LETTER III.
MY TEACHERS.
In the dramatis personæ of every young life, dear friend, the teachers are wont to have prominence. My first one! Methinks she is now entering the room. I start, for I was always afraid of her. Not that she was severe to me; she could get no chance to be so. A timid little thing of four years, always obedient and diligent, offered no facilities for her ferule. Above the usual height was she, with sharp, black eyes, large hands, a manly voice, a capacious mouth, and a step that made the echoes of the quiet schoolroom tremble. She wore an immense black silk calash, and when I saw it bobbing up and down by our garden wall, as she passed, I hid myself, like the malcontents of Eden, among the trees. Especially was I affrighted at discovering that she was once coming, by invitation, to take tea at our table. I did not enter the parlor until I was called, and then curled down in a corner with a small book, which, whether it were Robinson Crusoe or Grumbdumbo, I could not readily have told. Gladly
