At Last: Six Days in the Life of an Ex-Teacher/Chapter 3
THIRD DAY.—WET WEATHER WISDOM.
THE third day of my visit to the country was such as people starting for a vacation seldom count upon. There was rain; not a mere shower, to make earth and sky brighter but an alternation of mist and rain, rain and mist, that compelled me to remain in-doors. Even a walk on the broad piazza was uncomfortable, so penetrating was the dampness. I tried to ignore the weather and lose myself in a book, but the weather declined to be ignored; it made its depressing influence known, in ways which weather well understands, and I finally found myself compelled to stop reading, and study the pictures on the wall of the parlor. They were about as dreadful as the day: so the weather, my surroundings, and my spirits were soon in close accord.
My hostesses were quite sorry for me; besides, they had in other years lost summer boarders through bad weather, and, as I was their only guest, thus far, of the season, they desired to retain me. One or the other contrived to be with me and endeavored to entertain me. Mistress Drusilla showed me all the family pictures, about half of them being faded photographs, and the remainder daguerrotypes, taken in the good old times when a sitter was expected to maintain an unchanged countenance for a quarter of an hour. Then Miss Dorcas brought down the "samplers" which had been worked by several venerations of her feminine ancestors: some were alphabets worked in stitches that made the letters resemble tea-chest characters; others gave visible form to passages of Scripture; while one, which Miss Dorcas regarded as a masterpiece, was a genealogical tree of which each branch had its own distinctive color,—and all the colors had faded.
Then each sister told me stories about some of the neighbors' families, to the third and fourth generations; but they had told similar stories during several hours of each of the preceding days, and there are limits even to country gossip. Finally the old women seemed to feel doleful themselves, and Mistress Drusilla said,—
"If it weren't for fear of disturbing you, my dear, we should borrow little Alice, our special pet, for an hour or two, on days like this. She always wakes us up when things are forlorn like."
"Don't let yourselves suffer on my account, I beg," said I, languidly. "Little Alice, you said: I wonder if that is the child who has strayed up once or twice to the pines where I had my hammock?"
"The very same," said Miss Dorcas, eagerly. "I am sure it must be, for yesterday I saw the flutter of her dress through the trees, I'm sure."
"A child who owns a number of dolls with extraordinary names?" I continued.
"That's our Alice!" exclaimed Mistress Drusilla. "I hope she didn't trouble you much? We haven't let her come to the house since you've been here, for fear of worrying you; but, my dear, we can't watch her closely enough to keep her entirely off the grounds."
"She's not at all offensive," said I. "Indeed, she is quite amusing in some ways. I'm not a child-hater, I beg you to understand: I'm merely endeavoring, for the present, to be spared the wearing influence of children."
"Then you wouldn't be annoyed if we were to have her here a little while this morning?" asked Miss Dorcas. "We were planning to take turns in going over to see her and her grandmother this morning, but the air is so savage to old bones. And we could get the grocer, when he comes, to bring Alice over in his wagon. We'll keep her in the kitchen with us, and she isn't a noisy child, so she wouldn't disturb you if you were in the parlor here or your room."
"Have her wherever you like, or wherever she likes most to be," said I. "I assure you she won't trouble me in the least. I am quite willing to take an interest in this particular child, just to prove to you that I'm not a follower of wicked old King Herod. But no other children, please, nor any more of Alice's family, for me."
"You are very good, my dear," said Mistress Drusilla, looking positively radiant "Miss Dorcas, you keep a sharp watch for the grocer, won't you, while I write the child's grandma a note."
"I'll be sure to catch him," said Miss Dorcas, who in an instant was in the hall, and arraying herself in rubber shoes and waterproof clock, while I felt my cheeks blushing with pride—and shame—at my success in securing an enlivening influence for the day, and the deceitful spirit I had manifested. Miss Dorcas hurried to the road, almost a quarter of a mile from the house, and came back in half an hour, looking like a person who had been under Niagara, but saying, with a cheery chirp in her voice,—
"He'll get her."
I wandered to my room, and resumed the oft-broken thread of the novel which I had begun to read days before. I read long enough to become deeply interested, but suddenly I was recalled to a sense of things about me by a series of slams of the outer door, a succession of audible kisses, and then a loud shout:
"Dere's dem banisters! Dey must have been awful lonesome for free or four days wiff nobody to slide down 'em. Now for it! Hooray!"
I dropped my book, went to the door, stopped, recovered myself, and returned to my book. It never would do to have those old women see me greet the child effusively, as I was inclined to do. Within an hour, in spite of the rain, they would have told all their neighbors, with "corroborative detail, intended to give artistic verisimilitude to a bald and unconvincing narrative," as the Mikado says in Gilbert's Japanese play, of how their child-hating boarder had changed her nature within three days. When finally I appeared at the head of the stairs, I was as dignified and non-committal as if I were at the desk of my school-room in the city.
"Hello!" shouted little Alice, as she almost made my heart stop beating by the speed with which she slid down the stair-rail, while Mistress Drusilla and her sister looked on admiringly from below. "Just ain't dis fun! Goodness! Gracious!"
"Alice, dear," I whispered, as she hurried up the stairs and again bestrode the rail, "do be careful. I'm afraid you'll lose your hold and fall,—perhaps kill yourself."
"Nonsense!" she shouted. "I ain't de kind dat kills as easy as dat. Here I go I—one—two—free!" And before I could remonstrate further she was again on the floor at the foot of the stairs, and the two old women were all smiles, as if the child were their own and her rude exploit were a lesson well learned.
"Bet you can't do it," said the child, as she again hurried to the head of the stairs. "Don't you ever teach your school-children dat? Dey'd like you ever so much if you would."
I did not doubt it, though I did not say so. The child continued,—
"Best way to teach 'em is to learn how yourse'f My fahver says dat's de only way to teach anybody anyfin'."
"Do be careful, child," said I, ignoring personal allusions, and slipping behind her, for she was again astride the rail. "Hold tighter, if you want to be safe."
"How does you know about it if you hasn't done it?" said she, looking around at me sharply.. "Has you ever slid down banisters?"
"Never;—never in my life."
"Well, dese is splendid ones to learn on. Dere ain't no turns in 'em, an' dere ain't no big roun' knob at de bottom, eiver. Just let me teach you. You frow one foot over,—so—" here she actually lifted my left foot across that rail, which caused me instinctively to fall forward and clutch tightly with both hands, to save myself from falling.
"Don't hold so tight," said she, "or you can't slide. Put your hands dis way,—see?" Then she tugged at my hands with her own little fingers.
I still clung to the rail with my hands and endeavored to get off, but the little fingers were very strong, the rail was painfully smooth and too thick to grasp tightly; in an instant my grasp relaxed a little, and I slid swiftly downward, my feet finally striking the floor with a vigorous thump. I looked around quickly, as women seem possessed to do when they have done anything ridiculous; I thought I had heard a titter, but there stood the two old women, looking as demure as Quakers at meeting on Lord's day. Not so little Alice: she stood at the head of the stairs, and clapped her pudgy hands vigorously, shouted "Hooray!" laughed, and finally said,—
"I knew you could do dat, if you'd only try. I'll just tell my fahver next time he comes home dat I teached de teacher to slide down banisters just as good as I could."
"If you do, I'll never speak to you again as long as I live," said I.
"Don't do it, pet," said Mistress Drusilla, quickly. "Be a little lady."
"Isn't it bein' a lady to tell de solemn trufe?" asked the child.
"Yes, darling," said Miss Dorcas, hastening to caress the child, "but the truth isn't to be told at all times."
"De times you can't tell it," said the child, who seemed half in a revery and half in a pout, "’pears to me is when you want to do it most."
"Precisely so," said I. "The times little girls most want to tell the truth are those in which they shouldn't."
"Let's do somefin' else," suggested Alice, emerging from revery and pout "’Tain't no good to so on talkin' to me 'bout de trufe, when I don't know what in de world you mean. I'll tell you what we can do; slide down some more and you go first, so I can see if you do it right"
"I decline—emphatically."
"Mercy, what a big word! Say, Missis Drusilla, what's you goin' to have for dinner? I smells it a-cookin', and I's dreadful hungry."
"We are going to have boiled chicken and dumplings, but they won't be done in a long time. It isn't eleven o'clock yet. It takes a long time to cook a dinner, pet"
"Well, I's firsty, anyway. Drinkin'-water don't have to be cooked."
A glass of water was brought, and the child drank like a heated horse. I would have been frightened, had I not remembered similar performances of children in my class-room in the city, and if Miss Dorcas had not whispered to me,—
"She's everlastingly being taken that way, dear."
Then little Alice resumed her sliding, but soon she tired of it, and longed for something new. I was heartily sorry for her, for I knew well the discomforts of imprisonment by show, so I said,—
"Isn't it too bad, dear, that it rained so hard?"
The child turned to me with a reproving look, and replied,—
"Course it ain't. If 'twas too bad, honest and true, de Lord wouldn't let it rain: don't you know dat yet? Don't you know dat verse in de Bible,—'I will give you de rain of your land in his due season'? dat means He sends it just when it ought to come. If it don't come 'xcept when de Lord sends it,—an' I'd like to know how it can come any uvver way,—den what makes it too bad? I guess you ain't been teached very good 'bout some dem fings, else you wouldn't say noffin' like dat"
"I suppose you are right, dear; it isn't too bad that the rain has fallen; but I wish for your sake that there was something pleasant for you to do."
"Does you? Well, den vou fink up somefin': dat's de way my fahver does, an' he keeps on finkin' till he finds it"
"H'm!" said I, as I began to cudgel my wits for some way of amusing the child.
"Anyfin' dat does for de children in your school 'll do for me, I guess. I ain' very hard to suit," said Alice, by way of encouragement
"I'm afraid that wouldn't suit you, for I don't have any amusements in my school: the children come there only to study."
"What! All dem poor children you tole me 'bout?"
"Yes."
"An you's so sorry for 'em, an' yet you don't do noffin' to 'muse 'em? Well, if I ever!"
Mistress Drusilla and Miss Dorcas joined the child in looking inquiringly at me, at which I felt indignant. Was it not enough that I gave six or seven hours a day to my juvenile charges, wearing myself out for them, that I should be held to account for not doing more? Besides, even if I were inclined to devise amusements for them there was no time allotted to such diversions by the officials who prepared the routine of study.
"I couldn't amuse my pupils if I would," said I. I merely do as I am ordered by the school Board, who don't provide amusements."
"How different from the days when we were young!" said Miss Dorcas to Mistress Drusilla. "Don't you remember how the teacher used to come out in the yard at recess and play tag with us, and hopscotch, and how when it rained she would get up a game of 'Button, button,' in the school-room?"
"Indeed, yes," responded Mistress Drusilla, "and how when the teacher was a young man he played marbles and leap-frog with the boys."
"Well," said little Alice, "we's wastin' lots of time, an' not doin' noffin'. Let's play grasshopper. I'll show you how, if you don't know."
A single illustration, given with great vigor, caused all the adults to decline.
"Then let's play cookin'-school; you an' Missis Drusilla an' Miss Dorcas make cakes an' pies an' fings, an' I help you eat 'em. You needn't be 'fraid of makin' too many."
"Pet," said Mistress Drusilla, "the stove is pretty well covered with things being fixed for dinner, so we can't play cooking-school very well. Suppose we tell stories until we can think of something better. I don't believe Miss Brown has ever heard the story of"
"Miss Brown!" exclaimed the child, looking at me gravely. "I wish you had a nicer name."
"I am satisfied with it," said I. "I am sorry it does not please you, but I assure you I didn't select it for myself."
"I named one of my dollies Miss Brown one time," said Alice, an' my fahver wouldn't let me call her dat. He said"
"You shouldn't interrupt, darling," said Miss Dorcas, gently. "Mistress Drusilla was saying something to you."
"I was only saying," resumed Mistress Drusilla, "that I didn't believe our friend had ever heard your story of the big rain."
"I don't believe I have," said I, anxious to divert the conversation from my name, of which I always felt I had reason to be proud. I certainly did not propose to defend it against any fancies or dislikes of this child's peculiar father.
"All right: I'll tell it to her," said little Alice; "but I fought everybody had heard dat story. Well, once dere was an awful big rain-storm. Folks knew it was comin', 'cause a smart man told 'em so, but dey didn't pay no 'tention to him. Dere was lots of fings goin' on dat suited 'em well enough, so dey didn't want to fink 'bout fings dat didn't suit em, and, of course, nobody wanted any rain. Well, one man dat knew all 'bout it began to get ready for it; he made a great big boat for bim an' his family an' all deir fings, so dere would be some place for him to go when it got too rainy on shore. 'Twas an awful big boat,—bigger'n a dozen houses in a row,—bigger'n almos' any of dese steamships dat come 'long de ocean in front of our house, my fahver says.
"He didn't have a boat just to go in an' swim away from de storm, eiver. He was de kind of a man who had finked 'bout somefin' for children to do on rainy days, so he fixed up a whole lot of de boat so he could carry some animals too 'cause all children likes animals. Dere was places for cows, so de children could have all de milk dey wanted to drink, when uvver folkses' children didn't have any 'cause de rain got so bad dat it spoiled de roads an' washed away de bridges, so de milkman didn't come. An' dere was places for dogs, 'cause my fahver says no man dat's got a heart is goin' to be happy in-door in a big storm if he knows his dog is out in de wet. Dere was places for kitties, too. Say, has you got a cat? I have; I got two of 'em. Just you come over to my house, an'"
"Never mind the kitties now, pet," suggested Mistress Drusilla. "Go on with the story."
"Oh! Well, my kitties is nice, anyway. Well, de man what finked 'bout de storm fixed places for donkeys, too, an' my fahver says he shouldn't wonder if dere was a nice long clear place in de ark—dat was de name of de boat—where de children could ride de donkeys once in a while durin' de day when dey didn't know what else to do while it was rainin'. But he had lots of uvver animals, too; why, do you know, dat man finked so much 'bout what his little children would like dat he took a whole menagerie in dat boat,—elephants, an' lions, an' bears, an' giraffes an' all de kinds of animals dat's in de picture-books. He took lots of birds, too; chickens, so de family could have plenty of things to eat, an' larks to sing so's to wake de folkses up in de mornin' an' sparrows to go chirpin' roun', and geese to drop quills for de children to make squakers out of, an' monkeys dat would cut up an' make de children laugh. Oh, I just tell you what, 'twas nicer dan any Sunday-school picnic-boat you ever saw in your life. He took some uvver fings dat I don't fink was very nice,—snakes, an' skeeters, an' flies, an' bedbugs"
"Pet!" exclaimed Mistress Dmsilla, reprovingly.
"Darling!" ejaculated Miss Dorcas.
"Well," said the child, "’twasn't my fault; I didn't tell him to take 'em. My fahver says he s'poses Mr. Noah had to do it, else his family wouldn't have noffin' to grumble 'bout, an' folks dat haven't got noffin' else to grumble 'bout goes to work to find fault wiff each uvver. So when Noah got all de animals aboard, an' asked all his friends if dey didn't want to go too, an' dey said dey guessed not, it begun to look cloudy: so he ran down to de store to get de last fings dat had been forgot, and when he got back he shut de door of de ark, an' de rain began.
"Gracious! Dat was a rain! My fahver says he can't see why people tell lies 'bout big rain-storms, when once dere was a real rain so much bigger dan anybody can make believe about. It filled up de roads so folks couldn't change deir minds an' go down to de ark if dey wanted to. No matter how tight folks shutted deir doors an' windows, de rain got in de houses, and wouldn't go out again. It kept on goin' in till fires in de stoves was putted out by it, so dey couldn't cook no breakfasts. Den folks had to go up-stairs to keep from gettin' deir feet wet, an' finely dey had to get in de attics an' on de roofs, an' den dere wasn't no place else to go, so dey just had to be drowned. To fink of all de little boys an' girls in de world bein' drowned 'xcept just a few dat was on a big boat! I fink 'twas perfec'ly awful; but my fahver says 'twas de best fing dat could have happened to 'em, for de world in dem days wasn't a very good place for children to grow up in; 'most all dat men an' boys did was to fight an' get killed, an' de women an' girls had to cry lots 'bout it But all de time of dat big rain dere wasn't nobody drowned on board de ark, an' dere wasn't no trouble dere, 'xcept p'raps it wasn't always easy to open de windows an' air de rooms when de rain was comin' down so hard. But de folks was all right; an' you know why? 'Cause dey'd finked before-hand 'bout what to do if a big rain came."
"While this recital had been going on, Mistress Drusilla and Miss Dorcas nodded and smiled at each other as happily as if little Alice had been their own; they were erect and grave in an instant whenever the child's eyes wandered towards either of them, for they seemed possessed of the old-fashioned notion that a child, no matter how tenderly loved, should never be praised for any of its smart deeds or sayings, lest it should become vain. Consequently, many were the beaming smiles that were ruthlessly ruined during that ten-minutes moral discourse on the weather. As soon as it ended, however, the old sisters looked at me with the utmost pride and triumph, and seemed rather surprised and pained that I did not indulge in some startling demonstration of approval. Miss Dorcas, as I afterwards learned, was really pained at my apparent apathy; but the truth was that I was unaccustomed to the moral just drawn from the well-known story. As Miss Dorcas turned aside and led the child to the door to look at the rain, I found Mistress Drusilla regarding me with an air of solicitude and perplexity; then she said, in a low tone and hurriedly,—
"I hope, my dear, it didn't seem unorthodox to you? Our minister has heard it, and I do assure you that he didn't seem to see any harm in it."
As for the little relator, she looked through the big hall window as if in search of another moral in the rain, still heavily falling, but presently she said, in an absent-minded manner, as if talking to herself,—
"I would like to know why tellin' stories always makes me so dreadful hungry."
Then the old women smiled at each other, and Mistress Drusilla went to a jar in the dining-room and returned with a large piece of cake, and Miss Dorcas went to the cellar and got a goblet of milk, and the child accepted both with as much affectation of surprise as if she were an accomplished actress. After the refreshments were disposed of, the youngster turned to me and said,—
"Has you fought of somefin' yet?"
"Thought of eomething?"
"Yes; somefin' to do, you know,—somefin' to do in-doors, cause it's rainin' out-doors an' we can't go ramblin' around."
"Don't you do anything but ramble around, child, when the weather is pleasant?"
"No." said the child, with entire self-satisfaction. "My fahver says dat's de best way for me to learn somefin'. I go all 'bout de neighborhood an' see ev'ryfin' I can, an' den I go home an' ask gran'ma or my fahver all 'bout 'em; dat takes lots of time, you know. Mos' generally it's gran'ma I have to ask, 'cause my fahver ain't home "
"Isn't home, you should say, my child," said I. The force of habit is strong, and I had not been a teacher, correcting bad grammar for years, for nothing.
"What did I say?" asked die, her eyes opening wonderingly.
"You said 'ain't'," I replied, "which was very awkward. "’Ain't' means 'am not:' you wouldn't say 'my father am not at home,' would you?"
"Of course not," was the reply, made with a most contemptuous look, "’cause why, it would sound awful pokey."
"I don't know what 'pokey' means," said I, "but you probably mean you would not say it because it would be ungrammatical. Well"
"Ungarmatical!" she interrupted. "I 'member dat big word, 'cause one of our neighbors said it a lot of times one day when he was talkin' to my fahver 'bout de mornin' prayer,—you know de mornin' prayer, I hope,—de one dat begins 'Our Fahver'?"
"Certainly."
"Well, one of our neighbors made fun of it one day, 'cause he said 'Our Fahver which art in heaven' was ungarmatical, an' he said he didn't see how folks dat knew anyfin' could say a prayer in dat ungarmatical way. My fahver finked a little while, an' den he frowed away his cigar so hard dat it made my kitty jump out of de window. Den he said if all folks was so particular, he guessed prayin' wouldn't ever do 'em any goOod. Isn't it just awful to fink of folks bein' so particular 'bout little bits of fings? Dear me?"
The last two words were uttered with so much feeling that I began to feel very uncomfortable; I would have felt worse had not my hostesses already busied themselves about something else, Miss Dorcas having begun to study the weather, and Mistress Drusilla having suddenly discovered that an old-fashioned, mirror-fronted cloak-closet in the hall required dusting. Nevertheless, I ventured upon no more grammatical corrections. Had I chosen to, there would not have been opportunity, for the child quickly continued:
"Haven't you fought of somefin' yet? 'Cause, if you haven't, I have. Lets play school."
At last the good seed I had sown in fear and trembling was to bear fruit
"Let's play school," the child continued. "You an' de two missesses be scholars, an' I'll be de teacher."
"What's that, pet?" asked Mistress Drusilla, clasping her dust-cloth in both hands, her eyes beaming encouragingly through her well-polished glasses.
"What did you say, dear?" asked Miss Dorcas, suddenly turning from the window and ignoring meteorological phenomena.
"I said let's play school, and I'll be de teacher. I'll fix fings. Just wait a minute."
While the two old women smiled at each other in expectant ecstasy, little Alice dragged from the dining-room, one after another, three large old-fashioned chairs, which she placed in a row near the large window in the hall. Then she brought out a high chair (which afterwards I learned had been purchased especially for her accommodation) and placed it in front of the pupils.
"Miss Dorcas," said she, "I don't believe I can teach right 'less I have some spectacles. Will you please lend me yours?"
"Gracious, child!" said the old lady, as she removed her glasses, yet hesitated to relinquish them, "you won't be able to see a thing with these specs."
"Dat don't matter," said the child, taking the glasses and putting them over her little nose and ears: "gran'ma says de teacher dat sees least generally gets along best. Say,"—this remark was addressed to me,—"you always wear spectacles when you teach de children, don't you?"
My only answer was an indignant look. Frank Wayne had often said, five years before, that my eyes were the most perfect in the world. I was sure they had not changed in any way since that time. Then the child climbed into h high chair and continued:
"I guess we won't have any roll-call, 'cause I know you's all here. We won't have any Bible-readin', eiver, 'cause de teacher can't read; but dat don't make no diff'rence; dat's what my fahver says."
So saying, the pretended teacher opened a book,—it was "Morning and Night Watches," which had lain on the window-ledge in the hall,—and said,—
"The school will come to 'tention. Class in 'rifmetic, stand up."
The two old women giggled, winked at me, and arose.
"The new girl, from New York, is in dat class," said the little teacher. "Why don't she get up, too?"
All this was very silly, but there was no one to see, as Frank Wayne once said when I became indignant at him for taking the unpardonable liberty of kissing me: so I arose, trying to discourage the teacher with a freezing look.
"Now," said Miss Alice, "dere ain't any slate or blackboard, so I'll give you some sums dat you can do wivout. If some folks bring a little girl some candies on a rainy day, an' den help her eat 'em, how many is de little girl goin' to get for herself?"
The only audible answer was a chuckle from Mistress Drusilla, who nudged me with her elbow.
"Never mind," said the teacher, after looking at each of us inquiringly. "You can bring de answer in de mornin'. I guess I'll call de joggrify-class. Now: if de world is round, just like an orange, how's we to learn just how it looks unless we's got some oranges here?"
"The grocer is going to bring some this afternoon, dear," said Miss Dorcas.
"We'll put off de joggrify-lesson till den, I guess," said the teacher, "an' call dis de readin'-class. De scholar dat's named Brown will read a story; an' it mustn't' be a stupid one, neiver."
Then Mistress Drusilla nudged me again, and I replied, with some effort,—
"I haven't any story-book to read from."
"Den make believe you's got one," said Alice.
I tried to recall a story, and failed, as most people do when suddenly called upon. The teacher spared me by saying,—
"Next"
Mistress Drusilla did not respond, and I was tempted to return one of her familiar nudges, but it seemed undignified.
"Next," repeat the small figure in the hi chair, throwing back her head and dropping her lower jaw like spectacled people in general. Miss Dorcas imitated a child's voice as closely as she could, and replied,—
"If you please, teacher, I haven't learned my lesson. I'm very sorry."
"So am I," said the little creature gravely. "I don't see but I's got to read it myself. Well" Here she opened her book and looked into it, turned the leaves forward and backward, cleared her throat, and finally began:
"Once dere was a time when da wasn't any rain in a country dat's a long way off, an' ev'rybody in dat country came to have lots of trouble to get anyfin' to eat, 'cause noffin' could grow in de gardens an' on de farms, 'cause dere wasn't any water to make 'em grow. An' dere was a good man named 'Lijah dat didn't have noffin' to eat 'xcept what birds brought him, an' I guess de bids didn't have noffin' to bring him after a while, 'cause one day he went to a woman's house an' begged for somefin' to eat. De poor woman didn't have noffin' but a little flour an' some oil: dat's what dey use over dere instead of butter an' meat. An' 'Lijah told her dat if she'd make some biscuit and give him some she'd always find meal in de barrel an' oil in de jar till de rain came again. An' it turned out just like he told her. Dat man 'Lijah was awful smart; he didn't care to do noffin' but what he fought de Lord wanted him to do; dat's de reason he was so awful smart, my fahver says.
"Well, dat 'Lijah,—he was de same man dat made a lot of stones burn up by askin' de Lord to let a lot of fire come down on 'em,—de day he got dat fire to come down, an' den made de people take all de bad preachers away an' kill 'em, dat same day 'Lijah began to fink 'twas 'bout time for a spell of wevver to come, now de country had got rid of its bad old preachers. So he told his servant to go tell de king dat dere was rain a-comin'. Dey was all out in de country, de king bein' out ridin', an' de king had begun to believe dat 'Lijah knew what he was talkin' 'bout: so he got in his chariot,—de king was carriage-people, you know,—and whipped up de horses to hurry home. Dere was 'Lijah, dat had been doin' so much good, walkin' alone de awful dusty road; but de king didn't ask him to jump in an' take a ride; he didn't fink of noffin' but himself. He was sure he was goin' to get what he wanted, so he didn't care noffin' more for de man what had done it for him, so he whipped up his horses an' left 'Lijah trottin' along in de dusty road. De king had good horses,—kings has de best of ev'ryfin', you know,—but first fing he knew, 'Lijah had run so fast dat he'd got to town first. De reason was dat folks who ain't got anybody but 'emselves to help 'em get out of de rain, or any uvver trouble, is pretty sure to have more 'go' to 'em dan uvver folks, like kings, dat has ev'ryfin' done for 'em."
"What makes you think so, dear?—teacher, I mean," asked Mistress Drusilla.
"’Cause my fahver says so," replied the child.
"I do believe it's time for the dinner to be done: I'm afraid it's burning," said Miss Dorcas.
"School's out" said the teacher, moving rapidly towards the dining-room.
As for me, I was obliged to believe that the little teacher's father had a faculty for drawing practical lessons from everything.