometimes met by a detachment of the Simpson children, who lived in a black house with a red door and a red barn behind, on the Blueberry Plains road. Rebecca felt an interest in the Simpsons from the first, because there were so many of them and they were so patched and darned, just like her own brood at the home farm.

      The little schoolhouse with its flagpole on top and its two doors in front, one for boys and the other for girls, stood on the crest of a hill, with rolling fields and meadows on one side, a stretch of pine woods on the other, and the river glinting and sparkling in the distance. It boasted no attractions within. All was as bare and ugly and uncomfortable as it well could be, for the villages along the river expended so much money in repairing and rebuilding bridges that they were obliged to be very economical in school privileges. The teacher’s desk and chair stood on a platform in one corner; there was an uncouth stove, never blackened oftener than once a year, a map of the United States, two blackboards, a ten-quart tin pail of water and long-handled dipper on a corner shelf, and wooden desks and benches for the scholars, who only numbered twenty in Rebecca’s time. The seats were higher in the back of the room, and the more advanced and longer-legged pupils sat there, the position being greatly to be envied, as they were at once nearer to the windows and farther from the teacher.

      There were classes of a sort, although nobody, broadly speaking, studied the same book with anybody else, or had arrived at the same degree of proficiency in any one branch of learning. Rebecca in particular was so difficult to classify that Miss Dearborn at the end of a fortnight gave up the attempt altogether. She read with Dick Carter and Living Perkins, who were fitting for the academy; recited arithmetic with lisping little “Thuthan Thimpthon;” geography with Emma Jane Perkins, and grammar after school hours to Miss Dearborn alone. Full to the brim as she was of clever thoughts and quaint fancies, she made at first but a poor hand at composition. The labor of writing and spelling, with the added difficulties of punctuation and capitals, interfered sadly with the free expression of ideas. She