Darrel of the Blessed Isles by Irving Bacheller

I >> Irving Bacheller >> Darrel of the Blessed Isles

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"See how it sifts the sunlight to take the warmth out of it," the
teacher continued. "Warmth is poison to the King, and every ray of
light is twisted and turned upside down to see if he has any in his
pocket."

They could now hear a loud baying on the hill above.

As they turned to listen, a young fox leaped in at the hole and, as
he saw them, checked a foot in the air. He was panting, his tongue
out, and blood was dripping from his long fur at the shoulder. He
turned, stilling his breath a little as the hounds came near. Then
he trembled,--a pitiful sight,--for he was near spent and between
two perils.

"Come--poor fellow!" said the teacher, stroking him gently.

The fox ran aside, shaking with fear, his foot lifted appealingly.
With a quick movement the teacher caught him by the nape of his
neck and thrust him into the sack. The leader now had his nose in
the hole.

"Back there!" Trove shouted, kicking at him.

In a moment he had rolled a heavy stone to the hole and made it too
small for the hounds to enter. Half a dozen of them were now
baying outside.

"We'll give him air," said the teacher, as he cut a hole in the
sack and tied it. "Don't know how we'll get him out of here alive.
They'd be all over me like a pack of wolves."

He stood a moment thinking. Bony had wriggled away from Paul and
begun to bark loudly.

"I've an idea," said the teacher, as he cut the foxtail from his
cap. Then he rubbed it in the blood and spittle of the fox and
tied it to the stub tail of Bony. The dog's four feet were scented
in the same manner. The smell of them irked him sorely. His hair
rose, and his head fell with a sense of injury. He made a rush at
his new tail and was rudely stopped.

"He's fresh, and they'll not be able to catch him," said the young
man, as Paul protested. "Wouldn't hurt anything but the tail if
they did."

Then breaking the ice curtain, as far from the hole as possible, he
gave Bony a spank and flung him out on the snow above with a loud
"go home." The pack saw him and scrambled up the bank in full cry.
He had turned for a glance at his new tail, but seeing the pack
rush at him started up the hillside with a yelp of fear and the
energy of a wildcat. When the two came out of the cavern they saw
him leaping like a rabbit in the snow, his hair on end, his brush
flying, and the hounds in full pursuit.

"My stars! See that dog run," said the teacher, laughing, as he
put on his snow-shoes. "He don't intend to be caught with such a
tail and smell on him."

He put the sack over his shoulder.

"All aboard, Paul," said he; "now we can go home in peace."

Coming down out of the woods, they saw a pack of hounds digging at
one side of the stable. Bony had gone to his refuge under the barn
floor.

As he entered, one of them had evidently caught hold of his new
tail, and the pack had torn it in shreds. Two hunters came along
shortly, and, after a talk with the teacher, took their dogs away.
But for three days Bony came not forth and was seen no more of men,
save only when he crept to the hole for a lap of water and to seize
a doughnut from the hand of Paul, whereupon he retired promptly.

"He ain't going to take any chances," said the widow, laughing.

When at last he came forth, it was with a soft step and new
resolutions. And a while later, when Trove heard Darrel say that
caution was the only friend of weakness, he understood him
perfectly.

"Not every brush has a fox on it," said the widow, and the words
went from lip to lip until they were a maxim of those country-folk.

And Trove was to think of it when he himself was like the poor dog
that wore a fox's tail.

XIV

A Day at the Linley Schoolhouse

A remarkable figure was young Sidney Trove, the new teacher in
District No. 1. He was nearing nineteen years of age that winter.

"I like that," he said to the trustee, who had been telling him of
the unruly boys--great, hulking fellows that made trouble every
winter term. "Trouble--it's a grand thing I--but I'm not selfish,
and if I find any, I'll agree to divide it with the boys. I don't
know but I'll be generous and let them have the most of it. If
they put me out of the schoolhouse, I'll have learned something."

The trustee looked at the six feet and two inches of bone and
muscle that sat lounging in a chair--looked from end to end of it.

"What's that?" he inquired, smiling.

"That I've no business there," said young Mr. Trove.

"I guess you'll dew," said the trustee. "Make 'em toe the line;
that's all I got t' say."

"And all I've got to do is my best--I don't promise any more," the
other answered modestly, as he rose to leave.

Linley School was at the four corners in Pleasant Valley,--a low,
frame structure, small and weathered gray. Windows, with no shade,
or shutter, were set, two on a side, in perfect apposition. A
passing traveller could see through them to the rocky pasture
beyond. Who came there for knowledge, though a fool, was dubbed a
"scholar." It was a word sharply etched in the dialect of that
region. If one were to say _skollur-r-r_, he might come near it.
Every winter morning the scholar entered a little vestibule which
was part of the woodshed. He passed an ash barrel and the odour of
drying wood, hung cap and coat On a peg in the closet, lifted the
latch of a pine door, and came into the schoolroom. If before
nine, it would be noisy with shout and laughter, the buzz of
tongues, the tread of running feet. Big girls, in neat aprons,
would be gossiping at the stove hearth; small boys would be chasing
each other up and down aisles and leaping the whittled desks of
pine; little girls, in checked flannel, or homespun, would be
circling in a song play; big boys would be trying feats of strength
that ended in loud laughter. So it was, the first morning of that
winter term in 1850. A tall youth stood by the window. Suddenly
he gave a loud "sh--h--h!" Running feet fell silently and halted;
words begun with a shout ended in a whisper. A boy making
caricatures at the blackboard dropped his chalk, that now fell
noisily. A whisper, heavy with awe and expectation, flew hissing
from lip to lip--"The teacher!" There came a tramping in the
vestibule, the door-latch jumped with a loud rattle, and in came
Sidney Trove. All eyes were turned upon him. A look of rectitude,
dovelike and too good to be true, came over many faces.

"Good morning!" said the young man, removing his cap, coat, and
overshoes. Some nodded, dumb with timidity. Only a few little
ones had the bravery to speak up, as they gave back the words in a
tone that would have fitted a golden text. He came to the roaring
stove and stood a moment, warming his hands. A group of the big
boys were in a corner whispering. Two were sturdy and quite six
feet tall,--the Beach boys.

"Big as a bull moose," one whispered,

"An' stouter," said another.

The teacher took a pencil from his pocket and tapped the desk.

"Please take your seats," said he.

All obeyed. Then he went around with the roll and took their
names, of which there were thirty-four.

"I believe I know your name," said Trove, smiling, as he came to
Polly Vaughn.

"I believe you do," said she, glancing up at him, with half a smile
and a little move in her lips that seemed to ask, "How could you
forget me?"

Then the teacher, knowing the peril of her eyes, became very
dignified as he glanced over the books she had brought to school.
He knew it was going to be a hard day. For a little, he wondered
if he had not been foolish, after all, in trying a job so difficult
and so perilous. If he should be thrown out of school, he felt
sure it would ruin him--he could never look Polly in the face
again. As he turned to begin the work of teaching, it seemed to
him a case of do or die, and he felt the strength of an ox in his
heavy muscles.

The big boys had settled themselves in a back corner side by
side--a situation too favourable for mischief. He asked them to
take other seats. They complied sullenly and with hesitation. He
looked over books, organized the school in classes, and started one
of them on its way. It was the primer class, including a half
dozen very small boys and girls. They shouted each word in the
reading lesson, laboured in silence with another, and gave voice
again with unabated energy. In their pursuit of learning they
bayed like hounds. Their work began upon this ancient and
informing legend, written to indicate the shout and skip of the
youthful student:--

The--sun--is--up--and--it--is--day--day?--day.

"You're afraid," the teacher began after a little. "Come up here
close to me."

They came to his chair and stood about him. Some were confident,
others hung back suspicious and untamed.

"We're going to be friends," said he, in a low, gentle voice. He
took from his pocket a lot of cards and gave one to each.

"Here's a story," he continued. "See--I put it in plain print for
you with pen and ink. It's all about a bear and a boy, and is in
ten parts. Here's the first chapter. Take it home with you
to-night--"

He stopped suddenly. He had turned in his chair and could see none
of the boys. He did not move, but slowly took off a pair of
glasses he had been wearing.

"Joe Beach," said he, coolly, "come out here on the floor."

There was a moment of dead silence. That big youth--the terror of
Linley School--was now red and dumb with amazement. His deviltry
had begun, but how had the teacher seen it with his back turned?

"I'll think it over," said the boy, sullenly.

The teacher laid down his book, calmly, walked to the seat of the
young rebel, took him by the collar and the back of the neck, tore
him out of the place where his hands and feet were clinging like
the roots of a tree, dragged him roughly to the aisle and over the
floor space, taking part of the seat along, and stood him to the
wall with a bang that shook the windows. There was no halting--it
was all over in half a minute.

"You'll please remain there," said he, coolly, "until I tell you to
sit down."

He turned his back on the bully, walked slowly to his chair, and
opened his book again.

"Take it home with you to-night," said he, continuing his talk to
the primer class. "Spell it over, so you won't have to stop long
between words. All who read it well to-morrow will get another
chapter."

They began to study at home. Wonder grew, and pleasure came with
labour as the tale went on.

He dismissed the primer readers, calling the first class in
geography. As they took their places he repaired the broken seat,
a part of which had been torn off the nails. The fallen rebel
stood leaning, his back to the school. He had expected help, but
the reserve force had failed him.

"Joe Beach--you may take your seat," said the teacher, in a kind of
parenthetical tone.

"Geography starts at home," he continued, beginning the recitation.
"Who can tell me where is the Linley schoolhouse?"

A dozen hands went up.

"You tell," said he to one.

"It's here," was the answer.

"Where's here?"

A boy looked thoughtful.

"Nex' t' Joe Linley's cow-pastur'," he ventured presently,

"Will you tell us?" the teacher asked, looking at a bright-eyed
girl.

"In Faraway, New York," said she, glibly.

"Tom Linley, I'll take that," said the teacher, in a lazy tone. He
was looking down at his book. Where he sat, facing the class, he
could see none of the boys without turning. But he had not turned.
To the wonder of all, up he spoke as Tom Linley was handing a slip
of paper to Joe Beach. There was a little pause. The young man
hesitated, rose, and walked nervously down the aisle.

"Thank you," said the teacher, as he took the message and flung it
on the fire, unread. "Faraway, New York;" he continued on his way
to the blackboard as if nothing had happened.

He drew a circle, indicating the four points of the compass on it.
Then he mapped the town of Faraway and others, east, west, north,
and south of it. So he made a map of the county and bade them copy
it. Around the county in succeeding lessons he built a map of the
state. Others in the middle group were added, the structure
growing, day by day, until they had mapped the hemisphere.

At the Linley schoolhouse something had happened. Cunning no
sooner showed its head than it was bruised like a serpent, brawny
muscles had been easily outdone, boldness had grown timid, conceit
had begun to ebb. A serious look had settled upon all faces.
Every scholar had learned one thing, learned it well and
quickly--it was to be no playroom.

There was a recess of one hour at noon. All went for their dinner
pails and sat quietly, eating bread and butter followed by
doughnuts, apples, and pie.

The young men had walked to the road. Nothing had been said. They
drew near each other. Tom Linley looked up at Joe Beach. In his
face one might have seen a cloud of sympathy that had its silver
lining of amusement.

"Powerful?" Tom inquired, soberly.

"What?" said Joe.

"Powerful?" Tom repeated.

"Powerful! Jiminy crimps!" said Joe, significantly.

"Why didn't ye kick him?"

"Kick him?"

"Yes."

"Kick _him_?

"Kick _him_."

"Huh! dunno," said Joe, with a look of sadness turning into
contempt.

"Scairt?" the other inquired.

"Scairt? Na--a--w," said Joe, scornfully.

"What was ye, then?"

"Parr'lyzed--seems so."

There was an outbreak of laughter.

"You was goin' t' help," said Joe, addressing Tom Linley.

A moment of silence followed.

"_You_ was goin' t' help," the fallen bully repeated, with large
emphasis on the pronoun.

"Help?" Tom inquired, sparring for wind as it were.

"Yes, help."

"You was licked 'fore I had time."

"Didn't dast--that's what's the matter--didn't dast," said big Joe,
with a tone of irreparable injury.

"Wouldn't 'a' been nigh ye fer a millyun dollars," said Tom,
soberly.

"Why not?"

"'Twant safe; that's why."

"'Fraid o' him! ye coward!"

"No; 'fraid o' you."

"Why?"

"'Cos if one o' yer feet had hit a feller when ye come up ag'in
that wall," Tom answered slowly, "there wouldn't 'a' been nuthin'
left uv him."

All laughed loudly.

Then there was another silence. Joe broke it after a moment of
deep thought.

"Like t' know how he seen me," said he.

"'Tis cur'us," said another.

"Guess he's one o' them preformers like they have at the circus--"
was the opinion of Sam Beach. "See one take a pig out o' his hat
las' summer."

"'Tain't fair 'n' square," said Tom Linley; "not jest eggzac'ly."

"Gosh! B'lieve I'll run away," said Joe, after a pause. "Ain' no
fun here for me."

"Better not," said Archer Town; "not if ye know when yer well off."

"Why not?"

"Wal, he'd see ye wherever ye was an' do suthin' to ye," said
Archer. "Prob'ly he's heard all we been sayin' here."

"Wal, I ain't said nuthin' I'm 'shamed of," said Sam Beach,
thoughtfully.

A bell rang, and all hurried to the schoolhouse. The afternoon was
uneventful. Those rough-edged, brawny fellows had become serious.
Hope had died in their breasts, and now they looked as if they had
come to its funeral. They began to examine their books as one
looks at a bitter draught before drinking it. In every subject the
teacher took a new way not likely to be hard upon tender feet. For
each lesson he had a method of his own. He angled for the interest
of the class and caught it. With some a term of school had been as
a long sickness, lengthened by the medicine of books and the
surgery of the beech rod. They had resented it with ingenious
deviltry. The confusion of the teacher and some incidental fun
were its only compensations. The young man gave his best thought
to the correction of this mental attitude. Four o'clock came at
last--the work of the day was over. Weary with its tension all sat
waiting the teacher's word. For a little he stood facing them.

"Tom Linley and Joe Beach," said he, in a low voice, "will you wait
a moment after the others have gone? School's dismissed."

There was a rush of feet and a rattle of dinner pails. All were
eager to get home with the story of that day--save the two it had
brought to shame. They sat quietly as the others went away. A
deep silence fell in that little room. Of a sudden it had become a
lonely place.

The teacher damped the fire and put on his overshoes.

"Boys," said he, drawing a big silver watch, "hear that watch
ticking. It tells the flight of seconds. You are--eighteen, did
you say? They turn boys into oxen here in this country; just a
thing of bone and muscle, living to sweat and lift and groan.
Maybe I can save you, but there's not a minute to lose. With you
it all depends on this term of school. When it's done you'll
either be ox or driver. Play checkers?"

Tom nodded.

"I'll come over some evening, and we'll have a game. Good night!"

XV

The Tinker at Linley School

Every seat was filled at the Linley School next morning. The
tinker had come to see Trove and sat behind the big desk as work
began.

"There are two kinds of people," said the teacher, after all were
seated--"those that command--those that obey. No man is fit to
command until he has learned to obey--he will not know how. The
one great thing life has to teach you is--obey. There was a young
bear once that was bound to go his own way. The old bear told him
it wouldn't do to jump over a precipice, but, somehow, he couldn't
believe it and jumped. 'Twas the last thing he ever did. It's
often so with the young. Their own way is apt to be rather steep
and to end suddenly. There are laws everywhere,--we couldn't live
without them,--laws of nature, God, and man. Until we learn the
law and how to obey it, we must go carefully and take the advice of
older heads. We couldn't run a school without laws in it--laws
that I must obey as well as you. I must teach, and you must learn.
The two first laws of the school are teach and learn--you must help
me to obey mine; I must help you to obey yours. And we'll have as
much fun as possible, but we must obey."

Then Trove invited Darrel to address the school.

"Dear children," the tinker began with a smile, "I mind ye're all
looking me in the face, an' I do greatly fear ye. I fear I may say
something ye will remember, an' again I fear I may not. For when I
speak to the young--ah! then it seems to me God listens. I heard
the teacher speaking o' the law of obedience. Which o' ye can tell
me who is the great master--the one ye must never disobey?"

"Yer father," said one of the boys.

"Nay, me bright lad, one o' these days ye may lose father an'
mother an' teacher an' friend. Let me tell a story, an' then,
mayhap, ye'll know the great master. Once upon a time there was a
young cub who thought his life a burden because he had to mind his
mother. By an' by a bullet killed her, an' he was left alone. He
wandered away, not knowing' what to do, and came near the land o'
men. Soon he met an old bear.

"'Foolish cub! Why go ye to the land o' men?' said the old bear.
'Thy legs are not as long as me tail. Go home an' obey thy mother.'

"'But I've none to obey,' said the young bear; an' before he could
turn, a ball came whizzing over a dingle an' ripped into his ham.
The old bear had scented danger an' was already out o' the way.
The cub made off limping, an' none too quickly. They followed him
all day, an' when night came he was the most weary an' bedraggled
bear in the woods. But he stopped the blood an' went away on a dry
track in the morning. He came to a patch o' huckleberries that day
and began to help himself. Then quick an' hard he got a cuff on
the head that tore off an ear and knocked him into the bushes.
When he rose there stood the old bear. "'Ah, me young cub,' said
he, 'ye'll have a master now.'

"'An' no more need o' him,' said the young bear, shaking his bloody
head.

"'Nay, ye will prosper,' said the old bear. 'There are two ways o'
learning,--by hearsay an' by knocks. Much ye may learn by knocks,
but they are painful. There be two things every one has to
learn,--respect for himself; respect for others. Ye'll know,
hereafter, in the land o' men a bear has to keep his nose up an'
his ears open--because men hurt. Ye'll know better, also, than to
feed on the ground of another bear--because he hurts. Now, were I
a cub an' had none to obey, I'd obey meself. Ye know what's right,
do it; ye know what's wrong, do it not.'

"'One thing is sure,' said the young bear, as he limped away; 'if I
live, there'll not be a bear in the woods that'll take any better
care of himself.'

"Now the old bear knew what he was talking about. He was, I
maintain, a wise an' remarkable bear. We learn to obey others, so
that by an' by we may know how to obey ourselves. The great master
of each man is himself. By words or by knocks ye will learn what
is right, and ye must do it. Dear children, ye must soon be yer
own masters. There be many cruel folk in the world, but ye have
only one to fear--yerself. Ah! ye shall find him a hard man, for,
if he be much offended, he will make ye drink o' the cup o' fire.
Learn to obey yerselves, an' God help ye."

Thereafter, many began to look into their own hearts for that
fearful master, and some discovered him.

XVI

A Rustic Museum

That first week Sidney Trove went to board at the home of "the two
old maids," a stone house on Jericho Road, with a front door
rusting on idle hinges and blinds ever drawn. It was a hundred
feet or more from the highway, and in summer there were flowers
along the path from its little gate and vines climbing to the upper
windows. In winter its garden was buried deep under the snow. One
family--the Vaughns--came once in awhile to see "the two old
maids." Few others ever saw them save from afar. A dressmaker
came once a year and made gowns for them, that were carefully hung
in closets but never worn. To many of their neighbours they were
as dead as if they had been long in their graves. Tales of their
economy, of their odd habits, of their past, went over hill and
dale to far places. They had never boarded the teacher and were
put in a panic when the trustee came to speak of it.

"He's a grand young man," said he; "good company--and you'll enjoy
it."

They looked soberly at each other. According to tradition, one was
fifty-four the other fifty-five years of age. An exclamation broke
from the lips of one. It sounded like the letter _y_ whispered
quickly.

"Y!" the other answered.

"It might make a match," said Mr. Blount, the trustee, smiling.

"Y! Samuel Blount!" said the younger one, coming near and smiting
him playfully on the elbow. "You stop!"

Miss Letitia began laughing silently. They never laughed aloud.

"If he didn't murder us," said Miss S'mantha, doubtfully.

"Nonsense," said the trustee; "I'll answer for him."

"Can't tell what men'll do," she persisted weakly. "When I was in
Albany with Alma Haskins, a man came 'long an' tried t' pass the
time o' day with us. We jes' looked t'other way an' didn't preten'
t' hear him. It's awful t' think what might 'a' happened."

She wiped invisible tears with an embroidered handkerchief. The
dear lady had spent a good part of her life thinking of that narrow
escape.

"If he wa'n't too partic'lar," said Miss Letitia, who had been
laughing at this maiden fear of her sister.

"If he would mind his business, we--we might take him for one
week," said Miss S'mantha. She glanced inquiringly at her sister.

Letitia and S'mantha Tower, "the two old maids," had but one near
relative--Ezra Tower, a brother of the same neighbourhood.

There were two kinds of people in Faraway,--those that Ezra Tower
spoke to and those he didn't. The latter were of the majority. As
a forswearer of communication he was unrivalled. His imagination
was a very slaughter-house, in which all who crossed him were
slain. If they were passing, he looked the other way and never
even saw them again. Since the probate of his father's will both
sisters were of the number never spoken to. He was a thin, tall,
sullen, dry, and dusty man. Dressed for church of a Sunday, he
looked as if he had been stored a year in some neglected cellar.
His broadcloth had a dingy aspect, his hair and beard and eyebrows
the hue of a cobweb. He had a voice slow and rusty, a look arid
and unfruitful. Indeed, it seemed as if the fires of hate and envy
had burned him out.

The two old maids, feeling the disgrace of it and fearing more,
ceased to visit their neighbours or even to pass their own gate.
Poor Miss S'mantha fell into the deadly mire of hypochondria. She
often thought herself very ill and sent abroad for every medicine
advertised in the county paper. She had ever a faint look and a
thin, sickly voice. She had the man-fear,--a deep distrust of
men,--never ceasing to be on her guard. In girlhood, she had been
to Albany, Its splendour and the reckless conduct of one Alma
Haskins, companion of her travels, had been ever since a day-long
perennial topic of her conversation. Miss Letitia was more
amiable. She had a playful, cheery heart in her, a mincing and
precise manner, and a sweet voice. What with the cleaning,
dusting, and preserving, they were ever busy. A fly, driven hither
and thither, fell of exhaustion if not disabled with a broom. They
were two weeks getting ready for the teacher. When, at last, he
came that afternoon, supper was ready and they were nearly worn out.

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