Glengarry School Days: A Story of Early Days in Glengarry

by Ralph Connor

  Produced by Donald Lainson

  GLENGARRY SCHOOLDAYS

  A STORY OF THE EARLY DAYS IN GLENGARRY

  By Ralph Connor

  CONTENTS

  I. THE SPELLING-MATCH

  II. THE DEEPOLE

  III. THE EXAMINATION

  IV. THE NEW MASTER

  V. THE CRISIS

  VI. "ONE THAT RULETH WELL HIS OWN HOUSE"

  VII. FOXY

  VIII. FOXY'S PARTNER

  IX. HUGHIE'S EMANCIPATION

  X. THE BEAR HUNT

  XI. JOHN CRAVEN'S METHOD

  XII. THE DOWNFALL

  XIII. THE FIRST ROUND

  XIV. THE FINAL ROUND

  XV. THE RESULT

  GLENGARRY SCHOOL DAYS

  CHAPTER I

  THE SPELLING-MATCH

  The "Twentieth" school was built of logs hewn on two sides. The crackswere chinked and filled with plaster, which had a curious habit offalling out during the summer months, no one knew how; but somehow theholes always appeared on the boys' side, and being there, were found tobe most useful, for as looking out of the window was forbidden, throughthese holes the boys could catch glimpses of the outer world--glimpsesworth catching, too, for all around stood the great forest, theplayground of boys and girls during noon-hour and recesses; an enchantedland, peopled, not by fairies, elves, and other shadowy beings offancy, but with living things, squirrels, and chipmunks, and weasels,chattering ground-hogs, thumping rabbits, and stealthy foxes, notto speak of a host of flying things, from the little gray-bird thattwittered its happy nonsense all day, to the big-eyed owl that hootedsolemnly when the moon came out. A wonderful place this forest, forchildren to live in, to know, and to love, and in after days to longfor.

  It was Friday afternoon, and the long, hot July day was drawing to aweary close. Mischief was in the air, and the master, Archibald Munro,or "Archie Murro," as the boys called him, was holding himself in witha very firm hand, the lines about his mouth showing that he was fightingback the pain which had never quite left him from the day he had twistedhis knee out of joint five years ago, in a wrestling match, and which,in his weary moments, gnawed into his vitals. He hated to lose hisgrip of himself, for then he knew he should have to grow stern andterrifying, and rule these young imps in the forms in front of him bywhat he called afterwards, in his moments of self-loathing, "sheer bruteforce," and that he always counted a defeat.

  Munro was a born commander. His pale, intellectual face, with its squarechin and firm mouth, its noble forehead and deep-set gray eyes, carrieda look of such strength and indomitable courage that no boy, howeverbig, ever thought of anything but obedience when the word of commandcame. He was the only master who had ever been able to control, withoutat least one appeal to the trustees, the stormy tempers of the younggiants that used to come to school in the winter months.

  The school never forgot the day when big Bob Fraser "answered back" inclass. For, before the words were well out of his lips, the master, witha single stride, was in front of him, and laying two swift, stingingcuts from the rawhide over big Bob's back, commanded, "Hold out yourhand!" in a voice so terrible, and with eyes of such blazing light, thatbefore Bob was aware, he shot out his hand and stood waiting the blow.The school never, in all its history, received such a thrill as the nextfew moments brought; for while Bob stood waiting, the master's wordsfell clear-cut upon the dead silence, "No, Robert, you are too big tothrash. You are a man. No man should strike you--and I apologize." Andthen big Bob forgot his wonted sheepishness and spoke out with a man'svoice, "I am sorry I spoke back, sir." And then all the girls beganto cry and wipe their eyes with their aprons, while the master and Bobshook hands silently. From that day and hour Bob Fraser would have slainany one offering to make trouble for the master, and Archibald Munro'srule was firmly established.

  He was just and impartial in all his decisions, and absolute in hiscontrol; and besides, he had the rare faculty of awakening in his pupilsan enthusiasm for work inside the school and for sports outside.

  But now he was holding himself in, and with set teeth keeping back thepain. The week had been long and hot and trying, and this day had beenthe worst of all. Through the little dirty panes of the uncurtainedwindows the hot sun had poured itself in a flood of quivering light allthe long day. Only an hour remained of the day, but that hour was tothe master the hardest of all the week. The big boys were droning lazilyover their books, the little boys, in the forms just below his desk,were bubbling over with spirits--spirits of whose origin there was noreasonable ground for doubt.

  Suddenly Hughie Murray, the minister's boy, a very special imp, held uphis hand.

  "Well, Hughie," said the master, for the tenth time within the hourreplying to the signal.

  "Spelling-match!"

  The master hesitated. It would be a vast relief, but it was a littlelike shirking. On all sides, however, hands went up in support ofHughie's proposal, and having hesitated, he felt he must surrender orbecome terrifying at once.

  "Very well," he said; "Margaret Aird and Thomas Finch will act ascaptains." At once there was a gleeful hubbub. Slates and books wereslung into desks.

  "Order! or no spelling-match." The alternative was awful enough to quieteven the impish Hughie, who knew the tone carried no idle threat, andwho loved a spelling-match with all the ardor of his little fightingsoul.

  The captains took their places on each side of the school, and withcareful deliberation, began the selecting of their men, scanninganxiously the rows of faces looking at the maps or out of the windowsand bravely trying to seem unconcerned. Chivalry demanded that Margaretshould have first choice. "Hughie Murray!" called out Margaret;for Hughie, though only eight years old, had preternatural gifts inspelling; his mother's training had done that for him. At four he knewevery Bible story by heart, and would tolerate no liberties with thetext; at six he could read the third reader; at eight he was the bestreader in the fifth; and to do him justice, he thought no better ofhimself for that. It was no trick to read. If he could only run, andclimb, and swim, and dive, like the big boys, then he would indeed feeluplifted; but mere spelling and reading, "Huh! that was nothing."

  "Ranald Macdonald!" called Thomas Finch, and a big, lanky boy of fifteenor sixteen rose and marched to his place. He was a boy one would look attwice. He was far from handsome. His face was long, and thin, and dark,with a straight nose, and large mouth, and high cheek-bones; but he hadfine black eyes, though they were fierce, and had a look in them thatsuggested the woods and the wild things that live there. But Ranald,though his attendance was spasmodic, and dependent upon the suitabilityor otherwise of the weather for hunting, was the best speller in theschool.

  For that reason Margaret would have chosen him, and for another whichshe would not for worlds have confessed, even to herself. And do youthink she would have called Ranald Macdonald to come and stand up besideher before all these boys? Not for the glory of winning the match andcarrying the medal for a week. But how gladly would she have given upglory and medal for the joy of it, if she had dared.

  At length the choosing was over, and the school ranged in two opposinglines, with Margaret and Thomas at the head of their respective forces,and little Jessie MacRae and Johnnie Aird, with a single big curl onthe top of his head, at the foot. It was a point of honor that no bloodshould be drawn at the first round. To Thomas, who had second choice,fell the right of giving the first word. So to little Jessie, at thefoot, he gave "Ox."

  "O-x, ox," whispered Jessie, shyly dodging behind her neighbor.

  "In!" said Margaret to Johnnie Aird.

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sp; "I-s, in," said Johnnie, stoutly.

  "Right!" said the master, silencing the shout of laughter. "Next word."

  With like gentle courtesies the battle began; but in the secondround the little A, B, C's were ruthlessly swept off the field withsecond-book words, and retired to their seats in supreme exultation,amid the applause of their fellows still left in the fight. Afterthat there was no mercy. It was a give-and-take battle, the successfulspeller having the right to give the word to the opposite side. Themaster was umpire, and after his "Next!" had fallen there was no appeal.But if a mistake were made, it was the opponent's part and privilege tocorrect with all speed, lest a second attempt should succeed.

  Steadily, and amid growing excitement, the lines grew less, till therewere left on one side, Thomas, with Ranald supporting him, and on theother Margaret, with Hughie beside her, his face pale, and his dark eyesblazing with the light of battle.

  Without varying fortune the fight went on. Margaret, still serene, andwith only a touch of color in her face, gave out her words with evenvoice, and spelled her opponent's with calm deliberation. Opposite herThomas stood, stolid, slow, and wary. He had no nerves to speak of, andthe only chance of catching him lay in lulling him off to sleep.

  They were now among the deadly words.

  "Parallelopiped!" challenged Hughie to Ranald, who met it easily, givingMargaret "hyphen" in return.

  "H-y-p-h-e-n," spelled Margaret, and then, with cunning carelessness,gave Thomas "heifer." ("Hypher," she called it.)

  Thomas took it lightly.

  "H-e-i-p-h-e-r."

  Like lightning Hughie was upon him. "H-e-i-f-e-r."

  "F-e-r," shouted Thomas. The two yells came almost together.

  There was a deep silence. All eyes were turned upon the master.

  "I think Hughie was first," he said, slowly. A great sigh swept over theschool, and then a wave of applause.

  The master held up his hand.

  "But it was so very nearly a tie, that if Hughie is willing--"

  "All right, sir," cried Hughie, eager for more fight.

  But Thomas, in sullen rage, strode to his seat muttering, "I was just assoon anyway." Every one heard and waited, looking at the master.

  "The match is over," said the master, quietly. Great disappointmentshowed in every face.

  "There is just one thing better than winning, and that is, taking defeatlike a man." His voice was grave, and with just a touch of sadness. Thechildren, sensitive to moods, as is the characteristic of children, feltthe touch and sat subdued and silent.

  There was no improving of the occasion, but with the same sad gravitythe school was dismissed; and the children learned that day one oflife's golden lessons--that the man who remains master of himself neverknows defeat.

  The master stood at the door watching the children go down the slope tothe road, and then take their ways north and south, till the forest hidthem from his sight.

  "Well," he muttered, stretching up his arms and drawing a great breath,"it's over for another week. A pretty near thing, though."