OUR MASTER
Tuesday, 18th.
I like my new teacher too, since this morning. While we were coming in, and when he was already seated, some of his scholars of last year every now and then peeped in at the door to salute him; they would present themselves and greet him:—
“Good morning, Signer Teacher!” “Good morning, Signor Perboni!”
Some came in, touched his hand, and ran away. It was plain that they liked him, and would have been glad to return to him. He responded, “Good morning”, and shook the hands which were held out to him, but he looked at no one; at every greeting his smile remained serious, with that deep wrinkle on his brow, with his face turned towards the window, and staring at the roof of the house opposite; and instead of being cheered by these greetings, he seemed to suffer from them. Then he looked at us closely, one after the other. While he was dictating, he got down and walked among the benches. Catching sight of a boy whose face was all red with little pimples, he stopped dictating, took the lad's face between his hands and examined it; then he asked him what was the matter with him, and laid his hand on his forehead, to feel if it were hot. Meanwhile, a boy behind him got up on the bench, and began to play the marionette. The teacher turned round suddenly; the boy sat down at one dash, and remained there, with head hanging, in dread of being punished.
