Miss Bailey was one of the beginners, and Room 18 was made to shine asthe sun. Morris Mogilewsky, Monitor of the Gold-Fish Bowl, wroughtbusily until his charges glowed redly against the water plants in theirshining bowl. Creepers crept, plants grew, and ferns waved under thecare of Nathan Spiderwitz, Monitor of the Window Boxes. There was such amartial swing and strut in Patrick Brennan's leadership of the line thatit inflamed even the timid heart of Isidore Wishnewsky with a war-likeglow and his feet with a spasmodic but well-meant tramp. SadieGonorowsky and Eva, her cousin, sat closely side by side, no longer "madon theirselves," but "mit kind feelings." The work of the preceding termwas laid in neat and docketed piles upon the low book-case. The childrenwere enjoined to keep clean and entire. And Teacher, a nervous andunsmiling Teacher, waited dully.
A week passed thus, and then the good-hearted and experienced Miss Blakehurried ponderously across the hall to put Teacher on her guard.
"I've just had a note from one of the grammar teachers," she panted."'Gum Shoe Tim' is up in Miss Green's room! He'll take this floor next.Now, see here, child, don't look so frightened. The Principal is withTim. Of course you're nervous, but try not to show it, and you'll be allright. His lay is discipline and reading. Well, good luck to you!"
Miss Bailey took heart of grace. The children read surprisingly well,were absolutely good, and the enemy under convoy of the friendlyPrincipal would be much less terrifying than the enemy at large andalone. It was, therefore, with a manner almost serene that she turned togreet the kindly concerned Principal and the dreaded "Gum Shoe Tim." Thelatter she found less ominous of aspect than she had been led to fear,and the Principal's charming little speech of introduction made herflush with quick pleasure. And the anxious eyes of Sadie Gonorowsky,noting the flush, grew calm as Sadie whispered to Eva, her close cousin:
"Say, Teacher has a glad. She's red on the face. It could to be herpapa."
"No. It's comp'ny," answered Eva sagely. "It ain't her papa. It'scomp'ny the whiles Teacher takes him by the hand."
The children were not in the least disconcerted by the presence of thelarge man. They always enjoyed visitors, and they liked the heavy goldchain which festooned the wide waistcoat of this guest; and, as theywatched him, the Associate Superintendent began to superintend.
He looked at the children all in their clean and smiling rows; he lookedat the flowers and the gold-fish; at the pictures and the plaster casts;he looked at the work of the last term and he looked at Teacher. As helooked he swayed gently on his rubber heels and decided that he wasgoing to enjoy the coming quarter of an hour. Teacher pleased him fromthe first. She was neither old nor ill-favored, and she was mostevidently nervous. The combination appealed both to his love of powerand his peculiar sense of humor. Settling deliberately in the chair ofstate, he began:
"Can the children sing, Miss Bailey?"
They could sing very prettily and they did.
"Very nice, indeed," said the voice of visiting authority. "Very nice.Their music is exceptionally good. And are they drilled? Children, willyou march for me?"
Again they could and did. Patrick marshaled his line in time and triumphup and down the aisles to the evident interest and approval of the"comp'ny," and then Teacher led the class through some very energeticSwedish movements. While arms and bodies were bending and straighteningat Teacher's command and example, the door opened and a breathless boyrushed in. He bore an unfolded note and, as Teacher had no hand tospare, the boy placed the paper on the desk under the softening eyes ofthe Honorable Timothy, who glanced down idly and then pounced upon thenote and read its every word.
"For you, Miss Bailey," he said in the voice before which even theschool janitor had been known to quail. "Your friend was thoughtful,though a little late." And poor palpitating Miss Bailey read:
"Watch out! 'Gum Shoe Tim' is in the building. The Principal caught himon the back-stairs, and they're going round together. He's as cross as abear. Greene in dead faint in the dressing-room. Says he's going to fireher. Watch out for him, and send the news on. His lay is reading anddiscipline."
Miss Bailey grew cold with sick and unreasoning fear. As she gazedwide-eyed at the living confirmation of the statement that "Gum ShoeTim" was "as cross as a bear," the gentle-hearted Principal took thepaper from her nerveless grasp.
"It's all right," he assured her. "Mr. O'Shea understands that you hadno part in this. It's all right. You are not responsible."
But Teacher had no ears for his soothing. She could only watch withfascinated eyes as the Honorable Timothy reclaimed the note and wroteacross it's damning face: "Miss Greene may come to. She is notfired.--T. O'S."
"Here, boy," he called; "take this to your teacher." The puzzledmessenger turned to obey, and the Associate Superintendent saw thatthough his dignity had suffered his power had increased. To the list ofthose whom he might, if so disposed, devour, he had now added the nameof the Principal, who was quick to understand that an unpleasantinvestigation lay before him. If Miss Bailey could not be heldresponsible for this system of inter-classroom communication, it wasclear that the Principal could.
Every trace of interest had left Mr. O'Shea's voice as he asked:
"Can they read?"
"Oh, yes, they read," responded Teacher, but her spirit was crushed andthe children reflected her depression. Still, they were marvelously goodand that blundering note had said, "Discipline is his lay." Well, herehe had it.
There was one spectator of this drama, who, understanding no word norincident therein, yet dismissed no shade of the many emotions which hadstirred the light face of his lady. Toward the front of the room satMorris Mogilewsky, with every nerve tuned to Teacher's, and with anappreciation of the situation in which the other children had no share.On the afternoon of one of those dreary days of waiting for the evilwhich had now come, Teacher had endeavored to explain the nature andpossible result of this ordeal to her favorite. It was clear to him nowthat she was troubled, and he held the large and unaccustomed presenceof the "comp'ny mit whiskers" responsible. Countless generations ofancestors had followed and fostered the instinct which now led Morris topropitiate an angry power. Luckily, he was prepared with an offering ofa suitable nature. He had meant to enjoy it for yet a few days, and thento give it to Teacher. She was such a sensible person about presents.One might give her one's most cherished possession with a brave andcordial heart, for on each Friday afternoon she returned the gifts shehad received during the week. And this with no abatement of gratitude.
Morris rose stealthily, crept forward, and placed a bright bluebromo-seltzer bottle in the fat hand which hung over the back of thechair of state. The hand closed instinctively as, with dawningcuriosity, the Honorable Timothy studied the small figure at his side.It began in a wealth of loosely curling hair which shaded a delicateface, very pointed as to chin and monopolized by a pair of dark eyes,sad and deep and beautiful. A faded blue "jumper" was buttoned tightlyacross the narrow chest; frayed trousers were precariously attached tothe "jumper," and impossible shoes and stockings supplemented thetrousers. Glancing from boy to bottle, the "comp'ny mit whiskers" asked:
"What's this for?"
"For you."
"What's in it?"
"A present."
Mr. O'Shea removed the cork and proceeded to draw out incrediblequantities of absorbent cotton. When there was no more to come, a fainttinkle sounded within the blue depths, and Mr. O'Shea, reversing thebottle, found himself possessed of a trampled and disfigured sleeve linkof most palpable brass.
"It's from gold," Morris assured him. "You puts it in your--'scuseme--shirt. Wish you health to wear it."
"Thank you," said the Honorable Tim, and there was a tiny break in thegloom which had enveloped him. And then, with a quick memory of thenote and of his anger:
"Miss Bailey, who is this young man?"
And Teacher, of whose hobbies Morris was one, answered warmly: "That isMorris Mogilewsky, the best of boys. He takes care of the gold-fish, anddoes all sorts of th
ings for me. Don't you, dear?"
"Teacher, yiss ma'an," Morris answered. "I'm lovin' much mit you. Igives presents on the comp'ny over you."
"Ain't he rather big to speak such broken English?" asked Mr. O'Shea. "Ihope you remember that it is part of your duty to stamp out thedialect."
"Yes, I know," Miss Bailey answered. "But Morris has been in America forso short a time. Nine months, is it not?"
"Teacher, yiss ma'an. I comes out of Russia," responded Morris, on theverge of tears and with his face buried in Teacher's dress.
Now Mr. O'Shea had his prejudices--strong and deep. He had been givenjurisdiction over that particular district because it was his nativeheath, and the Board of Education considered that he would be more insympathy with the inhabitants than a stranger. The truth was absolutelythe reverse. Because he had spent his early years in a large old houseon East Broadway, because he now saw his birthplace changed to a squalidtenement, and the happy hunting grounds of his youth grown ragged andforeign--swarming with strange faces and noisy with strange tongues--Mr.O'Shea bore a sullen grudge against the usurping race.
He resented the caressing air with which Teacher held the little handplaced so confidently within her own and he welcomed the opportunity ofgratifying his still ruffled temper and his racial antagonism at thesame time. He would take a rise out of this young woman about herlittle Jew. She would be comforted later on. Mr. O'Shea rather fanciedhimself in the role of comforter, when the sufferer was neither old norill-favored. And so he set about creating the distress which he wouldlater change to gratitude and joy. Assuredly the Honorable Timothy had awell-developed sense of humor.
"His English is certainly dreadful," remarked the voice of authority,and it was not an English voice, nor is O'Shea distinctively an Englishname. "Dreadful. And, by the way, I hope you are not spoiling theseyoungsters. You must remember that you are fitting them for the battleof life. Don't coddle your soldiers. Can you reconcile your presentattitude with discipline?"
"With Morris--yes," Teacher answered. "He is gentle and tractable beyondwords."
"Well, I hope you're right," grunted Mr. O'Shea, "but don't coddlethem."
And so the incident closed. The sleeve link was tucked, before Morris'syearning eyes, into the reluctant pocket of the wide white waistcoat,and Morris returned to his place. He found his reader and the properpage, and the lesson went on with brisk serenity; real on the children'spart, but bravely assumed on Teacher's. Child after child stood up,read, sat down again, and it came to be the duty of Bertha Binderwitz toread the entire page of which the others had each read a line. She beganjubilantly, but soon stumbled, hesitated, and wailed:
"Stands a fierce word. I don't know what it is," and Teacher turned towrite the puzzling word upon the blackboard.
Morris's heart stopped with a sickening suddenness and then rushed madlyon again. He had a new and dreadful duty to perform. All his mother'scounsel, all his father's precepts told him that it was his duty. Yetfear held him in his little seat behind his little desk, while hisconscience insisted on this unalterable decree of the social code: "Sosomebody's clothes is wrong it's polite you says ''scuse' and tells itout."
And here was Teacher whom he dearly loved, whose ideals of personaladornment extended to full sets of buttons on jumpers and to laces inboth shoes, here was his immaculate lady fair in urgent need ofassistance and advice, and all because she had on that day inaugurated adelightfully vigorous exercise for which, architecturally, she was notdesigned.
There was yet room for hope that some one else would see the breach andbrave the danger. But no. The visitor sat stolidly in the chair ofstate, the Principal sat serenely beside him, the children sat each inhis own little place, behind his own little desk, keeping his own littleeyes on his own little book. No. Morris's soul cried with Hamlet's:
"The time is out of joint;--O cursed spite, That ever I was born to set it right!"
Up into the quiet air went his timid hand. Teacher, knowing him in hismore garrulous moods, ignored the threatened interruption of Bertha'sspirited resume, but the windmill action of the little arm attracted theHonorable Tim's attention.
"The best of boys wants you," he suggested, and Teacher perforce asked:
"Well, Morris, what is it?"
Not until he was on his feet did the Monitor of the Gold-Fish Bowlappreciate the enormity of the mission he had undertaken. The otherchildren began to understand, and watched his struggle for words andbreath with sympathy or derision, as their natures prompted. But thereare no words in which one may politely mention ineffective safety-pinsto one's glass of fashion. Morris's knees trembled queerly, hisbreathing grew difficult, and Teacher seemed a very great way off as sheasked again:
"Well, what is it, dear?"
Morris panted a little, smiled weakly, and then sat down. Teacher wasevidently puzzled, the "comp'ny" alert, the Principal uneasy.
"Now, Morris," Teacher remonstrated, "you must tell me what you want."
But Morris had deserted his etiquette and his veracity, and murmuredonly:
"Nothings."
"Just wanted to be noticed," said the Honorable Tim. "It is easy tospoil them." And he watched the best of boys rather closely, for a habitof interrupting reading lessons, wantonly and without reason, was atrait in the young of which he disapproved.
When this disapprobation manifested itself in Mr. O'Shea's countenance,the loyal heart of Morris interpreted it as a new menace to hissovereign. No later than yesterday she had warned them of the vitalimportance of coherence. "Every one knows," she had said, "that onlycommon little boys and girls come apart. No one ever likes them," andthe big stranger was even now misjudging her.
Again his short arm agitated the quiet air. Again his trembling legsupheld a trembling boy. Again authority urged. Again Teacher asked:
"Well, Morris, what is it, dear?"
All this was as before, but not as before was poor harassed MissBailey's swoop down the aisle, her sudden taking Morris's troubledlittle face between her soft hands, the quick near meeting with herkind eyes, the note of pleading in her repetition:
"What do you want, Morris?"
He was beginning to answer when it occurred to him that the truth mightmake her cry. There was an unsteadiness about her upper lip which seemedto indicate the possibility. Suddenly he found that he no longer yearnedfor words in which to tell her of her disjointment, but for somethingelse--anything else--to say.
His miserable eyes escaped from hers and wandered to the wall indesperate search for conversation. There was no help in the pictures, noinspiration in the plaster casts, but on the blackboard he read,"Tuesday, January twenty-first, 1902." Only the date, but he must makeit serve. With teacher close beside him, with the hostile eye of theHonorable Tim upon him, hedged round about by the frightened or admiringregard of the First-Reader Class, Morris blinked rapidly, swallowedresolutely, and remarked:
"Teacher, this year's Nineteen-hundred-and-two," and knew that all wasover.
The caressing clasp of Teacher's hands grew into a grip of anger. Thecountenance of Mr. O'Shea took on the beautiful expression of theprophet who has found honor and verification in his own country.
"The best of boys has his off days and this is one of them," heremarked.
"Morris," said Teacher, "did you stop a reading lesson to tell me that?Do you think I don't know what the year is? I'm ashamed of you."
Never had she spoken thus. If the telling had been difficult to Morriswhen she was "glad on him," it was impossible now that she was a prey tosuch evident "mad feelings." And yet he must make some explanation. Sohe murmured: "Teacher, I tells you 'scuse. I know you knows what yearstands, on'y it's polite I tells you something, und I had a fraid."
"And so you bothered your Teacher with that nonsense," said Tim. "You'rea nice boy!"
Morris's eyes were hardly more appealing than Teacher's as the twoculprits, for so they felt themselves, turned to their judge.
"Morris is a strange boy," Miss Ba
iley explained. "He can't be managedby ordinary methods--"
"And extraordinary methods don't seem to work to-day," Mr. O'Sheainterjected.
"And I think," Teacher continued, "that it might be better not to pressthe point."
"Oh, if you have no control over him--" Mr. O'Shea was beginningpleasantly, when the Principal suggested:
"You'd better let us hear what he has to say, Miss Bailey; make himunderstand that you are master here." And Teacher, with a heart-sicklaugh at the irony of this advice in the presence of the AssociateSuperintendent, turned to obey.
But Morris would utter no words but these, dozens of times repeated: "Ihave a fraid." Miss Bailey coaxed, bribed, threatened and cajoled; shookhim surreptitiously, petted him openly. The result was always the same:"It's polite I tells you something out, on'y I had a fraid."
"But, Morris, dear, of what?" cried Teacher. "Are you afraid of me? Stopcrying now and answer. Are you afraid of Miss Bailey?"
"N-o-o-oh m-a-a-an."
"Are you afraid of the Principal?"
"N-o-o-oh m-a-a-an."
"Are you afraid,"--with a slight pause, during which a native hue ofhonesty was foully done to death--"of the kind gentleman we are all soglad to see?"
"N-o-o-oh m-a-a-an."
"Well, then what is the matter with you? Are you sick? Don't you thinkyou would like to go home to your mother?"
The Wit and Humor of America, Volume III. (of X.) Page 8