Ella, a little schoolgirl of the sixties
Date: 2023-03-13T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Schools -- Juvenile fiction; Girls -- Juvenile fiction; New England -- Juvenile fiction

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Title: Ella, a little schoolgirl of the sixties

A book for children and for grown-ups who remember

Author: Eva March Tappan

Illustrator: Ruth J. Best

Release date: March 13, 2023 [eBook #70282]

Language: English

Original publication: United States: Houghton Mifflin Company, 1923

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/70282

Credits: Bob Taylor, Charlene Taylor and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ELLA, A LITTLE SCHOOLGIRL OF THE SIXTIES ***

ELLA

A Little Schoolgirl of the Sixties

ELLA

ELLA
A Little Schoolgirl of the Sixties

A Book for Children and for
Grown-Ups who Remember

BY
EVA MARCH TAPPAN

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
RUTH J. BEST

BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
The Riverside Press Cambridge
1923

COPYRIGHT, 1923, BY EVA MARCH TAPPAN

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Riverside Press
CAMBRIDGE · MASSACHUSETTS
PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.

TO

“BOY COUSIN” AND THE DAYS ON

THE BEARCAMP

CONTENTS

I. | A Little Girl and a Big Seminary | 1
II. | A Young Lady of the English and Classical Graduating Course | 11
III. | The Three Tragedies of Ella’s Seminary Life | 19
IV. | Graduation Day and its Misfortunes | 30
V. | On the Way to Grandmother’s | 40
VI. | The Real New Hampshire | 51
VII. | Boy Cousin | 61
VIII. | Rainy Days and Sundays | 71
IX. | Books and Play | 80
X. | Like Other Girls | 94
XI. | Ella’s First Day in the Public School | 103
XII. | “Foosle” Remains | 111
XIII. | The “Tories’ Alphabet” | 120
XIV. | Among the “Well-behaved Angels” | 131
XV. | Ella and the Principal | 142
XVI. | When the Committee Men Came | 151
XVII. | The High School Examinations | 160
| Appendix: The Examination Questions of 1869 | 171

ELLA

CHAPTER I
A LITTLE GIRL AND A BIG SEMINARY

The nicest thing that ever happened to a little girl eight years old was going to happen to Ella, and she was so delighted that she could hardly sit still in the big clumsy stage-coach that rolled and shook and swung slowly away from the city. Uphill and downhill it went, past ponds and meadows and brooks and woods, and little new houses and big old homesteads shaded by ancient elms or maples. Every roll of the wheels brought the little passenger nearer to perfect happiness.

Ella was going to live in a seminary, and surely nothing could be more charming than that. She knew all about seminaries, for she had visited one when she was little—at least two years before. The girls had petted her and given her candy; the principal had presented her with a story-book. Best of all, she had slept in an old-fashioned bed with a canopy, such a bed as she had never seen anywhere else. What could be more delightful! And now she was going to have every day such pleasures as these, and no one knew how much more marvelous ones.

By and by the stage came to a scattered village with a church or two, a schoolhouse, and a post-office. After the mail had been left, the driver turned up a long avenue with fields and a line of trees on either hand. At the head of the avenue was a circle of tall fir trees, and back of the circle was a large white building with a wing at each end, a narrow piazza in front, and tall fluted columns rising from its floor to the top of the second story.

The driver called “Whoa!” A tall man came from somewhere and shook hands with Ella’s mother and with herself. Then he led the way upstairs to some bare, almost unfurnished rooms. The mother was to use the furniture from her old home, and it had not yet arrived. After a little talk, they all went down some dark and winding stairs to the dining-room, a large, low, gloomy basement room with two long tables. The end of one of them was “set,” and there Ella and her mother and the tall man and two or three other grown-ups ate supper.

A little later Ella and her mother went up to the almost unfurnished rooms. Ella stood looking through the open door down the lonely corridor. There were no nice girls about; there was no canopy to the bed; there were no story-books; there was no one to talk to her. Everybody was grown up; there were no children. There were no city lights, and the twilight seemed to be shutting down faster than it ever did before.

“Oh, this doesn’t seem one bit, not one single bit, like a seminary,” Ella cried.

The mother gathered her into her lap, and there the little girl sobbed away her loneliness and disappointment, and forgot it all in sleep. But the mother sat beside the window, looking out into the darkness and the past; for it was here that she and the father had first met, in the old joyful student days; and now he was gone, and she had come back, alone, to teach students who were, as she had then been, at the happy beginnings.

When the morning came, things were better, Ella thought. The sun shone, and people began to gather. The first arrivals were teachers and boy and girl students. Then came students of earlier days, for the seminary had been closed for some years and was now to be reopened. There were people from the village and the neighboring country, and a little later, when the stage from the city drove up, there were a number of dignified middle-aged men with long beards. These men were to make speeches.

The mother was helping to welcome the guests, and Ella wandered around alone. Before long she met a boy a little smaller than herself. The two children looked at each other.

“What’s your name?” the boy asked.

“Ella. What’s yours?”

“John. My father’s the principal. What did you have Christmas?”

“I had a doll and a bedstead for her and a book of fairy stories,” the little girl replied. “What did you have?”

“I had a sled and a rubber ball and some red mittens.”

“I had a sled three Christmases ago, when I was little,” said Ella. “Its name is Thomas Jefferson. How old are you?”

“Six. But I’m going on seven,” he added quickly.

Ella was eight, going on nine, and she thought that a boy who was only six was hardly more than a baby; but he was better than nobody, so they spent most of the day together.

It was a full day. The hundreds of people went through the building; they ate a collation in the basement dining-room; they renewed old friendships; and at two o’clock they assembled in the little grove fronting the main door to listen to the speeches.

And speeches there were, indeed; speeches on the old days of the seminary and on the plans for its future; and of course there was one on “The true theory of education,” delivered by the man who knew least about that subject. The lieutenant-governor of the State sent a check for $100 for the library; the mayor of the capital of the State sent one for $250. Ticknor & Fields, Little & Brown, and Wendell Phillips all presented books. Everybody was jubilant, and sunset was only one hour distant when with three hearty cheers for the seminary the people said good-bye to one another, and all but the teachers and the students started for their homes.

Ella had not heard any of the speeches, but she had found where early goldenrod and asters were growing; she had learned that there was a beautiful lake whose shore was a fine place to pick up pebbles and go in wading; and she had discovered on the hastily arranged shelves of the library some books that looked interesting. She and John had only one grievance, namely, that the watermelon had given out before it came to their end of the table.

The next day classes were arranged and the regular life of the seminary began. Ella was delighted to find that she was to be called a “student” just as if she had been grown up, and when a young man, already lonesome for the little sister at home, asked her to sit on his knee, she refused. It was of course quite proper for a little girl to sit on the knee of an elderly gentleman, as he seemed to her, but she did not think that one “student” ought to sit on the knee of another.

Ella’s mother had her own “theory of education.” She thought that it was better for young children to be out of doors than in a schoolroom, and that, when they began to study, arithmetic and foreign languages should come first. Ella had never been to school or been taught at home. Somehow, she had learned to read, no one knew exactly how, and she had read every book that had come to hand if it looked at all interesting. One of these books was a small arithmetic. It was quite the fashion in those days to bind schoolbooks in paper of a bright salmon pink. Ella liked the color, and the result was that she had picked up some familiarity with addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division.

The professor of mathematics was a courteous, scholarly young man just out of college. He said that it would not trouble him in the least to have in one of his classes a little girl in a short-sleeved, low-necked blue muslin dress and “ankle-ties.” Apparently the tall young men and young women students did not object either; and the result was that for half an hour every morning Ella made groups of straggling figures on the blackboard, and with the kindly teaching of “my professor,” as she proudly called the young instructor, she learned to “invert the divisor and proceed as in multiplication.” She learned also that a decimal point has an uncanny power to reduce a comfortable number of dollars to mere copper cents. She even learned that “If a student purchased a Latin grammar for $0.75, a Virgil for $3.75, a Greek lexicon for $4.75, a Homer for $1.25, an English dictionary for $3.75, and a Greek Testament for $0.75,” the whole cost of his purchases would amount to $15. This was her favorite among the “Practical Problems.” The teacher never guessed the reason, but it was because she had read a story about a carrier pigeon, and she was glad that the student had a “homer.”

Ella learned that “cwt.” meant hundredweight, that “d” meant penny, and that a queer sign somewhat like a written “L” meant pound. Why these things should be, she had no idea; she supposed grown people had just made them up. She could overlook even such foolishness as this, but she did draw the line at learning the multiplication table. It was in her book, and she could turn to it at any time, so why should she bother to learn it? The young professor was always charitable to a new idea. He looked at the child thoughtfully; maybe she was in the right. At any rate, he only smiled when he saw how rapidly a certain page in her arithmetic was wearing out. Before it had quite disappeared, the multiplication table, even with the eights and nines, was as firmly fixed in the small pupil’s memory as if she had learned it with tears and lamentations.

Ella spelled rather unusually well, perhaps because in all her eight years she had seldom seen or heard a word spelled incorrectly; but her handwriting was about as bad as it could be, especially toward the end of the page, where the “loops and tails” pointed as many ways as if they had been an explosion of fireworks. The tall principal, John’s father, taught penmanship, and the little girl, with a copybook, a red-painted penholder, and a viciously sharp “Gillott, 303,” took her place at one of the long, slanting tables in the hall. It was much too high for her, but no one was troubled about that in those days. If a table was too high, it was because the child was too short, and that was all there was to it.

Day after day, Ella wrote in her copybook whole pages of such thrilling statements as, “Be good and you will be happy,” and, “Honesty is the best policy.” Of the truth of the first she was by no means convinced, for she remembered being—of necessity—very well behaved, indeed, when she was not at all happy. As to the second, she had no idea what “policy” was. She asked the principal very shyly what the sentence meant, and he said it meant that little boys and girls must always tell the truth. Of course no decent children ever told lies, thought Ella, with a vague indignation. She pondered over the reply, and at length made up her mind that the writing-book must have been printed for children that were ragged and dirty and said “ain’t got none.” She had to finish the page, but every line was worse written than the one before it. The principal looked a little grave and asked if she was sure that she had done her best. Ella hung her head and said nothing; but maybe she had done her best—under the circumstances.

The principal tried his utmost to teach her to write the fine “Spencerian” hand that was then so admired; but the wicked little “Gillott, 303,” continued to stick in the paper and make sprays of ink all about—which Ella rather admired as incipient pictures—and the red-painted wooden penholder still aimed at whatever point of the compass happened to suit the comfort of the little cramped fingers. “Where should the pen point?” the principal would patiently ask; and with equal patience the pupil would reply, “Over the right shoulder.” It would turn into place obediently, but long before the teacher had reached the other end of the long table, it was again pointing out the north window toward the lake or out the south window to the hill and the rocks. And why not? Where the thoughts were, surely the pen might point also.

Ella felt as if she was quite a busy little girl, for besides her lessons in arithmetic and penmanship, there was half an hour of French every day. It was good strong old-fashioned French, too, learned by main force from a grammar. She recited patiently, “Ah, bay, say, day,” etc., as she was taught; but in her heart of hearts she thought it utter foolishness to spoil perfectly good English letters by giving them such names. She learned that there were such things as nasal sounds, objected to in English, but highly esteemed in French; and she learned to translate into the French language and pronounce—with an accent that would have thrown the politest Frenchman into a state of collapse—such interesting dialogue as, “Have you the girl’s glove?” “No, sir, but I have the cook’s hat”; and such bits of tragedy as, “My brother’s tailor has broken my slate,” or—most touching of all—“I liked the little girl, but she did not like me.”

French, even grammar French, carried Ella into a new world. She concluded that to harmonize with its caprices she ought to take a French name when, so to speak, she entered France by way of Fasquelle’s Grammar and the French recitation room. Somewhere she had heard the word “elephantine,” and she had read, in English, about Fantine and Cosette. She concluded that this fine-sounding word—only she would spell it and put on plenty of accents, circumflexes, because she thought acutes and graves had an unfinished look—would accord nicely with her own name and would also be a compliment to the French, especially if it was pronounced with a good strong nasal sound in the middle of the word.

She was rather too shy to ask the French teacher to call her , but she wrote the name in her Fasquelle, and had fine times saying it over to herself when she was alone. One day the mother happened to take up the book, and she showed Ella in the dictionary what the word meant. All the poetry went out of it then, for Ella always bowed to the authority of the big dictionary; and she promptly rubbed out the new name, accents and all.

CHAPTER II
A LADY OF THE ENGLISH AND CLASSICAL GRADUATING COURSE

A second volume which Ella carried proudly under her arm when she went to the French class was called “Le Grandpère.” It was written expressly for the use of schools—so said the title-page. It was “Approuvé par le Conseil Royal de l’Instruction publique.” If further proof was needed of its value, the fact that it was “Carefully prepared for American schools” was surely sufficient. How could anything be better for a child to translate?

“Le Grandpère” began, with unpardonable guile, quite like a story: “The old Captain Granville inhabited a pretty village situated on the shore of the Loire,” as Ella slowly translated it. But her suspicions were soon aroused, for, looking ahead a few lines, she found something about “charging himself with overseeing their first education.” That did not sound promising, though it was possible that the four grandsons who were being educated might do interesting things betweentimes. As she read further, she found that the grandfather educated them by taking them to walk every Sunday and giving them instructive lectures. Now in Ella’s experience nice children did not study their lessons on Sunday, neither did they go to walk. It is true that occasionally, after they had been to church and Sunday school, had eaten the cold Sunday dinner, and had read their Sunday-school books through, they were allowed to take a quiet, almost awesome walk up and down the paths of the nearest cemetery and talk about the flowers or their books; but this was quite different from an everyday stroll off into the country.

The four boys and their “Grandpère,” however, wandered off shamelessly every Sunday—in the forenoon, too, when by all the customs of Ella’s Sunday mornings they should have been at church. It was true that occasionally their grandfather gave them a moral lecture on a Sunday morning, but these lectures were often a puzzle to Ella’s eight-year-old theology. For instance, she had, of course, been taught to do what she knew was right, but she was quite at sea when “Jules” confessed that he had struck his brother, and declared, “laying his hand upon his heart,” that “something here” told him he had done wrong. Ella laid her hand over the place where she supposed her heart to lie, but nothing made any remarks to her. She concluded that it was because she was not quite bad enough just then, and she made up her mind that—although of course she would not do anything wrong on purpose—yet the next time that she was naughty, she would watch carefully to see if she heard any conversation in the vicinity of her heart.

It was somewhat of a pity that Ella’s lessons made so little impression upon the bulk of “Le Grandpère,” for it was quite an amazing book, and to know it would have been a widely distended, if not a liberal education. It began, indeed, so simply that Ella was disgusted, for these boys, old enough to live in a seminary like herself, actually were amazed when they saw the sun, and appealed to their grandfather to tell them what it was. Ella did not appreciate the exigencies of authorship or realize that there must be something on which to hang a small lecture about the heavenly bodies.

Further on there were discourses on the five senses, on how to count, on the history of the French sovereigns; and then the chapters gradually worked on through slavery, avarice, extravagance, the massacre of Saint Bartholomew’s Day, vaccination, and leprosy. What could have been better for a child? Any deficiencies that in later times manifested themselves in Ella’s education may be fairly ascribed to her never having completed the translation of this profound volume.

In Ella’s study of French, there was one thing that puzzled her greatly. She was willing to believe that French people understood French, but that they ever really knew it as she knew English without studying Fasquelle and “Le Grandpère” was something that she could hardly accept as truth. Then, too, the mother had told her that she had had a great-great-grandfather who was a Frenchman; and she often wondered whether, if she had lived in his day, they would have been able to talk together. She could have said, “Have you the knife of the brother of the carpenter?” but unless he made the proper reply, “No, but I have the pencil of the sister of the dressmaker,” she would not have known what to say next. She could never have said, “Great-great-grandfather, will you take me to ride this afternoon?” because that was not in Fasquelle.

She wondered if the French people really talked French every day, or only when they had company. After long deliberation, she came to the conclusion that they probably talked French all the time, but that of course they thought in English. These were the grown-ups. As for the children, no one could expect them to talk French, certainly not when they were playing. She wished she had one of them to play with. It would be almost like meeting her great-great-grandfather as a little boy.

Of course Ella “practiced.” In the sixties, boys “took lessons” only if they showed some talent for music, but girls were expected, talent or no talent, to spend in solitary confinement two hours a day at hard labor on the piano. In Ella’s case, the two hours were lessened to one by her mother’s decree, and “solitary confinement” was not added to the hard labor, because, when the sad moment had arrived, a genial “Bow-wow!” was always heard and a big black shaggy head, followed by the rest of a great Newfoundland dog, pushed open the door. If it chanced to be the day for Ella’s lesson, Ponto waved a friendly apology to the teacher and withdrew; but on other days he stretched himself out under the piano, and with a sigh of toleration proceeded to sleep away the time until the hour was up. He never failed to hear the first stroke of the bell, and if Ella did not stop on the instant, he slipped his great muzzle under her wrists and lifted them up from the keys.

Ella, like most children, had a healthy dislike of practicing. It was such an unmanageable interference with her plans. “You like French and you like arithmetic,” said her puzzled teacher; “why is it that you do not like music?”

Ella pondered a minute, then she said: “It’s because there isn’t any way to get the better of it. If I have arithmetic to do, I can work hard and then I can say, ‘There, you old thing, I’ve done you in half the time you wanted me to spend, and now Ponto and I are going to the lake in spite of you.’ But no matter how hard I practice, an hour is always an hour, and there isn’t any way to make it shorter.”

Of course Ella hated to count. Bribes were offered. “My music teacher said that if I would count three weeks without stopping, she would give me a piece,” Ella wrote in her little diary. In spite of the promised “piece,” however, “One, two, three, four,” became as tiresome as the multiplication table, and at length she invented a way to make the time pass; she played very loud with one hand and at the same time patted Ponto with the other.

She felt a little guilty when her music teacher said: “I heard you practicing two or three measures over and over this morning, Ella, and I thought what a good lesson you were going to have to-morrow.”

Ella did not reply, and she forgot to listen to see whether her heart would make any speeches to her. She didn’t like practicing, and she didn’t, and when she heard of remarkable little girls no older than she who had taken only twelve lessons and could play “two pieces” already, she did not care very much that she could play only one. Neither did Ponto.

Ella had a reason for not caring. She firmly expected that some day, even without that wearisome “One, two, three, four,” she would play as well as the little girl with two pieces, perhaps even as well as her teacher. It was all very simple and very logical. The teacher wore a ring with a bright red stone in it and was able to play; by and by she would have a ring with a bright red stone, and then of course she would be able to play. Ella knew that the grown-ups would laugh at her if she told them her fancy, so she only whispered it into Ponto’s ear. Dogs could understand, but grown-ups could not.

Like most children, Ella was younger than her years in some ways and older in others. She could cherish a belief in the efficacy of a ring to give her musical ability, and she could sit in a class with “ladies and gentlemen” more than twice her age without a thought of this being anything remarkable. Of course she knew that the children in the village went to school with boys and girls of their own years; but this was nothing; they did one thing and she did another, that was all. She even took it as a matter of course when in the “Institute Reporter,” the little four-page sheet that glorified the seminary with printers’ ink, she saw her own name among the other “ladies.” It had, too, a special mark of honor in the shape of an asterisk indicating that she was “In studies of the English and Classical graduating course.” To be sure, no one of her studies was classical, and she was many years removed from graduation, but it made one more name on the list.

As to the English, she really wrote with some degree of correctness because she had never seen writings that were incorrect, and she was quite aghast when she first heard the correction of compositions in class. She wrote to her uncle, “I can’t stop for dates. I want to tell you what funny compositions some of the scholars write. One great boy wrote his and commenced every word with a capital letter. I have not quite got to doing that.” Ella thoroughly enjoyed making tiny blankbooks and composing equally tiny stories carefully adjusted to the little pages. She even manufactured a paper for children, composing, editing, and copying it all herself.

Every Monday evening the “Lyceum” was held, an exercise which was expected to develop the literary ability of the students. Ella had joined it as a matter of course, and when called on for a recitation, she had given “Over the River” in her best style. When the second call came, she decided, possibly with a latent instinct for advertising, to read the first number of her paper. This was not exactly an innovation, for the “Lyceum” already rejoiced in a paper called “The Alpha.”

Ella’s paper was named “Little Pearls.” How the “ladies and gentlemen” and the august faculty kept their faces straight during its presentation is a mystery. It contained a few conundrums, whose answers were promised “in our next,” but otherwise it was carefully modeled on the weekly paper of the Sunday school. There were letters from children with the patronizing comments of the editor; there was an original story or two; and the sheet ended with the tragic tale, drawn from the little editor’s own experience, of a tiny fish, caught and brought home from the lake. I fear that the writer had never been properly trained in “nature study,” for she stated that the fish jumped out of the water and was found “lying upon its back,” dead, and she declared, “although a cat has nine lives, a fish has only one, and therefore it always stayed dead forever after.” Whether this literary production lengthened the list of subscribers, no one can say; but certainly Ella’s minute cash account showed no marked increase of income on that date.

CHAPTER III
THE THREE TRAGEDIES OF ELLA’S SEMINARY LIFE

At the seminary there were only three children besides Ella. One was two-year-old Nellie, the steward’s daughter, whom she loved with all her heart. The second was John, and the third was his little sister, two years younger than he. For this little sister there was rarely any real place in Ella’s world; she was too young for a companion and too old for a baby; but just as Ned, the steward’s son, fifteen years old, would sometimes allow Ella, “going on nine,” to share his amusements, so Ella would occasionally permit John, “going on seven,” to go to the lake with her to skip stones, or to the hills for wild flowers.

The village children all went to the village school, and Ella seldom saw any of them. The mother had once known the mother of Dora, daughter of the village doctor, and it was arranged that the two children should spend an afternoon together. No one ever found out exactly what happened, but after this day, whenever the two little girls passed, they held their heads very high and swung their short skirts disdainfully, and looked away from each other.

Soon after this visit, it came to pass that Ella needed to have a tooth out to make way for a newcomer. “I dare you to go to the doctor and have it pulled,” said Ned mischievously. Ella would have felt humiliated not to “take a dare,” and she appealed to the mother for permission. The mother was glad to escape the string-and-pull process, and she hoped that if the children met again, they might become better friends.

“Was Dora there?” she asked on Ella’s return.

“Yes, she was,” replied Ella with emphasis. “Her father told her to go out, but she just stayed in the room every minute. She wanted to hear me cry, but I wouldn’t. When it was out, she said, just as if she was glad, ‘Hm! Hurt you some, didn’t it?’ and I laughed and said, ‘No, not a bit.’” Ella did not add the fact that going down the doctor’s walk, she had swung her skirts with more disdain than ever.

The mother looked amused.

“Are you sure that that speech was quite true?” she asked.

“Why, you see, if Dora had not been there, it would have hurt, of course; but she was there, and so it didn’t; and anyhow, I wasn’t thinking about it, so I shouldn’t have known it if it had.” And the mother was wise enough not to press the question any further.

THEY HELD THEIR HEADS VERY HIGH AND SWUNG THEIR SHORT SKIRTS DISDAINFULLY, AND LOOKED AWAY FROM EACH OTHER

As has been seen, Ella would have been quite alone in most of her plays had it not been for Ponto. Fortunately, a dog is never too old or too young to be a good friend. People sometimes laugh at a little girl’s queer notions, but a dog never makes fun of them; he always understands. Every morning Ponto came upstairs, thumped on Ella’s door, and waited patiently till she was ready to go down with him. He was not allowed in recitation rooms, but everywhere else that she went, he followed. She greatly enjoyed visiting the laboratory when her professor was at work. Ponto would then lie down just outside the door and take a one-eyed nap, wondering sleepily why she stayed there instead of coming out of doors.

If the kind professor was at all disturbed by her presence and her occasional interruptions, he never let her know it, but answered every question with the courteous attention that children love, as if their questions were really worth while. The crowning glory of her visits came, however, one day when, after she had asked him something that never would have occurred to any one but a child, he looked at her thoughtfully and said, “I don’t know, but I will try to find out.” This was indeed an honor. The professor had treated her as if she was a grown-up lady, and he had met her little query with as much respect as if the principal himself had asked it. When she said, “Good-bye. I have an errand in the village,” and followed the jubilant Ponto down stairs, she held her small head at least one inch higher than usual.

The errand was closely connected with a big copper cent which she had held in her hand during her pursuit of scientific information. Indeed, she had kept close watch of it ever since it came into her possession, for pennies did not come her way every morning. The grocer kept cassia buds, and these to the little customer were a luxury far transcending peppermints or sticks of white candy striped with red, or even chocolate sticks, which were just coming into fashion.

There were two grocers in the same store. One had white hair and the other had brown. Ella had tested them both and had found out that the white-haired one gave her more cassia buds for a cent than did the brown-haired one; therefore she waited patiently until the white-haired one appeared. Then she went back to the seminary joyfully. She was sure that the generous dealer had given her more than ever before, and she would not eat one until she had shown them to the mother. But alas for the best-laid plans of little girls as well as mice and men, for when she reached the seminary, there was not a bud to be seen. Through a wicked little hole in the pocket every one had escaped.

This was one of the three tragedies in Ella’s life at the seminary. The others were even more crushing. Next to her big doll, her greatest treasure was a paint-box. She had had paint-boxes before, but this was the largest and finest she had ever owned. She had taken the greatest pains to keep it clean, and it was as fresh and white as when she first unwrapped it. If the mother had seen, she would have rescued it, but all her attention was given to a caller; and meanwhile his little boy, who had by no means the kind of soul that scorns a blot, daubed the fair white wood of the outside of the box with every hue that could be found within it.

Ella had been out with Ponto, and when she came in and saw her beloved paint-box in ruins, her grief was literally too deep for words. The mother had taken her callers to see the library, and Ella caught up the ruined treasure and slipped out of doors to Ponto. She told him all about it; then the two went to a quiet little place where wild roses grew. With much difficulty she dug a hole. Therein she laid the precious paint-box, and with it all the hopes of the pictures she was going to paint for the uncle in Andover and the grandmother in the mountains.

The next day, the mother asked, “Where can your paint-box be? Have you seen it this morning?”

Ella felt rather guilty, but she answered, “No,” and it was many years before the mother learned the solution of the mystery.

The third tragedy came from Ella’s ambition to wear a linen collar. The grown-up girls in school wore them, and she did so long to have just one. The mother did not approve; she thought a tiny ruffle for every day and a bit of lace for best were the only neckwear proper for a child of eight. Fate, however, promised to be kind. Ella had acquired some skill in the making of “perforated paper” bookmarks in the shape of a cross, elaborately cut out in an openwork pattern; and one Sunday after church a lady in the village, who knew her wishes, promised her a real collar of smooth, stiff linen in exchange for one of these crosses.

Ella was wildly happy, and she wanted to begin the cross at once; but it was Sunday. Somehow she had evolved the notion that while it was wrong to play games on Sunday, it was not wrong to read or write or, indeed, to do whatever she chose with books or paper. Perforated paper seemed, however, a little different. She appealed to the mother, but the mother often left things for the small girl to think out for herself, and this was one of them.

“Some people would say it was right, and some would say it was wrong,” she replied. “Suppose you decide for yourself, and do what you think is right.”

The little girl decided not to begin the work until Monday. Surely, she deserved a better reward than she received, for when the cross was done, the lady handed her a little flat package done up in white paper and tied with blue ribbon.

“My sister told me,” she said with a pleasant smile, “that a linen collar was not at all the thing for a little girl of eight, and that she was sure you would like something else better, so I got you this instead.”

Ella took the package with forebodings, which were justified, for in it was a little white handkerchief. Now handkerchiefs were things to lose and to have more of; but a linen collar was a vision, an aspiration, a heart’s desire. Her face must have shown disappointment, for the lady hastened to say, “There is a blue flower worked in one corner.” The lady had taken away her beautiful dream of being grown up and had given her instead a handkerchief—with a blue flower in one corner! These were the three tragedies of Ella’s first experience in the trials and disappointments of life.

WITH MUCH DIFFICULTY SHE DUG A HOLE

There was, however, a little comforting postscript to this third tragedy. Among Ella’s accomplishments was the ability to embroider fairly well those lines of crescent moons known as scallops. She marked out a collar on a strip of Marseilles, and by means of two spools she drew a line of scallops on its edge. After a season of diligent sewing, she was the proud owner of a stiff white collar. The mother objected to her wearing it in public, but she was free to put it on and stand before her looking-glass and admire it; and even this was bliss.

Then, too, Christmas was not far away, and its coming would make up for many troubles. To be sure, it was not the custom for children to be loaded down with gifts as they are now, but every one was to have something, the principal had said so; and Ella could hardly wait for the day. Nevertheless, in spite of her impatience, she thoroughly enjoyed herself. She had never before been in the country in the winter, and now she coasted on her “Thomas Jefferson”; she made snow men; she slipped under the branches of the pines and firs and hemlocks and shook them until when she came out her little blue hood was all powdered with snow; she brought in great armfuls of creeping Jenny and scarlet alder berries; she broke the thin ice that formed over the little brooks and delighted in the fairy palaces of frostwork that it had concealed. Best of all, however, was the time when the ice over a shallow pool broke into cakes, and she could float about on them. What the busy mother would have said if she had known of all these adventures is a question; but Ella was well and happy, and before long Christmas Day came, and in the evening the big Christmas tree.

Santa Claus, all a-jingle with sleighbells, climbed in at the window. Ella knew that he was not exactly a real Santa Claus, but still she felt highly honored when in his walk about the room he patted her on the head and asked “How old are you?”

“I’ll be nine to-morrow,” she replied; and it almost made up for the loss of the collar to have him exclaim, “Nine years old! Why, I thought you were a small child. I shall have to go pretty deep into my pack to find anything for a young lady of nine.”

By and by Santa Claus distributed the presents. In her ante-seminary days, Ella had felt rich if she had three or four gifts; but now there was a pearl-handled pen, a little writing-desk with a lock and key; there were new mittens to match the blue hood; there was a real jackknife, just such a one as she had been longing for, big enough to cut things and not too big to go into her pocket; there was a box of candy and another of cassia buds; there was a great package of writing-paper, some little blankbooks, half a dozen lead pencils, and a little matchbox of parian marble. Just why any one should give a small child a matchbox may be questioned, but Ella did not question it. The grapes on the cover were pretty, and that was enough. There was a fine new dress of bright Scotch plaid, and a “jockey cap” of black velvet with trimmings of red and black ribbon; and pinned to the cap was a note from Ella’s dearest little girl friend at the old home, saying that she had a new cap just like this one.

There was a little chinchilla muff; and that muff had a story. The uncle from Andover had rashly promised to buy whatever she liked best in all Boston. He had supposed that he could guide her choice toward the little muff; but of all the glories of Boston her heart had been set upon a box of tin soldiers. The tall uncle from Andover scoffed, pleaded, offered bribes, but the mite of a niece claimed her rights. “You promised I might have what I wanted, and I want the tin soldiers,” was her unchanging reply. At length he started in wrath to return to the study of theology, and the obstinate little niece called after him, “Good-bye, uncle; you broke your promise!” But she had relented sufficiently to send him a gracious note to the effect that a muff would really be very nice to have; he had relented sufficiently to send it to her, and so peace had come to pass between them.

One more present came to Ella’s share, and that was a thin, uninteresting envelop. But it was all glorious within, for here was a bright, fresh two-dollar bill from her professor. “To spend just as you like,” the card said. Fairyland had opened, for never before had Ella owned such an amount of money to spend as she liked. She had never expected to have so much, but she had decided long before this what she would buy if she should ever become a woman of wealth.

The next day she and the mother talked it over. The mother, too, had decided what would be the best way to spend the money. When she was a little girl, money given to girls was always put into silver spoons, and now she held before Ella the advantages of putting the gift into spoons, which she could always keep and which would always be a remembrance of the professor.

“But I’d never forget him, anyway,” declared Ella, “and I don’t want spoons. I want something useful. Spoons aren’t useful. People just have them on the table to eat with, and then they go away and forget them. I want something I’d really use and like to use and think about using; I want a pair of skates.”

SHE MADE SNOW MEN

It was against the mother’s inherited ideas of the desirable, and she was afraid of broken bones and thin ice and air holes, but the skates were bought. They had such a multiplicity of green straps as would arouse a skater of to-day to wrath; but to Ella they seemed the most beautiful things in the world, and before long she was gliding over the frozen lake in perfect bliss.

CHAPTER IV
GRADUATION DAY AND ITS MISFORTUNES

The winter was a delight, but the spring and summer were even more enchanting. The seminary did not close until late in July, and there was time for the blooming of more kinds of wild flowers than the little city girl had ever dreamed of. It was on one of her fishing trips with Ned that she saw her first lady’s-slipper. She had left the big rock and was roaming about under the pines when in a dusky little hollow she caught sight of a stately pink flower veined with a darker pink. It rose from two large green leaves, a queen with her courtiers bowing low before her. There it stood, elegant, dignified, quietly at ease, although no other of its kind was in sight. Ella wanted to break it off and carry it home to show to the mother, but there was something in the weird grace of the flower that held her back. She still believed that there might be a fairyland, and maybe this was the queen of the fairies. However this might be, she would not break the stem; she would ask the mother to come and see the blossom.

Another flower that Ella saw for the first time was the yellow daisy, the golden rudbeckia. She had no dream of fairyland about this, for it was a gorgeous, rollicking yellow blossom, ready to be picked and go wherever any one might wish to carry it and to make friends with anybody. It was away off in the middle of a field; and although Ella had been taught never to trample down the tall grass, she could not resist the temptation to plunge into the midst of it and secure the wheel of gold that might have come from the end of the rainbow.

These were the rarities in flowers, but everywhere there were violets and daisies and anemones and hardhack and Quaker ladies, and swamp azaleas, and dandelions and clover and all the other “common flowers” that are beloved by children. Nestled on the sunny side of a stone wall at the north of the seminary there was what had once been a flower bed. Little of the bed remained except a merry row of white narcissi, who perked up their red-edged ruffs and nodded their heads in friendly fashion as the child and the dog drew near.

Between the narcissi and the gray old stone wall behind them was Ella’s little burial ground. It happened sometimes that birds flew against the lighted windows of the seminary so violently that they were killed. Ella was always grieved when she found one lying on the grass, and she chose this bit of ground as a resting place for them. “Ponto,” she said to the big shaggy dog, “it was in our Sunday school lesson yesterday that God always noticed when a little bird fell to the ground. The teacher said the verse didn’t mean exactly what it said, because God wouldn’t care for birds; but I think it did; and I think He would like it if you and I made a pretty place for them to lie in. We’ll do it, won’t we, Ponto?” She held out her hand to the dog, and he laid his shaggy paw into it. “I knew you would understand,” said Ella. “I wonder why dogs and cats and birds and horses understand so much better than people!”

After this, whenever Ella picked up a little dead bird, she dug a tiny grave and lined it with fresh green ferns. She smoothed down the soft feathers, kissed the pretty little head, and laid the bird softly into its ferny bed. “A person would have to have a stone with poetry on it,” she said to Ponto, “but I think a lovely white narcissus is much prettier for a little bird. Remember that this is all a secret, Ponto. Nobody must know anything about it except you and me and God.”

Down over the hill below the little cemetery was the island. This was really nothing more than a tussock just big enough to hold a few bushes, and the “body of water” which surrounded it was only a bit of swamp. Ella could easily step across from what she called the “main land,” but a bridge made the place seem more like an island, so she laid a board across the narrow strait. When she was once across she always drew the board over after her; and then she stood in a kingdom that was all her own. There were white violets growing in this island kingdom, there were ferns and rushes and wild lilies of the valley. There was just one Jack-in-the-pulpit, and on its seminary side Ella had drawn the ferns together so as to screen it from the eager hands of passers-by.

Then, too, there was the secret, and no one knew of this save the mother and the professor. On the highest part of the tiny island, just where the bushes were thickest, there was a bird’s nest with real eggs, and a little later, real birds in it. Mother birds are shy of grown folk, but there are sometimes children of whom they feel no fear, recognizing perhaps some “call of the wild” that makes them akin. However that may be, these birds were not afraid of the little girl who always spoke to them softly and touched the young ones as gently as the mother bird herself. They made no objection when the child carefully lifted the half-grown fledglings out of the nest; and while she sat holding them and talking to them, the parent birds made little flights here and there as if, having now a reliable nurse for their children, they might allow themselves a little recreation.

When Ella first saw the young birds with their wide-open mouths, she was sure that they were dying of hunger. But what could she give them? She had no more idea how to feed young robins than young fairies. There was just one person in the seminary who could tell her, for he always knew everything; but he was in a class, teaching some of the big boys algebra. What algebra was, Ella had no idea; but she was absolutely certain that it could not be half so important as saving the life of a starving bird. She hurried to the house, and up stairs, then crept silently as a shadow along the corridor to the recitation room. The door was wide open. She stood on the threshold a moment, trying to get her courage up. The young men of the class smiled, for they were always interested in Ella’s exploits and wondered what was coming now. The professor was standing at the board with his back to the door.

Ella was a little frightened, but she screwed her courage up and said in a weak, thin little voice,

“Professor, please may I see you only just one minute? It’s very important.”

The professor came out, and closing the door behind him, which the students thought was a little unkind, he asked the visitor what he could do for her.

“It’s the birds,” she explained. “They were only eggs, but now they’re little birds, and they’re so hungry they are starving. I don’t know what to do,” and the tale ended in what sounded much like the beginning of a sob.

“That’s all right,” said the professor gently. “The mother bird knows how to take care of them; but if you want to help, just dig some angle worms and put them on the island where she can see them.”

“Oh, thank you,” cried Ella. “I knew I must do something, but I didn’t know what.”

Ella’s mother told her that she ought to apologize to the professor for interrupting his class. She went to him obediently and said,

“Professor, I am sorry I interrupted your class, but I don’t think I did—much—and anyway the birds had to be fed.”

“So they did,” said the professor kindly, “and more interruptions of that sort would be better for birds and for people.”

I am afraid that Ella was not exactly a model child, for she cut her name on a tree in the circle with the Christmas jackknife, much to the wrath of the man who cared for the grounds. She came in promptly when the mother, for fear of the lightning, called her in from the piazza during a heavy thunderstorm; but the next minute she was in the highest cupola. The time spent in the gloomy basement dining-room seemed to her so unbearably long that the mother sometimes yielded to her pleadings and excused her before the meal was over. This, the principal suggested, was not quite the thing to do, as it broke up the “uniformity,” whatever that may have been; so the mother told her she must remain through the meal. Ella remained, but she brought a little story-book and quietly read through the last quarter of an hour. The big boys smiled in comprehension of the situation, and the principal made an unconditional surrender. To Ella he said, “You need not wait if you would rather go out”; and to the boys, “If you would save every minute as that child does, you would accomplish a great deal more.”

The mother wrote to the grandmother in the mountains:

“Ella is very obedient, but she always thinks of something else. I will describe her, so the children can fancy a little how she looks. She has on a black beaver cloak, black felt hat trimmed with scarlet velvet and plumes, a chinchilla muff, and chenille scarf. She has just come in from church, and now, before her things are taken off, is reading her Sabbath-school book. She devours all the books that she finds.”

Ella’s worst—and most innocent—exploit was her sudden disappearance on the most important day of the whole school year. The first class was to graduate. It consisted of two students. One was to have the valedictory and the other the salutatory; but it was to be just as real a graduation as if there had been forty to go out into the world with the seminary’s blessing upon them.

It was indeed a great day. Every class was to recite. Compositions were to be read, songs sung, the piano played, diplomas presented, speeches made, and trustee meetings held. There was to be a collation, and the village band was to play while people ate. Surely nothing could be more festive than this. The building was crowded with guests. There were the people of the village, the home friends of the students, the people who used to be students in the early days, the thirty-six trustees whose fostering care was so necessary to the success of the school, and many other folk who came just because something was going on and they wanted to be in it.

Everything began finely. At nine, ten, eleven, the big bell in the belfry rang, and the members of the first three series of classes made plain to the delighted visitors how learned the year’s work had made them. The bell struck twelve. This was the signal for Ella’s French class, and after that the collation was to come. But where was Ella? The classes were so small that the absence of even one student was noticeable, and a messenger was sent to the mother, who was hearing her class in botany.

In those days, the more difficult the wording of a textbook, the more intellectual good those who studied it were supposed to get from its pages, and a member of the class in botany was at that moment declaring that “The cypripedium is perfectly symmetrical, yet has irregular cohesion in the calyx, great inequality in the petals, cohesion, adhesion, and metamorphosis in the—” but the guests were never told by that class where “cohesion, adhesion, and metamorphosis” might be found, for their teacher dropped the book and forgot all about cypripedium and everything else except that her one little girl was missing. Ella had established an enviable reputation for punctuality, and if she was not in her class, then something had happened.

A general alarm was given. Speeches, collation, graduating exercises were all forgotten, and a search was begun. The boys and girls and the faculty and the trustees and the guests all set out to explore the country. A man at work in a field said that he had seen a little girl in a red cape going toward the lake; and to the lake the whole company went. In the moist sand were prints of little feet going straight to the water’s edge, and the mother’s face turned white. But beside them were the marks of Ponto’s sturdy paws.

“The dog is with her,” said the steward. “You need not be the least bit afraid. Ponto would never let anything happen to her.”

But the mother was not comforted. Just what dogs would do, she knew not; but she did know that water would drown little children.

Some one had caught sight of a child in a Red Riding Hood cape strolling leisurely down a little hill on the right. The dog was with her, and they were having a fine ramble together. The people shouted to her, and Ponto answered with a deep and surprised “Bow-wow!” which probably meant,

“Of course I’m glad to see you, but what are you here for? Can’t you let us take a little walk?”

“Where have you been?” cried the mother, as the little girl came near.

“Over on the hill to get some flowers,” Ella replied serenely.

Then the mother told her how the footprints leading into the water had frightened her.

“Did you think I would walk right into the water and be drowned?” exclaimed Ella in disgust. “A baby a week old wouldn’t be so silly as to do that. I walked ever so far close to the water, but I suppose it washed the footprints away.” This was just what had happened, but no one had noticed that the wind was blowing toward the land. As to the French class, the mother had told her that it would meet at two in the afternoon, and when the hour was changed to twelve, she had forgotten to notify the small pupil, and then in the fear and confusion forgot that she had forgotten.

So they all went back through the lane to the seminary to gather up the fragments of the great day. The French class never welcomed its guests with a “Comment vous portez-vous, mesdames et messieurs?” but the collation was still palatable, the speeches were made, the valedictory and the salutatory were read, the band played the pieces they had been practicing, and the two students were as thoroughly graduated as if a little girl in a Red Riding Hood cloak had not interfered with the proceedings.

The mother had decided to return to the city, and this was Ella’s last day at the seminary, and the end of her first year of school life. She would have been broken-hearted over leaving, had it not been that she was going to visit her grandmother; and a month with a grandmother will make up to little girls for many losses.

CHAPTER V
ON THE WAY TO GRANDMOTHER’S

There were two grandmothers. The one with white curly hair that glistened in the sunshine lived in the village where Ella was born. It was a pretty village with hills and brooks and winding roads and meadows of flowers, and old-fashioned houses with piazzas and tall white pillars. Back of Ella’s home was a hill where great apple trees grew, and the very first thing that she remembered in the world was her father’s lifting her up into one of them, all sweet and dainty with pink-and-white blossoms, and telling her to pick as many as she pleased.

When they went to the grandmother’s, they walked straight up the village street, where a line of houses stood on one side and woods on the other. They were beautiful woods. Columbines grew in the clefts of the rocks, delicate pink windflowers blossomed in the little glades and the brave and cheery dandelions came out to the very edge of the road to give a welcome to those who loved them.

The mother had told her little daughter that one of the names of the columbine was Aquilegia Canadensis; of the windflower was Anemone Nemorosa; and of the dandelion was Taraxacum Officinale, just for the pleasure of seeing how so small a child would manage the long names. Ella felt especially well acquainted with those flowers whose “company names,” as she said, she had learned; and when she was alone with them and talked to them, she often called them by these names and pretended that she had come to make a call. “Miss Anemone Nemorosa,” she would say, “are you sure that you are feeling quite well to-day?” or, “Miss Aquilegia Canadensis, I think I saw a cousin of yours in the garden just now. Your dress is red and yellow, but hers was pink. Maybe she was your sister.” She fancied that they liked the little formality, and she was almost surprised that they did not answer her questions.

Beyond the woods was a bridge hanging high over a deep black river. Ella did not like dark, still water; and when they were crossing this bridge, she always held fast to her mother’s or her father’s hand. After they had crossed the bridge, they went up a little hill, not by the road, but through a field and over ledges where the sweet-smelling saxifrage grew; and then they came to grandmother’s little wooden gate that always closed of itself after they had gone through it.

They passed the balm of Gilead tree with its sticky buds, the black currant bush, and the great bush of white roses with creamy centers. Then Ella ran across the grass to the door, for grandmother was almost sure to see them and to come to the doorway to give them a welcome.

Grandmother’s house was one of a little group of white houses standing on the ledges at the top of the hill. These formed the tiny village within a village which was called the “New City.” Ella was always so happy at her grandmother’s that long after she was old enough to go to Sunday school, she always confused the “New City” with the “New Jerusalem.”

This was the “village grandma,” as Ella called her. But there was also the “mountain grandma,” and it was to her house that the little girl and her mother were going. Now when good New Englanders are starting for anywhere, they always begin by taking the morning train to Boston; so of course that was what our two travelers did.

Going to Boston, even if she did not go any farther, was a great treat to Ella. There were windows full of blankbooks, and what stories she could write in them, she thought longingly. There were whole stores full of toys; and in the window of one of these stores lay a box of tin soldiers. Ella looked again. It was exactly like the box that she had wanted. Maybe it was the very same one. It certainly was the same store.

“Mother,” she said, “that is my box of tin soldiers that uncle did not give me; but I’m so old now that I don’t care for it. I’d rather have the muff.”

“Don’t you love your uncle enough to forget that?” her mother asked.

“I love him better than almost anybody in the world,” said Ella, “and I do forget it except when I happen to think of it. But he really did break his promise,” she added slowly.

They left the stores and went to the Common. Ella’s little book of history said that in the Revolutionary War the Americans pitched their tents on the Common; and she fancied that she knew just where those tents stood. She had also read about the battle of Bunker Hill, and she never felt that she was really in Boston until she had caught sight of the monument in memory of it standing tall and gray against the northern sky.

At one side of the Common was the Capitol. The mother told Ella that the laws for the whole State of Massachusetts were made in that building.

“Do they ever make a mistake and make a bad law?” asked Ella.

“Perhaps they do sometimes,” the mother replied rather unwillingly, for she wanted her little girl to grow up with deep respect for the institutions of her country.

Ella thought a minute; then she asked slowly,

“If they made a law that everybody must tell lies, which would be naughtier, to obey it or not to obey it?”

Just then a man began to scatter grain for the pigeons, and Ella forgot all about laws whether good or bad.

Of all the pleasures of Boston, there was one that Ella wanted more than she had wanted the tin soldiers, but she feared she would never be permitted to enjoy it. This pleasure was, to have just one ride in the swan boats in the Public Garden. The mother was afraid of boats, especially of little ones, and Ella saw no hope of the ride that she wanted so badly.

“Couldn’t I go for just one minute?” she pleaded. “I couldn’t possibly drown in one minute if I tried. Couldn’t I just get in and get out again?”

But the mother had no idea how deep the water might be, and she always answered,

“No, not until you are tall enough to wade out if the boat tips over.”

“But I’ll be a woman then,” said Ella, “and tall women don’t ride in the swan boats.”

“You can take some little girl with you, and maybe the man with the boat will think you are a little girl too.”

“But I don’t want to take a little girl. I want some one to take me while I am a little girl. I don’t care for the tin soldiers now, and I’m afraid that by and by I shan’t care for the swan boats; and then I shan’t ever have had a ride in them, and I’ll be sorry all my life that I had to leave it out.”

But the mother was turning toward the railroad station. There would be only time enough to go there and to get some lunch, she said, and they must not stay in the Garden any longer.

After lunch they went on board the train, and before long they had crossed the line and were in New Hampshire. Ella had a tiny yellow-covered geography at home, and she knew from the map just how New Hampshire ought to look. It ought to look like a tall, narrow chair with a very straight back. But from the car window it looked like wide fields of grass and clover and daisies and hills and brooks and valleys. Here and there were great elms, their branches swaying gracefully in every breeze. Along the rail fences were bushes of what Ella was almost certain were blackberries, and nearly ripe. There were deep woods, too, and now and then she caught a glimpse of a gleaming yellow or white blossom as the train hurried onward. Sometimes they rode for quite a long way beside the blue Merrimack River. It was low water, and she could see the markings that the current had left on the sand. They were just like the markings in the little brooks that she always liked so much, only these were larger.

Early in the afternoon they came to Concord, and the mother’s friend met them at the station. But what did this mean? Ella’s eyes grew bigger and bigger, for the friend held by the hand a little girl about as tall as Ella. After she had greeted them, she said to Ella,

“This little girl has come to live just across the street from us, and I am sure that you will be good friends. Her name is Ida Lester, and she has come to meet you and walk home with you.”

So the mother and her friend walked up the shady street, and the two little girls walked along behind them, looking shyly at each other. Ella liked Ida, and Ida liked Ella.

“Do you like checkerberry candy?” asked Ella.

“Yes, I do,” Ida replied. “I had a stick of red and white peppermint candy yesterday.”

“A lady on the cars gave me some checkerberry candy,” said Ella. “I wish I had saved half of it for you.”

“I wish I had saved half of mine for you,” said Ida heartily. “I will next time. Are you going to live here?”

“Oh, no,” replied Ella. “We are just going to make a little visit, and then we’re going to see my grandmother in New Hampshire.”

“But this is New Hampshire,” said Ida, looking puzzled.

“Is it? I know it said ‘New Hampshire’ on the tickets, but I don’t call it ‘New Hampshire’ till I get where my grandmother is. But I’d just as soon,” she added quickly, for she was afraid she had not been exactly polite to this new friend, “and I’m so glad you live here.”

“I’m glad you’ve come,” said Ida. “Did you bring your dolls? Do you like to play ‘house’ or ‘school’ better?”

“I like to play both,” said Ella. “I brought my big doll, because she is the one I sleep with and the one I love best.”

“What is her name?”

“Minnie May Ida May. I like ‘May’ and that’s why I put it in twice.”

“You put in my name, too,” cried Ida joyfully. “I am so glad you chose it even before you ever saw me. I’m going to name my biggest doll over again, and call her Minnie May Ella May.”

“There wasn’t room for any more dolls in the trunk,” said Ella, “but I brought ever so many paper dolls and some pretty paper to make them some more dresses. I’ll give you some.”

“Oh, good!” Ida exclaimed. “My front steps are a splendid place to play with paper dolls; and there’s a deep dark crack where we can put them when they are naughty. We’ll have to tie a string around them though, so we can pull them up again. Come over now, will you? No, I forgot. My father raised some beans and they got mixed. He told me to pick them over this afternoon and put all the white ones in one box, the yellow in another, and the pink in another. He’s going to plant them in the spring.”

“I’ll help you,” Ella cried eagerly, “and we’ll play that we are in a castle where a wicked giant lives, and that he will whip us just dreadfully if we make any mistakes; and we’ll be thinking up some plan to get away from him.”

And so it was that the two little girls became friends. They had fine times together playing “house” and “school,” and working on bits of canvas with bright-colored worsteds in cross stitch, and telling stories to each other. Sometimes they wrote their stories and read them to the long rows of paper dolls standing up against the steps. Ella had a great admiration for Ida’s handwriting. Ella’s own writing had perhaps improved a very little, but even now it looked much like a fence that had been caught in an earthquake, its pickets and rails sticking out in all directions; but Ida’s was fair and round and looked quite as if she was grown up.

One reason why they liked to write stories was because they always tied the tiny books together with bright ribbons. Ida had a big box of odds and ends of ribbon, and these she shared generously with Ella. They had been given to her by her Sunday school teacher, who had a little millinery store. Ella did not wish to give up her own Sunday school teacher, but she did think it would be very agreeable if she would open a millinery store.

The two little girls did all sorts of pleasant things together. When Saturday came, Ida ran across the street, her face all aglow with smiles, and gave Ella’s mother a note. Ella could hardly wait till her mother had read it, and she stood first on one foot, then on the other. The note said,

“Will you please let Ella put on a big apron and come to dinner with Ida to-day?”

“Oh, mother, may I go? May I? May I? May I?” cried Ella, dancing about the room. “I know we are to do something nice. What is it, Ida?”

IDA’S MOTHER LOOKED IN AT THE DOOR TO MAKE SURE THAT ALL WAS GOING ON WELL

Ida only laughed, but the mother said yes, and the girls ran across the street and pinned on the big aprons. Then Ida opened a door into a little room back of the kitchen that Ella had never seen.

“This is the Saturday room,” she said.

“Oh, that’s lovely!” Ella cried. “I never saw such a beauty. Can you really do things with it?”

“Just like a big one,” replied Ida, “and every Saturday mother lets me cook my dinner on it.”

“It” was a little cookstove, the top not much more than a foot square. It had four little griddles and an oven and a little stovepipe that opened into the pipe of the big stove in the kitchen. Beside the stove was a small closet, and on the low hooks hung a mixing-spoon, a steel fork and knife, a griddle, and a wire broiler. On the shelf above was a mixing-bowl, a little cake pan, a small kettle, and a muffin pan that was just large enough to hold six muffins. Above these was a pretty set of blue-and-white dishes, and small knives, spoons, and forks. In one corner of the room was a table, and in its drawers were napkins and a tablecloth.

“And does your mother really let you get your own dinner?” cried Ella.

“Yes, she does,” said Ida. “She says that little girls always like to cook, and they may as well learn the right way as to play with scraps of dough that their mothers have made. We’re going to have steak and sweet potatoes and lettuce to-day, and blackberries and cream for our dessert. I made the fire before I came over, and the potatoes are all washed and ready to boil.”

“And may I help?” cried Ella.

“Of course you may. If you will put the potatoes into the kettle, I will wash the lettuce. We’ll set the table together, and then you shall broil the steak while I go to mother’s refrigerator for the blackberries and the cream.”

Once in a while Ida’s mother looked in at the door to make sure that all was going on well, and when the little girls had sat down to the table, she came and looked it over and said,

“Well, children, I think you have done everything as well as I could. I should really like to sit down and eat dinner with you.”

“Oh, do, do!” the girls cried; but Ida’s mother only smiled and shook her head.

“Your father will be here soon,” she said, “and I’m afraid there would not be enough for us all. When you are a little older, you shall cook a dinner for us some day, and if Ella is here, we will ask her to come and help.”

CHAPTER VI
THE REAL NEW HAMPSHIRE

On Ella’s side of the street, as well as on Ida’s, interesting things were often going on. The mother and her friend were making wax flowers, and this was a delight to see. Ella thought that the pink mossrose buds were the loveliest things in the world. The mother had brought with her some thin sheets of white wax, and out of these she cut the petals, using the real buds for patterns. Some people made the petals of pink wax, but it was thought to be much more artistic to make them of white and paint them with pink powder.

These were pressed into the hollow of the hand and bent around the wire stem. Real moss from the north side of the beech tree was twisted on at the base of the petals. Leaves were made by dipping real rose leaves first into water, then into melted green wax and peeling off the impression of the under side to use. The rosebuds and the sprays of leaves were brought gracefully together, and there was the bouquet, all ready to take its stand in a little vase under a glass shade on the parlor mantel.

Wax pond lilies, with long stems of green rubber, were also made. The stems were coiled upon a round piece of looking-glass to represent water. A glass shade in the shape of a half sphere was placed over them, finished with a chenille cord. “And there you have a thing that will always be an ornament for your parlor,” said the teachers of wax-flower-making. “It will never go out of fashion because it is true to nature.”

The two grown-ups were very kind to the smaller folk. They let them try and try until they had each made a really pretty bud and a spray of leaves to go with it. Then they made some little forget-me-nots and some syringas. This was as much as they could find time for without neglecting their large families of dolls.

One day Ella’s mother and her friend planned to go a little way out of the city to call on an old friend of theirs.

“Put on your blue-and-white checked silk and your leghorn hat,” said the mother.

“Do I have to go?” Ella asked in dismay, for she and Ida had some interesting plans for the afternoon.

“Yes,” said her mother. “This lady is an old friend, and she will want to see you.”

“Would she want to see me if she knew that I didn’t want to come?”

“I really can’t say about that,” said the mother with a smile, “but I’ll tell you something that I do know. I have noticed that when little girls do a thing because their mothers want them to, something pleasant is almost sure to happen before long.”

Ella did not know of anything pleasant that would be likely to happen in this call, and nothing did happen. The lady did not seem especially glad to see her. There was not a child or a cat or a dog to play with. There were a few books, but they were shut up in a tall bookcase with glass doors, and Ella was almost sure that it would not do to ask if she might take one to read. She sat in a stiff chair by the window, thinking of what she and Ida had meant to do. After a long, long time they said good-bye and started for home.

On the way Ella picked up a little stone and asked her mother if it was a fossil.

“Here’s a gentleman who will tell you,” said mother’s friend, and she introduced a tall man with white hair and deep blue eyes who was coming toward them.

“Doctor,” she said, “here is a little girl who wants to know whether her stone is a fossil.”

“Indeed,” said he with a kindly look at Ella. “I am afraid it is not; but what does she know about fossils?”

“Very little,” said her mother; “but even when she was very small, she was always bringing in pebbles and asking if they did not have names just as flowers did. Her father told her the names of a few of the minerals that were most common about our home, and she is always looking for them.”

“I think I must give myself the pleasure of showing her my cabinets,” said the Doctor. “Not many little girls care for minerals. May I take her home with me now?”

Then came a happy time. The Doctor had great cases full of the most interesting minerals. He soon found that Ella liked fossils and crystals especially, and as he showed them to her one by one, he told her stories of the places where he found them and of the fossils that were once living plants or animals a long, long time ago.

“Was it before you were born?” Ella asked, and wondered a little why he looked so amused when he answered yes.

When it was time for her to go home, the Doctor gave her a real fossil, a piece of rose quartz, and a little deep red garnet. He walked home with her, and when he left her, he said:

“I am going away in the morning, but I shall send you before long a package of specimens marked with their names and where they were found. Maybe some day we shall have a great mineralogist whose name will be Ella. I take off my hat to the mineralogist of the future,” he said with a friendly smile.

Ella was the happiest little girl in town. “He took off his hat to me just as if I had been a grown lady,” she told her mother.

The Doctor kept his promise, and not long afterwards he sent her a package of fifty or sixty minerals, all marked as he had said they would be. Ella wrote him a little letter, in her funny handwriting that looked as if it had been out in an earthquake, and told him how pleased she was to have them, and how much she liked to look them over. One thing puzzled her, however. The good Doctor must have forgotten for a moment what a little girl she was, for he had put into the package a pamphlet that he had written for some learned society about the cacao tree. It was a thick pamphlet in the finest of print and with the lines very close together.

“I can’t tell him that I am glad to have this to read,” said Ella in dismay, “for I’m not. What shall I do?”

“It was kind in him to send it to you,” her mother replied, “and you can thank him for his kindness. That will be perfectly honest. You need not tell him that you will enjoy reading it.”

Ella was having a good time, but when night came, she was often a little homesick for the grandmother and the “real New Hampshire,” and she did not grieve when she and her mother took the train for the mountains. She was very sorry to leave Ida, but the mother had promised her friend to stop on her way home. Ella had agreed to bring Ida some maple sugar; and the two little girls said good-bye without any tears. They exchanged parting gifts. Ella gave Ida “Minnie Warren,” her very best paper doll, and Ida gave Ella a little book with a story in it that she had written. It was tied with a bright red ribbon, and on the cover was written, “The Lost Child, A True Story Made up by Ida Lester.”

After an hour in the cars, Ella and her mother came to the most delightful part of the journey. The train stopped, then rushed on toward the north, leaving them standing beside a wharf that stretched out into a beautiful lake, blue as the sky and full of dainty little islands all rocks and trees and ferns. The lake seemed to have been dropped softly into a hollow among the mountains, for they were all around it, bending over it as if they loved it, Ella thought.

A shining white steamboat was coming into sight around an island. It did not blow any whistle, but floated up to the wharf as gracefully as a swan, making only the gentlest of ripples in the blue water. This was the “Lady of the Lake.” Ella thought the name had been given to the boat because it seemed so gentle and so ladylike.

They went on board, and as the steamboat made a wide curve away from the wharf and set out on her course across the blue water, roaming in and out among the islands, Ella joyfully watched for the peaks that she knew best in the ranges that circled around the old homestead. From one point on the steamer’s course Mt. Washington could be seen for a few minutes. Ella was looking for it eagerly when she saw a man with a harp coming up from the lower deck. A little girl followed him, and as he began to play, she sang in a sweet, clear voice.

“Mother,” Ella whispered, “couldn’t I ever learn to sing like that? I’d rather do it than almost anything else in the world.”

The singing stopped and the man passed his hat around for money. Ella looked at the little singing girl and found that the singer was looking at her.

“Couldn’t I go and speak to her?” she asked, and her mother said, “Yes, if you like. I think she looks rather lonely.”

So Ella went up to the singing girl a little shyly and said:

“I think your singing is beautiful. I wish I could go about and sing and be on a boat always.”

“I heard you say to your mother that you were going to your grandmother’s, and I wished and wished that I had a grandmother and could go to see her and play like other children. I’d so much rather than to go about singing.”

But the father was beckoning to her to get ready to go ashore, and Ella went back to her mother.

“I can see him! I can see him!” she cried. “And there’s the gray horse!”

One of her uncles always met them at the Harbor. Ella had caught sight of him on the wharf, and she had no more thought just then for the singing girl.

Pretty soon they were seated in the wagon and were riding slowly along the road that wound higher and higher up among the hills to the old homestead. It was good to go slowly, Ella thought, for every mountain and every tree seemed like an old friend, and it would hurt their feelings if she hurried past them.

There were two roads that found their way to “the West,” that is, the little village that was nearest to the homestead, and it was always a question which to choose. One led over a hill so high that it was almost a young mountain. Indeed, when Ella was smaller, she had fancied that if the road had not held it down like a strap, it would have grown into a mountain. The other road was shorter, but full of rocks, as if it had once been the bed of a river. The horse knew it well. He had learned just how to twist and turn among the rocks, and even if one wheel was a foot higher than another, there was no real danger of an overthrow, day or night.

Upward they went, past tiny villages, little blue ponds, comfortable farmhouses, usually in charge of a big dog, who came out to the road and greeted them with a friendly wag of the tail; past meadows and mowing lots; beside “sap orchards” of maple trees; through deep woods, dark and cool even that warm summer afternoon; past the tiny red schoolhouse under the maples at the crossroads. Ella had been there to school with an older cousin one day, and she thought that going to school and sitting at a desk must be the most delightful thing in the world. She had been allowed to sit, not with the little children, but, because she was company, on the high seats at the back of the room with the big girls. They were parsing in “Paradise Lost.” Ella had no idea what either “Paradise Lost” or “parsing” might be, but she was sure it must be something very agreeable. They had carried their dinner in a tin pail; and this, she thought, was a wonderfully fine thing to do, for when noon came, they ate it under the trees just as if they were on a picnic. Then they played in the brook and made playhouses, marking them out with white stones on the grass. They made wreaths of maple leaves, pinning them together with their long stems, and they pulled up long sprays of creeping Jenny to drape over their playhouses at home.

But now they were on the crossroad that led to grandmother’s, and Ella was getting much excited. “I know she will hear us when we go over the causeway,” she cried, “and she will come to the road to meet us;” and so it was, for two minutes later they could see the end of the house and the big asparagus bush standing under one of the west windows. Half a minute more, and they were at the gate, and there stood grandma and grandpa, and the uncles and the aunts and the cousins, and such a welcome as there was! Then came supper, with cottage cheese, made as no one but grandma could make it, custard pie, hot biscuit and maple syrup made from the sap of the very trees that they had just passed, and as many other good things as the table would hold.

After Ella was curled up in bed that night, she said:

“Mother, I don’t believe I want to sing on a boat. I’d rather be a little girl at her grandmother’s. Will you please take out my thick shoes? I shall be too busy to look for them in the morning.”

The mother went back to have a little talk alone with grandmother. She was sitting in her straight-backed rocking-chair. There were tears in her eyes. She looked up as the mother came in.

“The child looks more like her father every year,” said grandmother.

The mother nodded. Her eyes, too, were full of tears, and she could not speak.

CHAPTER VII
BOY COUSIN

Ella was a fortunate little girl in having so many cousins. Some were tall, some were short; some had blue eyes, and some had black; some had curly hair and some had straight hair; some lived near the grandfather’s, some lived a long drive away, and some lived many hundreds of miles away. Most of them were younger; two or three were older. When one is nine, three or four years make a great difference, and Ella looked upon these older ones as being quite mature persons. She loved them all, but her special playmate was Boy Cousin, a boy of her own age who lived nearest.

When morning came, there were so many interesting things to do that Ella hardly knew how to choose among them. First of all, she must of course have a good long look at the mountains, every one of them. Little girl as she was, she could remember when some of them were a little different in their appearance. The nearest one was Ossipee, a kindly, friendly, sunny mountain, with a great pasture running far up the side to a gray rock that looked quite like a cabin. This had not come into view until the trees about it had been cut down. The children realized that the “cabin” was much larger than it appeared, and they had made up a story to the effect that a good-natured giant from the other side of the mountain had come over to this side, bringing his house with him.

Beyond this rock were ledges, and after a rain the water ran down over them in a silver sheet. The children called them the Shining Rocks, the home of the sunbeam fairies. They had once climbed to the top of the mountain, and when they came to the rocks, they more than half expected to catch a glimpse of a little man in grass-green hat or a dainty fairy queen in a gown of sunbeams. No fairies appeared, and they decided that it was foolish to expect them, for every one ought to know that they will not appear when grown-ups are about.

To the west lay Israel, massive and dignified. That had not changed; but Ella felt sure that Whiteface was not quite the same. It was called Whiteface because a slide many years before had torn off the face of the mountain, and left only the bare white granite. Every summer the trees and bushes made their way a little farther in upon the rocks; and a keen observer could really see that the slide was a little less white and a little more green.

Away to the north was Chocorua, the mountain that in sun and shade and mist and tempest and calm was always an exquisite picture. It lay with quiet majesty on the horizon, stately and beautiful. The forest had crept up the sides, but the summit was a great mass of granite, sharply pointed and reaching far up into the blue sky. Ella thought it looked like a picture that she had seen of the Alps. She did so hope that some day she might climb it. It would be like taking a trip to Europe, she thought. Of all the mountains in view, Chocorua was the one that she loved best. “I wish you could understand. I wish I could put my arm around you and tell you how I love you,” she used to whisper to it sometimes. The mountain looked more and more beautiful, but it made no reply. One day, however, a wisp of white cloud floated quickly over the peak while she was speaking. “You do understand, and you are waving to me,” she said to the mountain, and after this she loved it more than ever.

Ella had been walking slowly down the narrow road that wound between the tall alder bushes down to the river. At one place she stopped to put aside the ferns growing in front of a rock of pale gray granite. The side of the rock nearest the road was of a darker gray and was shaped like a door. This was the entrance to fairyland, the children had decided, and Ella stood waiting a moment to see if the queen of the fairies would appear. If the queen should wear a bright pink dress with deep red lines, then Ella would know for sure that she had seen her Majesty in the little woods by the lake near the seminary.

But Boy Cousin was coming up the road, and Ella hastily brought the ferns together, for she had begun to suspect that he did not believe in fairies quite so firmly as she, so she did not speak of them when they met on the bridge.

This bridge was made of split logs laid upon great rough beams of wood. On each side there was a rail cut with many initials. Among them was a big “E,” which Ella had cut the summer before. Under the bridge, as far up and down stream as they could see, there were rocks of all sizes and shapes. It was so dry a season that in many places the water had slipped out of sight among them, making a fresh, merry, rippling sound.

“It’s playing hide and seek,” declared Boy Cousin, “and it is saying, ‘Here I am! Find me if you can!’”

Over the river hung wild grapes, as yet green and sour; sprays of goldenrod; graceful and dainty white birches; and here and there was a bright leaf or two of the early autumn, or a reddening spray of bittersweet or the scarlet berries of the black alder.

The children slipped down beside the bridge to one of their favorite places, a big flat rock overhung by a white birch and a maple. They were looking up through the branches when Ella exclaimed:

“Just see there, Boy Cousin! See the blue sky with the white birch bough running across it and the little spray of red maple leaves! It’s our flag, our own Red, White, and Blue. But let’s go and see the stone house. We can come back here this afternoon.”

So down the road they went. On the left was a little hill where lay some great-great-grandfathers, men who had forced their way into the new country and cut out for themselves homes in the wilderness. Their graves were marked by field stones, just as they had been left in the early times. At one or two of them an initial was rudely cut into the stone. Ella wondered a little whether she would have liked these great-great-grandfathers or her French ones better. “I had some French great-great-grandfathers, too,” said Boy Cousin. “What a pity that we couldn’t all have lived at the same time!”

On the right of the road was a row of tamarack trees, and over the wall a field through which the river ran in graceful curves, and a mass of great rocks that looked as if hurled together by an earthquake, but made the nicest places possible for little “cubby houses” and ovens for baking mud cakes.

Through the bars the children went, over a little bridge, across the wide-spreading meadow, and up a hill to a rocky pasture where the gray horse was roaming about.

“The horse and the rocks are the very same color,” said Ella. “I don’t see how you know which of them to put the bridle on when you go to catch him.”

“That’s easy,” replied Boy Cousin. “I just look the rocks over, and put the bridle on the one that shakes its tail.”

There was one rock, larger than the others, and of all the rocks that the children had seen, this was the only one that split into layers. Wide slabs of this rock lay all around, and of these slabs they had made, the summer before, a little cottage. It stood up against the great rock, with a slab of granite for each wall and one for the roof. By patient hammering they had contrived to break out a place for a doorway and a window. It was so well built that it had stood bravely through all the frosts and storms of a mountain winter.

“It looks just exactly as it did,” Ella said delightedly. “I was afraid it would fall down. I wonder that the ram did not knock it down.”

Boy Cousin was silent. He was never inclined to brag of his own exploits. Ella went on: “Grandpa told me last night. He said that the ram kept trying to butt you, and that you hadn’t anything to fight it with except a little stick; but that you climbed up on this rock and managed somehow to keep it off till your father came from the next field. He said you were a plucky boy, or you would have been killed.”

“Who wouldn’t be plucky rather than killed?” demanded the hero of the story. “There’s no end of checkerberries over there. Let’s make a birch-bark basket and pick some.”

They pulled some birch bark from a tree, took a piece seven or eight inches long and five wide, cut two slits an inch long in each end, bent the outer pieces on either end together, and fastened them with a little wooden pin; and there they had a strong basket that would hold a double handful of checkerberries.

After the berries were picked, Boy Cousin looked wisely at the sun and declared that it was time to go home to dinner.

“Let’s go fishing after dinner,” Ella proposed.

“No good; too early. Let’s play croquet first.”

“You haven’t any croquet set.”

“Haven’t I, though? You just come and see.”

“You didn’t have last summer.”

“This is another summer.”

“Have you really a set?”

“You said I hadn’t.”

“Well, I’ll say you have if you have. Where is it?”

“It’s where little girls can’t find it; but if you’ll come down this afternoon, we’ll play and I’ll beat you with it whether it’s real or not.”

“I don’t more than half believe it’s real, but I’ll come. Good-bye.”

When Ella came to see the croquet set, she thought it was quite wonderful.

“It isn’t the least bit like those in the stores,” she explained to her mother. “It is ever and ever so much nicer because it is so different. He just sawed off pieces of white birch for the mallet heads, bored a hole in each one, and drove the handle in. The bark is left on, and it’s so much prettier than paint and varnish. The ends are not much smoothed off, and so the balls do not slip half so badly.”

“And how did he make the balls?” asked the mother.

“Why, he didn’t have to make them at all. There was an old bedstead, and these balls were at the top of the posts. He just sawed them off. They’re not like common balls; they are shaped like those that boys play football with, and when you hit one, you never know which way it will go. It’s ever so much more fun than just plain croquet.”

There was always plenty of amusement for the two children, and no one ever heard them saying, “Please tell me something to do.” No one ever heard them wishing for more children to play with. Indeed, the river was as good as a dozen. They cut poles in the woods and fished in it. Ella kept a little diary, as was the fashion in those times, and it was a great convenience to be able to fill a whole day’s space with such entries as, “I caught 2 flatfish and 1 perch”; or, when apparently the fish had refused to bite on the previous day, “We did not go fishing to-day at all. I suppose I should not have caught anything if we had gone.”

The river had a charming way of suggesting things to do. In one place, clay stones had formed, and the children had fine times wading in and picking them up. In another it had overflowed and made a little bay that could easily be shut off by itself. They named it Beauty Bay, and whenever they caught a fish without harming it, they slipped it gently into this Bay to live in peace and plenty all the rest of its life.

A big flat rock in the middle of the stream was their picnic ground. Here they often built a fire and roasted eggs rolled in wet paper or ears of fresh green corn. On the bank just beyond the rock were blackberry bushes, and no one who has not tried it has any idea how good the berries taste when one takes first a berry and then a bite of maple sugar.

It must have been the river that suggested to them to write a library of little story-books, the “Bearcamp Books,” as they called them, one for each rock; and as the bed of the Bearcamp is all rocks, this was without doubt the most tremendous literary undertaking of the century. The stories were carefully modeled upon the tales of the day, and were written, like those in Concord, in tiny booklets.

This is the way Ella described their publishing house to her uncle in the West:

How do you like being editor? Boy Cousin and I are publishing books (on a rather smaller scale than you, though). We make a little blankbook out of writing paper and then make up a story and write in it. I have written 8 or 9 books, little and big, besides a lot of other stories not in the book form. I love to write. I wish that when you write to me you would tell me all about your paper, and about the printing of it especially, as I never saw any one print. Boy Cousin can write poetry, but I can’t.

The first story that Ella contributed to the “Bearcamp Library” was called “Our Ragbag,” for this was in the days when people saved their rags and bought glass dishes with them, and it read as follows:

As the contents of our ragbag were to be sold, the rags were laid on a table in an unused room. Well, this is pleasant, to be in the light once more after being in this dark bag so many long weeks. “What shall we do” said a piece of cloth. “Let us each tell our story” said a piece of brocade, “I will begin—In a beautiful garden in the far off east, a no less beautiful girl used to walk—sometimes alone—but more frequently accompanied by her—enough of this stuff” said a white cotton rag “Let me tell a story, Once there grew in the south, a beautiful flower known as the cotton plant. I was that beautiful flower. Nonsense, just as though we would believe that story, said a little piece of blue & white muslin “let me tell mine Once there was a very rich lady came in her carriage to the shop where I was placed to be sold & without alighting from her carriage asked to see some rich silk & velvet goods, they were immediately carried to her & by mistake I was put in with them & the clerk did not perceive that I was there until he got to the carriage. He was just going to throw me into the store when the lady said “That is very pretty, I will take it” & so she carried me home with her then I was made into a splendid dress for one of—“Well, I say for one said a faded piece of calico, that we have heard enough about dress.” “The people are coming to pick us over, isn’t it too bad that we did not find out in the bag what a good time we might have had, each could then have told his story.”

CHAPTER VIII
RAINY DAYS AND SUNDAYS

Every day was full, but rainy days were fullest of all. Those were the times when the children made fiddles of cornstalks, popguns of elder, and candles of bayberry wax, using elder stems for moulds; the times when they played in the big unfinished garret where two or three barrels of beautifully lumpy maple sugar always stood. Boy Cousin’s mother had a loom and kept up the old custom of weaving one piece every year. The threads of the warp were all drawn into the harness and the piece was well begun when Ella came, and she thought it would be the easiest thing in the world to give the shuttle the skillful little push that sent it sliding across the threads. “Please mayn’t I try it only once?” she begged. “I’m almost sure I could make it go through just as you do”; and finally Boy Cousin’s good-natured mother let her try it. The shuttle must have been bewitched, for although Ella was certain that she started it in exactly the same way that it had been trained to go, it was willing to go anywhere and everywhere rather than to the one proper place. It fell down on the floor and slid away back under the loom.

But if Ella could not weave, she could fill quills. These quills were short pieces of the hollow elder stem with the pith pushed out. The thread of the woof was wound on them and they were slipped into the shuttle. To wind these, the “quilling wheel” was used. It was much like a spinning wheel, only smaller. The children took turns in using it, making believe that they were waging war with the fairy king of the elder bushes, and that the spools were prisoners whom they had taken and were binding with chains.

Rainy days were good times to try whatever new ways they had learned of “taking it off” in cat’s-cradle, good times to braid bulrushes. They learned how to make three-strand and seven-strand and how to sew the braid together and make quite respectable hats.

Painting was always in order. They manufactured a very good red paint from the juice of the elderberry; and when they wanted purple, they added a little soft soap. For other colors there was Ella’s paint-box to depend upon; for long before this she had had a new box to take the place of the one buried among the roses.

They made various games, but this was not without its difficulties. Cardboard was at least ten miles away; birch bark would curl up; but no lack of materials was ever allowed to interfere with their plans, there was always something else that would answer the purpose. In this case they pasted several thicknesses of newspaper together, deceived the world by adding a facing of light brown wrapping paper when the white gave out; put the cards under flatirons to make as sure as possible that they would dry without wrinkles; and when they were dry, painted them with whatever the games required of words or pictures. It must be admitted that when these cards were shuffled, they were a little like the croquet balls in that no one ever knew which way they would go, and Boy Cousin’s father suggested that they be dealt with a snowshovel; but the children looked upon them as a great success.

If there was ever a minute when they had nothing else to do, the yellow-covered Farmer’s Almanac was ready to keep them busy. Here were the riddles and conundrums and charades and enigmas of the preceding year, and a new collection for them to puzzle over, whose answers would not be revealed until the following year. There were bits of poetry and wise sayings of famous men. Here was occupation enough for many rainy days. Ella felt a little envy of Boy Cousin because he had the Almanac the first of January and she did not see it until July or August. Queerly enough, it was so associated in her mind with rainy days in the New Hampshire garret that she never thought of looking for a copy anywhere else.

Sometimes the rain fell heavily all day, and even more heavily up in the mountains at the source of the river. This meant that the water would roll down faster and faster. The big meadow was only a little above the river’s level, and before the afternoon was half gone, it would be a wide-spreading sea. Higher and higher the water rose under the bridge. Not a rock was to be seen. The whole meadow and the bed of the river was full of a torrent of black water, foaming and bubbling.

After one of these rainy days, the children went out to see what harm had been done, and they found that Beauty Bay was gone, that even the water had been washed away, and the Bay had become a part of the river. The fish that had dwelt in such comfort in the Bay would now have to make their own living as best they could, for they had been swept into the river, into the pond, perhaps all the way to the briny ocean, and what would a fresh-water fish do then, poor thing?

In the midst of all the happy occupations of weekdays came Sunday with a dull thud. Everything stopped, everything was different. No more tramping shoes and runabout dresses; people must wear their best clothes to meeting. The little white meetinghouse was several miles away, and the two extra passengers made extra weight; they must drive slowly. No one could count upon the exact minute of arrival, and sometimes there were what seemed to Ella whole hours of waiting before they went into the church.

The Sunday after the flood they started earlier than usual, for the roads might have been washed by the rain. They proved to be in good condition, and the time of waiting was longer than ever. This was very pleasant for the older folk. They met their friends and had nice little chats with them; but it happened that most of the children lived quite a long distance from Ella’s grandfather’s, and she did not know them. There was an attractive little road that rambled away from one side of the church, and she wished that she might ramble with it. Over the hill there would surely be a brook. Cardinal flowers grew beside brooks. It was not their season, but there might be just one. Any way, there would certainly be some kind of wild flowers. But the minister was coming and they must go into church.

After the service came the Sunday school, and then people went out into the little graveyard and ate the lunch that they had brought with them. When Ella first saw this, she was a little surprised to see people treat a graveyard in so familiar and friendly a fashion. Then she remembered a strange story that she had once read about a little girl who had been carried to fairyland. She was allowed to see her old friends once every year, provided not one of them forgot to come to the place of meeting.

Ella wondered if the people who lay in this graveyard were pleased to have them come and eat lunch there. If they were, she was very glad to help make them happy. The afternoon sermon did not seem nearly so long as that of the morning, and she went home thinking that if the people under the stones really liked to see her, she should like to come again. She even hoped it would not be so rainy the next Sunday that she would have to disappoint them.

Sunday was divided into three parts. It was very much Sunday until they were at home from meeting. Then it was allowable to put on a dress that was not a really best one, but was a little better than one for everyday. Dinner was at about four o’clock. After this came the third part of the day. It was not proper to play games, but one might pop corn. One might go to walk, not on a real tramp through the woods, but quietly up or down the road.

Ella was never quite sure that she understood all the Sunday distinctions. For instance, one might pick berries in the garden, but it would never have done to take a pail and go to pick them in the fields. If you were walking on the road and came to a bush full of them, you might fold up a big leaf or make a birch-bark basket—a very simple one, of course—and fill it to carry home. Even then, however, it was better to explain that the sky looked like rain and the berries would have been spoiled and so wasted before morning if left on the bush.

After dinner on the Sunday after the flood, Ella and Boy Cousin went sedately up the road for a little walk. They came to a tree of early apples, which proved to be as sour as apples could possibly be.

“That tree ought to be grafted,” said Boy Cousin.

“How do you graft?” Ella asked.

“You stick into the sour tree some twigs from a good tree and put wax around them to keep them dry,” replied Boy Cousin.

“Let’s stick one into this tree.”

“Why isn’t that work just as much as ploughing would be?” Boy Cousin queried.

“Trees grow Sunday just as much as on other days, and if we graft them so they can raise good apples instead of poor, we are not working; we are only helping them to do their own work well. We haven’t any wax, but why can’t we get some spruce gum? That would keep the water out.”

“There isn’t a good apple tree anywhere near.”

“Put in a raspberry twig then,” suggested Ella. “A raspberry as big as an apple would be good, I know.”

So they began, and before they were done, not only raspberry, but also maple, spruce, woodbine, wild cherry, and even hardhack had been grafted into that long-suffering tree.

Monday morning Boy Cousin, his father, and Ella were going part way up one of the mountains to visit a pasture. In the spring, as soon as the grass was green, it was the custom to drive cattle and young colts up to a mountain pasture, where they could feed till autumn. Every few weeks the owner paid a visit to the pasture to make sure that his “creatures” were safe and to give them salt.

They started when the mists were rolling away from the valleys, and the sun was just peering over Ossipee. It was a beautiful ride through the cool fresh woods, showing here and there a spray of scarlet leaves. Occasionally they had a glimpse of a rabbit or a woodchuck, and once a deer watched them for a moment, then bounded gracefully across the road and disappeared in the woods.

At the foot of the mountain the little company started up the narrow footpath, at first smooth, then stony, as they came to places where the rain had washed the soil. Most of the way was through the woods, but here and there were openings where they could get views of the mountains around them. From one of these openings they could see the old homestead half hidden by its great maples.

At last they came to a large pasture surrounded by woods. Boy Cousin’s father laid some salt on a big flat rock, and then called, “Hoo! Hoo! Hoo!” For a minute all was still, then a crash of broken limbs was heard far off in the woods. Then two or three cattle plunged headlong out of the forest. Then came others, and then four little colts. They knew that the visit meant salt, and every one started for the flat rock. But every one stopped short, and stood as still as a statue and gazed at Ella. It was almost embarrassing, for when she walked to one side, they all walked after her and gazed more curiously than ever. They had seen men before, but how a little girl could come into their pasture, and what a little girl might be, was a wonder. The shy little colts were so devoured with curiosity that they stood still and stared when Ella ventured to slip up and pat their silky heads. Then they went to the salt; and after they had eaten what they wanted, they wandered back, one by one, into the forest, and Boy Cousin’s father and the children set out for home.

“Good-bye,” called Boy Cousin, as Ella climbed out over the high wheel. “We’ll go and see how our grafts are the first thing in the morning.”

But when Ella opened the door, there stood the mother before the trunk, folding up their clothes and laying them in. The mail had brought a letter that made it necessary for them to return to the city in the morning. There was no time to visit the tree; and this is why no one knows what happens when a raspberry twig is grafted into a sour apple tree on Sunday afternoon.

CHAPTER IX
BOOKS AND PLAY

The mother had agreed to take charge of a private school in the city for a year; and before many days had passed, Ella was setting out every morning at eight o’clock to practice an hour before school opened. It was a pleasant walk down the broad street. It had been a street of homes with flower gardens and trees and wide front steps, and porches that looked as if people liked to sit in them summer evenings and talk and have good times together. The gardens were full of old-fashioned flowers that bloomed as if they were having the best time of their lives. Between them and the sidewalk were fences so low and open that they invited passers-by to stop and see the roses, geraniums, hollyhocks, ladies’-delights, or none-so-pretties, sweet Mary, sweet William, and the rest of them.

The street was just beginning to think of becoming a business street, and here and there, wherever there chanced to be a spare nook or corner, there stood a tiny store which seemed to look up a little shyly to its more stately neighbors.

Two of these little stores were of special interest to Ella. One had a stock of roots and herbs, and among them were the cinnamon buds that she was still fond of. Her first spare penny went into the hands of a clerk in this store, a solemn-looking man with a pasty white face. Evidently he felt it his duty to give this reckless small child a lecture, for, still holding the penny in his hand, he told her how dangerous it was to eat spices.

“I once knew a man who ate a pound of spice and died,” he said gloomily.

“How much are these a pound?” Ella asked.

“Forty cents,” the clerk replied.

“Then,” said Ella, “if I buy a cent’s worth each time, I shouldn’t have had a pound till I had been here thirty-nine times more, should I?”

“No,” said the clerk wonderingly.

“I’ll be careful,” said Ella blithely. “I’ll keep count, and when I get to thirty-nine, I’ll stop—and then pretty soon I’ll begin over. Will you please give me the first pennyworth now?”—and he did.

The other store held a supply of handkerchiefs, neckties, suspenders, stockings, and whatever other small wares men might want to buy. It was presided over by a trim little old gentleman with the whitest of linen and the reddest of cheeks. He was sometimes standing in the doorway when she went by, and one morning he held a letter in his hand. Ella would have offered to take it, but she was too shy. Perhaps the little old gentleman was a bit shy, also, for he hesitated until she was almost past.

Then he said, “Should you be willing to leave this in the post-office as you go by?”

“I’d like to ever so much,” replied Ella cordially; and ever after that, when she passed the store and the little gentleman was in sight, they exchanged smiles and good-mornings.

“I hope you were very careful of the letter,” said the mother when she heard the story.

“Barnum’s elephants couldn’t have pulled it away from me,” Ella declared stoutly. She had just been to Barnum’s circus, so of course she knew that whereof she spoke.

This was a school for “Young Ladies.” Ella did so wish that there was just one little girl among the pupils. However, she was used to being with older girls, and she was soon quite at home among these. Her studies were arithmetic, which she liked, and French and music, which she did not like.

“Why do you like arithmetic best?” the mother once asked.

“Because,” replied Ella thoughtfully, “when it’s done, it’s done, and I know it’s done, and it can’t come undone. In music, even if I have practiced my very best, I may strike some wrong note and spoil it all; and in French, I may forget just one word for just one minute, and then the whole sentence isn’t good for anything at all. Arithmetic is easy. It’s just add, subtract, multiply, and divide; and then you know it all. The rest is only different ways of using these things. A baby ought to know how to learn four things.”

These were what Ella called her real “studies”; but there were two others that she called her “make-believe studies.” These latter she had chosen herself according to the color of the covers of the textbook and the size of the print. The tiny geography was yellow, with coarse print, and easy questions. The little grammar had a bright pink cover. It was not much larger than her own hand, and it was so clear and easy that Ella felt almost as if she had written it herself. Who could help understanding when an illustration was “George had four sweet apples,” or “William’s dog has come home”? Of course, like all productions of grown-ups, it had occasional lapses, such as, “The gay summer droops into pallid autumn,” which of course no child ought to be expected to understand.

These two books were so winning that Ella took great pleasure in saying every day or two, “I have learned my geography lesson,” or “I have finished my grammar. May I recite it now?” There was another reason, which she did not realize, but which was a strong one. She knew that little girls in the public schools did not study French and did study geography and grammar; and she was beginning to want to do things just like other girls.

Ella had one great advantage over most little girls, and this was in her mother’s belief that if a child wanted to do what older people were doing, she ought to have a chance to try. “She will learn something,” the busy mother always said, “and whatever she learns will come in play some time.” That was why, when the mother and her friend were making wax flowers, Ella was encouraged to see what she could do. She had really acquired considerable skill. These ornaments were as fashionable as ever, and the other “young ladies” were so glad to follow her instructions that she began to feel quite like an assistant teacher.

She used her skill in making a bouquet for her special little girl friend at the old home, the one who had sent her the “jockey cap” at Christmas. Such a bouquet as it was! Ella wrote in her diary, “There were in it one Moss-rose bud a spiderworth a jonquil, some lily’s of the valley and a bunch of coral Honeysuckle two Prickly pears some forgetmenots a bunch of Verbena’s and two Orange-blossoms with two Hawthorn’s and some grass with two Sweet peas were the contents of my bouquet.” It is little wonder that they did not dwell together in unity and that some of them were broken when the time of unpacking arrived.

Ella also gave reading lessons. The mother had become interested in her washerwoman, a negress who had once been a slave. The woman was eager to learn, and Ella used to stop three times a week on her way home from school to hear her read and, incidentally, to study the little granddaughter and wonder if there was not some way to make her hair straight and her face white.

Ella was usually a very happy little girl, but one day, in pessimistic mood she wrote in her little diary, in as large letters as the narrow space between the lines would permit, “I wish I did not have to do anything but read and play all day long”; but certainly she did a rather large amount of both reading and playing.

As to the reading, there was the library of many volumes at home. There was the Sunday school collection; and its records of one rainy Sunday declare that by some method of persuasion she wheedled the young librarian into allowing her to carry home four books for the afternoon’s consumption. Then, too, in the same building as the school there was a large library, open to the public on payment of one dollar a year, and from this, she might carry home a book every day if she chose. No one interfered with her taking whatever she wished, and she usually wandered about among the bookcases and selected for herself. One day, however, the kindly old librarian heard a child’s voice asking,

“Will you please help me to get a book? I can’t find what I want.”

He peered over the top of his tall desk, and there stood a little girl in short skirts and a blue flannel blouse with brass buttons, looking up at him expectantly.

“Certainly,” he replied, smiling down upon her. “How should you like one of the Rollo books?”

“I’ve read them all, most of them twice, and some of them three times.”

“What kind of book should you like?”

“I’d like a book about the Spanish Inquisition,” she declared serenely.

“What!” exclaimed the good man. “That’s not the kind of book for a little girl to read. What made you think of that?”

“I read ‘The Pit and the Pendulum,’ and it said the story happened in the Spanish Inquisition. I want to know what it is and I want to read some more stories about it.”

The gray-haired librarian was aghast, but by no means unwise. He brought her a book about the Inquisition, a big book, a heavy book, a dismal book, in the finest of print and with two columns to the page. No sensible child would dream of reading such a book, and the shrewd old librarian knew it.

One of the constant readers in this library was an old friend of the librarian, a quaint little gentleman who wore long hair curling at the ends, knee breeches, and shoes with big buckles. The librarian must have told him of the little girl’s request, for when she came again, he talked with her about the books that she had read and advised her to read Plutarch’s “Lives.” He was not so canny as the librarian, for this book, too, was in fine print and pages of two columns, and the little girl never read it until she had become a big girl. And, alas, she never read the scholarly essay on the cacao tree which the learned Doctor in Concord had given her. She always felt guilty about this latter piece of neglect, and when—not through her fault—the pamphlet was lost, she was uneasily glad.

The mother was sometimes a little troubled because Ella did not like to read history.

“It is too hard for me,” objected the little girl.

“But in that little history of yours, the words are not nearly so long as in ‘Robinson Crusoe,’ and you do not think that is hard,” said the mother.

“No, but long words don’t make reading hard,” said Ella. “I like to think I’ve read half a line in just one word. It’s like the dissected map of the United States; it isn’t any harder to put in Texas than Rhode Island, and Texas is so big that when I have put it in, I feel as if I had really done something. Short words don’t make reading easy and long words don’t make it hard. I don’t know what it is, but somehow it’s the way they write it that makes it hard or easy. I’m going to know how to do it some time, and then I’ll write some hard books for children that shall be easy to read.”

Ella was quite given to making lists of the books that she read, and often for a number of weeks in succession she read at the rate of a book a day. The following is one of her lists with her occasional comments:

Up Hill, or Life in the Factory.
Gulliver’s Travels.
Studies for Stories.
Harry’s Vacation, or Philosophy at Home.
Winifred Bertram.
New School Dialogues.
Hetty’s Hopes, or Trust in God.
Romantic Belinda.
Ruth Hall.
Lewis, or the Bended Twig.

True Stories of the Days of Washington. A very good book indeed. It tells about deeds of heroism and honor. I never read it before. Began it the 26 of December, finished it 27.

Storybook by Hans Christian Andersen. Very good.
Tim the Scissors Grinder.
Atlantic Monthly. Andersonville Prisoners.
Fighting Joe.
Agnes Hopetoun’s Schools and Holidays.
Curious Stories about Fairies and Other Funny People.
Merry’s Museum.
The Orphan Nieces.
Neighbor Jackwood.
Trials and Confessions of a Housekeeper.
Summer in Scotland.
Life of Josephine.
Pilgrim’s Progress.
Tales of the Saxons.
Tanglewood Tales.

Christmas Greens. A splendid story telling about two boys who went and got some evergreens and sold them and gave the money to their mother, who needed it very much, and so got on till they became great and good.

The Young Crusoe.
A Year after Marriage.
Moral Tales.
Poor and Proud. Splendid.
Arabian Nights.
Popular Tales from the Norse.
Out of Debt. Out of Danger.
Peter Parley’s Stories.
The Magic Ring.
Curiosities of Natural History.
Swiss Family Robinson. I have read it a great many times, but it is so good I wanted to read it again.

Somehow, though one can hardly see how, the small girl contrived to get in a vast amount of play. Her special friend was a particularly nice boy who lived next door, indeed, nearer than next door, for the children persuaded the authorities of the two houses to slip off a board from the fence between. Beejay, as Ella called him, went to the public school, which had two sessions, while the “Private School for Young Ladies” had only one; so it was a little difficult to bring their leisure hours together; but they made the most of every minute.

They played games without end, croquet, authors, the checkered game of life, the smashed-up locomotive—a locomotive with a bell-topped smokestack, a big bell, and a little whistle—dissected maps, and one game that they called “By a Lady,” since that legend alone was printed on the box. They made a very creditable ghost with the help of chalk and phosphorus, and were jubilant when a kindly older sister pretended to be badly scared by its horrors.

Once upon a time they saved up their pennies till they had enough to buy a cocoanut; and such a cocoanut! It was the largest they had ever seen and cost no more than a small one! It was not shaped quite like the cocoanuts that they had bought before, but the dealer told them to cut off the outside husk, and they would have a fine large nut within.

No woman was ever so pleased with a bargaincounter purchase. They hurried down cellar and Beejay attacked the nut first with a knife, then with a hatchet. The mischievous thing rolled away from the blows into corner after corner as if it was bewitched. Ella had just been learning the “Song of the Brook,” and she quoted,

“‘I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance

Among my skimming swallows’—

Say, Beejay, do you suppose we shall ever have any ‘swallows’? I should so like just one—of cocoanut milk.” Beejay attacked the puzzle more savagely than ever. The outer husk came off, and there lay the tiniest cocoanut that they had ever seen. It was no bigger than a child’s fist. Such was their great bargain. Such are the deceits of the world and the sellers of cocoanuts.

“Sold!” said Beejay; “but let’s never, never tell.”

“Indeed, we won’t,” declared Ella. “Cross my heart. We won’t have them all laughing at us. Mother said once cocoanuts were not good for me. Do you think one that size would make me very, very sick? Let’s eat it just as fast as we can and put the shell into the furnace, and no one will ever know.” No one ever did know, for the secret was faithfully kept.

There was no end to the things the playmates did. They discovered a place where clay could be found, an agreeable variety of clay, not so hard as the claystones of the Bearcamp River, and not so soft as to be sticky, but just right to cut into silk winders, hearts and rounds, and boys and girls, like those that came out of cookie pans, and dozens of other things. They followed the directions of “The Boy’s Own Book” and made a boomerang that would not make the return trip; a battledore that was continually coming to pieces; a shuttlecock that never would go straight up, but always off to the farthest corner of the room. They pored over the minerals that the learned Doctor had given to Ella, and they had eager searches for fossils in a non-fossiliferous country.

“The Boy’s Own Book” declared that glass would melt and that asbestus would not, although it looked like glass. A big brother told them of a ledge just outside of the city where they could find asbestus. They packed some lunch into a little willow basket—the one that Ella always filled with firecrackers and pinwheels a week before the Fourth of July, trying hard and with a vast expenditure of mental arithmetic to get as much noise and sparkle for her money as possible—and off they went to the ledge. They found the asbestus and brought some home and put it into the kitchen stove. It did not melt; but neither did the piece of glass that they laid beside it.

“Maybe it’s too thick,” Beejay suggested. “Let’s take some of the bird of paradise’s tail.”

The bird of paradise was a glass bird with a long tail of spun glass so bright and shining that it had not been thrown away when the bird broke into many pieces. This, too, they tried in the stove and also in the gas, but it would not melt. The children were disgusted.

“The boomerang wouldn’t boom,” declared Ella; “the battledore wouldn’t bat; the shuttlecock wouldn’t go one bit like either a shuttle or a cock; and now the glass won’t melt. Let’s just go on our own way and let the book alone. We can think of things enough to do. Let’s paint some autumn leaves. I’ll get my water colors and you get your crayons. You can use one and I’ll use the other, and we’ll see which will get done first.”

But a voice called, “Ella, I want you to go down street on an errand.”

It chanced that Beejay’s mother had also an errand at the same store; so the children went off together, swinging the little yellow basket between them.

When they came home, they were running breathlessly, and waving two handbills.

“It’s at two o’clock this afternoon,” cried one.

“And it’s only ten cents, and the man said it was almost always fifteen in other cities,” cried the other, “and that it was well worth twenty-five.”

“And it’s very educational, the man said it was.”

The two mothers were easily persuaded to let them go to the panorama. They came home jubilant. There were no movies then, but they had seen pictures of the city of Venice with a marvelous number of gondolas, the sinking of the Alabama, the firemen of New York, Dr. Kane’s vessel that tried to get to the North Pole, and finally “a beautiful fairy scene,” as Ella declared.

Surely, there was no need of help from “The Boy’s Own Book,” for on the way home the children had planned to manufacture a fleet of gondolas, and also an Alabama that, by the pulling of a string, would really sink. All this they would do without fail to-morrow; but “to-morrow” was another day, and when it arrived, a little girl with a hot red face, a sore throat, a headache and a backache was tossing about in bed. Ella had the measles.

Never did mind cure have a fairer trial. She did not have a knotted string and repeat over and over, “Every day in every way I am getting better and better”; but she began at the very foundation, and when the red spots appeared, she declared:

“It isn’t measles. I won’t have measles. The hall was hot and it made my face burn when I was there, and it just kept on burning”; but the longer she said it was not measles, the faster the red spots came out.

“It isn’t fair,” she wailed. “It isn’t the least bit fair that I should have measles when Beejay hasn’t. We have so many things to do, I can’t be sick.”

But the red spots grew brighter and brighter. It was only two weeks before the end of the school year, and Ella had had her last day in the “Private School for Young Ladies.”

CHAPTER X
LIKE OTHER GIRLS

There was something that Ella wanted even more than she had wanted the box of tin soldiers or the ride in a swan boat, and this was that she might go to the public school. It was quite the custom for a public school girl to invite a younger child to go with her for half a day. If the child behaved well, the teacher made no objection, and perhaps gave her a book of pictures to look at. If her notions of order were not quite up to the mark, the teacher would draw the little hostess aside and say:

“I don’t believe you’d better bring her again till she is older. She is rather too young to have to keep quiet so long.”

Oddly enough, it had happened that Ella had never visited the public school, and all the glory of something unknown was about it. Of course she had heard many school stories from her playmates. She knew that it was carried on in a businesslike fashion, that children did not choose their books by the color of the covers or recite what they pleased and when they pleased, and go home whenever they liked; but that lessons had to be learned, and had to be recited when the time for recitation had come. She knew that once in a while the superintendent of schools came to examine the pupils, and that he listened to their answers as if whether they were right or wrong was really an important matter. One day, after his kindly examination of a class in which were several of Ella’s playmates, they came home at noon in great glee. After his examination, he had said to the teacher—but quite loud enough for the whole room to hear,

“The children in your class have done so well that I am going to ask you if you won’t take them out to the grove this afternoon for a little picnic.”

They had asked the teacher if Ella might go with them, but she did not care to be responsible for any more children and had said no, the picnic was for the pupils only.

Now Ella was free every afternoon and could have gone to a picnic six days in the week, if there had been one to go to; but somehow this was different, and the tears really came into her eyes that day when she thought of the whole class having such a good time from which she herself was shut out. Some of these same little picnickers envied her for coming home at one o’clock or even earlier; but nothing would have induced them to express such a thought. The city was very proud of her public schools. There was a general feeling that the work of private schools was not so good; and these little girls held their heads very high because they were parts of the great public school system.

There were many other times when Ella felt a little shut out of things. She played with the other children and went to their simple parties. They came to see her Saturday afternoons and she went to see them; but they were always speaking of little events in school that she knew nothing about. She did so wish that she could speak in such familiar fashion about the delight of “getting up head” and the mortification of losing a place in the class because a word was left out in a recitation. In Ella’s class of one, there was no head and no foot; and when the other children talked of such things, she felt dull and stupid and out of the magic circle.

Everything about their schools was different. At recess, Ella slipped into the big library and read a story. They marched out into the yard for a blissful quarter of an hour of play. She thought it would be delightful to march out in line with her hands down at her sides, one little girl before her and another behind her. In short, Ella wanted to be “in things.” It never occurred to her to boast of studying French and Latin and of reciting with “young ladies” many years older than she. She wanted to be just like other little girls, to study just what they studied, and to do just what they did. She did not know what “conventional” meant, but that was what she wanted to be.

Now the time had passed for which the mother had agreed to take charge of the “Private School for Young Ladies,” and she, too, was thinking about public schools, and wondering a little how the small daughter, who had gone on her own way as independently as if she was the only child in the world, would get on with walking between parallel lines and being bound to do just what other children were doing. There was no private school at hand that was at all promising, and it really was quite a dilemma. One day she asked Ella how she would like to go to the public school.

“I’d rather go there than anywhere else in the whole world, except to Norway or Switzerland,” she exclaimed. “May I go? May I go really?”

“We’ll think it over,” said the mother; and indeed it needed to be thought over. Here was a little girl almost twelve years old. Other children of twelve had been in school seven years; but this child’s school life consisted thus far of one year with an hour a day of arithmetic and French, and the rest of the time spent out of doors with a big dog for company; of a year and a half more with the same studies and a few months of Latin, but with much freedom as to her coming and going, short sessions, and long play hours.

She had, then, a smattering of French; she had read “Fables” in Latin; she had learned whatever chanced to strike her fancy in the yellow geography and the pink grammar; and she was far beyond her age in arithmetic. She could sketch fairly well, she could play on the piano as well as children of her age were expected to do; she could knit and crochet and do almost anything with her hands; she could win the heart of cat or dog or bird; she could climb a mountain; and she had read many hundreds of books, ranging all the way from “Songs for Little Ones at Home” to a volume of the “Religions of the World,” which she had discovered in an attic and thought more interesting than the Sunday school “Question Book.” She had never been prepared for any school, and how would she stand with other children who had had seven years of regulation training? “Suppose that she was put into a class of children much younger than herself,” thought the mother. She could not have the child humiliated and unhappy. What was the best thing to do?

Ella herself had been troubled all her life about her own ignorance. When she was only five, she had begged to go to school because the older children had assured her that she would grow up to be a dunce—whatever that might be—if she did not go. Later, she would have been even more anxious if there had not been so many books to read and so many interesting things to do and to think about. Now when the mother asked, “What should you do if you were put into a class of little girls much younger than yourself?” she had her answer all ready, “I’d study and study and study, till I knew so much they wouldn’t have me there, and they would have to put me up higher.”

The mother concluded that the little girl would make her way, and the public school was decided upon. She saw the principal of the school, and he said, “Send her down Monday morning, and we will see where she belongs.”

When Monday morning came, Ella started for school at the same time with the other girls and walked down the same street with them. This in itself was a delight. At last she was within the circle, and soon she would be able to talk about the mysteries of school life as easily as they.

She wore a cheery little red dress, a soft gray hat trimmed with a bit of black velvet and a red quill. She carried a rather large paper slate. It was made like a book and contained three sheets of firm stiff paper slated on both sides. This was the very latest thing in slates, and she was proud of it. She had one possession, however, that made her feel even more elegant than the slate, and that was her new slate pencil. Common slate pencils were hard and inclined to scratch. Ella’s was made of wood, soft and agreeable to the touch, and had “leads” of clay, which could be pushed up and down by moving a little peg in a groove, just as if it had been a pencil of solid gold. Ella dearly loved all things of the nature of tools or machines, and she had saved her money for many days to buy this pencil. Surely, such a choice article as this ought to give one courage.

Cora was the oldest of the little group. There were six rooms in the school building, and she was in Number Two, the next to the highest. As they drew near to the schoolhouse, Cora began to give the new pupil some good advice.

“The principal thinks you don’t know anything if you can’t do examples,” she said, “and he’ll give you some awfully hard ones. Girls that come here from private schools don’t know very much, and you’ll probably be put in the Sixth Room. If you work hard, you can be promoted, maybe before the end of the year.”

Ella began to feel so humble that she never thought of saying, “I can do cube root, and you are only in denominate numbers,” and they went silently up the stairs.

“That’s the room,” said Cora. “That’s the principal sitting at the large desk, and there is the assistant at the smaller one.”

Ella wished that Cora would go in with her, but the older girl went off to her own room, and Ella stood on the threshold, a rather shy but exceedingly expectant little girl. Fortunately the assistant looked up and came to her.

“This is Ella, I am sure,” she said. “I know your mother, and I am glad to have her little daughter in the school.”

Then she introduced Ella to the principal. The girls and boys were all afraid of him, and when Ella looked fearlessly up into his face as if he was an old friend, and laid her hand in his, he really felt a little awkward. He was not used to being treated in that way by children.

“After the opening exercises we will see what you can do,” he said. He motioned her to a chair just beyond the farther end of the platform, near that of the pleasant assistant, and Ella seated herself, so radiantly happy that she had no dread of even the hard examples that were to come.

She looked about the room. It had many windows, and it seemed to her enormously large. Blackboards ran around the four sides wherever the windows and doors would permit, and on these blackboards were maps and examples. Best of all, there were twenty-four desks—she counted them over and over—and at each desk sat two girls or two boys, as the case might be.

None of them paid the least attention to her, for this was the highest class in the building. They would go to the high school in the spring, and what did they care about a small newcomer who might for all they knew, be condemned to the Sixth Room, or even be sent to the intermediate school a little way off? They were only two or three years older than Ella, but two or three years count for a great length of time when one is not yet twelve, and she looked at them with a deference that she had never felt for any grown-up. Grown-ups belonged to a queer world of their own. They had different notions and different ways of looking at things; but these boys and girls, venerable as they were by age and position, were nevertheless of her own world, and could be judged by standards that she could understand.

It is to be feared that Ella did not pay very close attention to the “opening exercises,” but older folk have sometimes paid no more, even though with much smaller temptation.

But the assistant was beckoning to her and was handing her a paper.

“Do these examples,” she said; “or as many of them as you can,” she added, for she, too, was of Cora’s opinion in regard to the children who came from private schools.

The slate pencil that behaved like a gold one and the little girl who wielded it worked their way rather scornfully through addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division. Then came fractions, decimals, compound numbers, interest, and square root; but now the principal and the assistant called a halt and held a conference. Ella heard snatches of their rather emphatic remarks.

“She won’t be twelve for two weeks—altogether too young for this room.”

“The Third Room would be only play for her.”

“She has studied French and Latin,” said the assistant, “but she knows very little of geography and grammar.”

“Never mind,” declared the principal decidedly. “If she can do arithmetic, she can do anything. Put her into the Second Room.”

CHAPTER XI
ELLA’S FIRST DAY IN THE PUBLIC SCHOOL

The assistant led the way to the Second Room, and Ella followed, her heart beating triumphantly, for this was Cora’s room. She was introduced to the teacher, and the teacher gave her a seat at one of the double desks. Ella’s face fell, for no one was sitting at the other half.

“Ida is away to-day,” said the teacher, “but she will be here to-morrow, I think. I am sure that you will like her.”

So her seatmate’s name was Ida! Could anything have been pleasanter? She made up her mind to write Ida of New Hampshire that very afternoon. But there wouldn’t be any afternoon; she would be in school from two until five. Never mind, there would be all the more to tell her.

Across the room was Cora, who cast at Ella a look of surprise but of genuine welcome. The two seats were diagonally opposite, and when Ella studied mensuration, a little later, she always thought of the diagonal of a rectangle as the distance from Cora’s seat to hers.

“The second class in geography,” the teacher called.

About half of the pupils in the room left their seats and took their stand at the back and around two sides of the room. This was to be Ella’s class, and to-morrow she would stand with them. To-morrow she could say, “My class.” Could anything be more delightful?

The girl at the head raised her hand. The teacher nodded, and the girl said, “I have been at the head three recitations.”

“Very well,” said the teacher, “then you may go to the foot,” and she walked down to the other end of the class.

Ella thought this was rather unfair and that she ought to have been rewarded rather than sent to the foot.

The teacher gave Ella a little yellow book of geographical questions, and the new pupil followed the recitation with the keenest interest, for this was the first time that she had ever seen a class of boys and girls of her own age.

The teacher nodded to the girl at the head of the class, and she began to recite:

“There are ten Territories besides the District of Columbia, which is under the direct control of Congress.”

“I wonder why it is,” thought Ella, “and what ‘under the direct control’ means. Can’t it do anything without asking Congress? What does a District ever want to do?”

But the next girl was reciting.

“The Territories and their capitals are, Washington, Olympia, on Puget Sound.” And she went on through the whole ten more easily and rapidly than Ella thought she should ever be able to do. But what did it mean that hands were raised here and there all down the line?

“Mary,” said the teacher to the girl below the one who had recited, “what is wrong?”

“She said ‘Salt Lake City, on Great Salt Lake.’ It should be ‘near Great Salt Lake.’”

“Correct. Take your place,” the teacher said; and Mary took her place just above the girl who had failed, while she and all those that had stood between them moved down one place.

“Frank,” said the teacher, and a boy who stood next went on:

“The Gulf of Alaska and Kodiak Island are south of Alaska.”

“The Columbia River separates Washington Territory from Oregon,” said the next; and the third recited:

“It may be said of the animals of the Territories that immense herds of buffalo, deer, and horses roam over the prairies. Polar bears, wild goats, and sheep are found in the mountainous regions.”

The little girl who had gone to the foot now waved her hand excitedly.

“What is it, Alice?”

“He said ‘polar bears’; it should have been ‘grizzly bears.’”

“Correct.” And Alice left the foot and moved in triumph down the side, across the end of the room, and up the other side until she was within four of the head.

“It’s lovely! It’s just like a game,” thought Ella. “You have to know things, though, and know the questions as well as the answers. That’s funny. I don’t see why the teacher doesn’t ask them.”

Suddenly the teacher did ask questions, a whole hailstorm of them, and they went all over North America. Ella was quite aghast when she saw how promptly they were answered and how few mistakes there were. These were some of the questions:

“What are the principal capes in North America? What is the capital of Missouri? What bounds New Hampshire on the north? What are the principal manufactures of Connecticut? For what is Delaware noted? Name the western branches of the Mississippi. What States produce the most tobacco? What are the principal exports of British America? Where is Mazatlan?”

She was still more aghast when the teacher said:

“You did very well with the advance lesson, but not so well with the general questions. Remember that you are responsible for whatever you have once learned.”

This was decidedly different from the comfortable fashion of roaming about the tiny yellow geography to which Ella had been accustomed, learning a few “map questions” wherever she chose.

The new pupil had heard one recitation and she felt quite wise in the customs of the school. She did not yet see why Alice was sent to the foot; but she had learned that lessons were short, but must be learned perfectly, and recited without questioning; that everything must be recited exactly right; that if it was not, you raised your hand and went above her; and that you were expected to remember everything you had ever learned.

Ella tried hard to recall what she had ever learned that she was absolutely sure of, and the only thing she could call to mind on the instant was the multiplication table—which she had never learned!

The geography class was now dismissed, and the children took their seats. The roll was called for reports, and when it came to Alice, she reported, “One hundred, and also fifteen extra for being at the head three recitations.” Then Ella understood one thing more. If you could “get up head” and stay there three recitations, you went to the foot with fifteen extra and had a chance to get to the head again. The fifteen extra might be used perhaps to make up for some failure. She wished she knew. It wouldn’t be quite so dreadful to fail if there was only some way to make up. She did not want to ask any of the girls; she must ask Beejay. Then she remembered that Beejay could not be asked, for he had gone away to a boarding-school for boys. He had been to the public school, and she wondered why he had never told her all of these interesting things. He went to another school, however, and maybe all schools were not so wonderful as this one. She would write to him and ask.

Ella’s lessons were usually recited in a few minutes, but evidently more time was allowed for them in this school, for the children now took out their atlases and set to work to draw a map of Maine. Ella watched eagerly. The teacher noticed how interested she was and asked if she could draw maps.

“I don’t know,” replied the little girl honestly. “I never tried; but I can draw flowers and old castles and dogs and cats.”

“I will lend you an atlas,” said the teacher, “and you can try.”

The teacher walked about the room, looking at the children’s work and showing them where they could make it better. Ella’s hands began to tremble, she did so hope that hers was as good as the others. The teacher stood watching her—for half an hour, it seemed to the little girl. Then she took up the paper and looked it over carefully.

“That is exceedingly good,” she said as she laid it down.

Ella was happy. The teacher had not said “exceedingly” to any other boy or girl.

The short winter afternoon was fast coming to an end. For a few days before Christmas most of the schools were obliged to let the pupils go home at half-past four instead of five, unless there was gas in the building or it was a specially bright, sunny day. It was almost half-past four now, and the teacher said, “You may put away your books.” The children put some of them into their desks, and fastened the others together in a strap to carry home. Then they waited for the bell to strike.

Now was coming the event to which Ella had so looked forward, the marching out in single file with her arms down at her sides and one girl walking in front of her and another behind her. But she was disappointed, for the teacher said,

“Ella, if you will wait a few minutes after school closes, I will give you the list of the books that you will need.”

When Ella went for her hat and coat, the children were all gone, and she had to walk home alone. She went by way of the bookstore, however, and it almost made up for her disappointment to be able to hand the slip of paper to the clerk and say with an air of being perfectly at ease—she had practiced her speech in a whisper all the way down the street—

“Will you please give me the books on this list? They are for the Second Room in the grammar school.”

The clerk smiled. Evidently he had seen little new scholars before, and Ella went home with a written arithmetic and a mental arithmetic, an atlas and a little book of geographical questions, a spelling book, a Fifth Reader, a writing book, a red penholder, an impishly sharp little steel pen marked Gillott 303, just like the ones that she had used at the seminary. It was a heavy load, but the glory of it lessened the weight. She hurried up the street, eager to tell of her day’s experiences, and happy to think that, even if she had not marched out in the line, she was at least, and at last, within the circle.

CHAPTER XII
“FOOSLE” REMAINS

In the morning, when Ella reached the head of the stairs on the second floor, there stood the principal. The little girl looked up at him in a friendly fashion and he said “Good morning,” and added, rather to his surprise, for he seldom talked with the children,

“Do you like our school?”

“Oh, I do! I do!” she exclaimed with enthusiasm. “I think it is just splendid.”

At the other side of Ella’s desk sat a little girl in a blue dress with a dainty white apron trimmed with narrow edging. This was Ida. The teacher introduced the two children. Ida said,

“Haven’t you been in the public school before?”

“No,” answered Ella.

“Did you go to a private school?”

“Yes,” Ella replied rather unwillingly, for suddenly, in view of the businesslike ways of the public school, all that she had done before began to seem very childish. “Before that, I went to a seminary.”

“Did you really? I should think that would be splendid. I knew a girl once who went to a seminary, but she was old, as much as sixteen. Are you going to be in the Second Class?”

“Yes. I was here yesterday, and I heard the geography class.”

“After the opening exercises,” said Ida, “the First Class recites in arithmetic, and then ours comes. I’ll show you where the lesson is, and you’ll have time to do the examples before we recite. But you haven’t covered your books yet!”

Ella looked at Ida’s books and saw that every one was neatly covered with light brown paper; and again she felt out of the circle.

“I’ll show you how at recess,” said Ida; and Ella was comforted, for in an hour and a half she would be “in” and like other girls. She noticed that Ida’s name was neatly written on the outside of her light brown covers, and that she had the prettiest capital I that Ella had ever seen. It began like all I’s, then at the line the pen moved away to the left in a handsome little horizontal loop that made quite a different thing of the letter from the common everyday I’s of other people. Ella determined to work till she could make one as good. She wished her name began with an I! Evidently her earthquake handwriting would not do for schoolbooks. Beejay’s older brother wrote beautifully; she would ask him to write on her books, and she would tell him about that handsome letter.

The lesson in arithmetic consisted of ten examples in simple interest. Ella finished these in a little while, and supposed there was nothing more to be done; but when the class was called, she found that the scholars were sent to put their work on the blackboard, and were then to explain it in exactly the way given in the book. She had done the examples in a way that was easier, but was different; and she was out of it again. Oh, if she only could be just like other girls, she wailed mentally.

So the morning went on. Ella was first “in,” then “out” again. The lesson in mental arithmetic was very easy, she thought, as she read the questions, but she never dreamed of learning them by heart. The teacher told the class to close their books, and then she read,

“Bought a piano for $300, and ⅖ of the cost of the instrument was 4/3 of what I received of nine young ladies for its use one year; how much did each young lady pay for its use?”

Ella was greatly taken aback. She could not recite the question with her book closed; and even if she had learned this one, could she learn such nonsense as the one that stood next to it, “¾ of ⅔ of 70 are 5/12 of 4 times what number?” She was afraid not, and for the first time she began to wonder if a school of boys and girls would really be so much pleasanter than a school of young ladies. She felt hopelessly disgraced when she had to say to the teacher, “I don’t know.”

There was one more recitation before the school closed at noon, and that was grammar. The little store had been out of grammars, and therefore Ella had not been able to learn the lesson. The teacher had told her that she might ask Ida anything that she wanted to know. The first thing she asked was why Ida’s grammar was pencil-marked with straight lines beside some of the paragraphs and not the rest.

“Why, those marked are what we learn,” Ida replied.

“What are the others about?”

“I don’t know. No one ever reads those.”

Ella’s little pink grammar at home began,

“Do all nations use the same language?” and the answer was,

“They do not.”

This was easy and sensible, and about things that even very little girls could understand, but this new grammar began,

“English grammar treats of the principles and usages of the English Language,” and went on to say that grammar was divided into four parts, “Orthography, Etymology, Syntax, and Prosody.” Her grammar at home declared that

“A noun’s the name of anything,

As school, or garden, hoop, or swing.”

The new grammar remarked that “Letters cannot be too carefully distinguished from elementary sounds.” Ella wondered why. She had known letters ever since she could remember, and she had never confused them with elementary sounds—whatever elementary sounds might be. How could things be so important when they were not?

The class took their places around the room. Somehow there seemed to be more of them than when they were seated. Ella remembered days when she did not have to recite her French lesson because the young lady who was for a little while the rest of the class had failed to come. With all these boys and girls in the class, there would plainly be no such good fortune. There would be no hurrying to learn her lessons and then being excused to go home early, for classes came at just such times, and Ida had told her that if a pupil stayed away, or was excused, she would be marked zero for the lesson.

Ella sat and listened while the class recited. She grew more and more discouraged with every recitation. Not one girl or boy asked a question as to the meaning of these queer statements. Ella supposed that was because they understood it all—and she did not. How could she ever go on with them? She was almost sorry that she had ever come to a public school. She was a plucky little girl, however, and when she went home at noon, she set to work bravely to learn her spelling lesson, and never a word did she say about the inferiority of public schools to private.

Ida had told her that in the intermediate school the children had to learn the words of the spelling lesson in order and “put them out” to themselves, but that this was not done in the grammar school, and Ella was quite at ease about this lesson, for she could not see how there could be anything “queer and cranky” in a recitation in spelling. There was not, and at the end of the lesson the teacher called the names for reports. Ella had often written in her little diary, when she could not think of anything else to say, “Had a perfect lesson, didn’t fail,” or “Didn’t have a very good lesson and the teacher was cross”; but to have her name called and have her report recorded in definite figures in the big book that lay on the table—that was quite a different matter. She answered shyly but happily, “One hundred.”

After the spelling came twenty minutes of writing; and now the little newcomer was in despair, for she knew just how poor her handwriting was. She knew that no two letters were of the same height or slanted the same way. She knew that it made her hand ache to write half a page, and she knew that the writing was hardly the least bit better since the seminary days. She opened the new copybook at the first page, and behold there was the old familiar sentence, “Honesty is the best policy,” printed in the fashionable “Spencerian hand” with all its rounded flourishes. She had long ago tried her best to copy this very sentence and had failed. What would the teacher say? Perhaps the principal would even put her back into a lower room.

The watchful teacher saw that something was going wrong, and when she looked at the line or two that the little girl had written, she knew what it was.

“Writing is a little hard for you, isn’t it,” she said, “just as arithmetic is hard for Alice?” The teacher was ahead of her times, and as she looked at the cramped little letters, she added:

“Did you ever guess that you were making your fingers work too hard, while there was a good strong muscle here”—and she touched Ella’s forearm—“that would be glad to help them? Just let the muscle lie on the table in this way and try to make some curves like these,” and she gave her a slip of paper with a whole line of curves and loops. “Hold the pen so,” she continued, “but don’t hold it too tight. No one will try to take it away from you.”

“Oh, I see! I see!” exclaimed Ella. “If that muscle is right and not rolled over on its side, the pen has to be right; it can’t point the wrong way if it tries”; and she went to work on the impossible writing with fresh courage, for now she had a definite idea of what she was to do.

The spelling and writing lasted from two until a quarter of three. Then came the geography and the reading.

The geography lesson was a review of questions on the Central and Pacific States. Ella had been over and over these questions till she was sure that she could answer every one of them. She stood at the foot of the class of course as the newest arrival, and she never dreamed of going up any higher; but a boy who stood three above her recited:

“Iron and lead are found in Indiana, and the richest mines in the world are found in Michigan.”

Not one pupil raised a hand. Those below the boy did not know that there was anything wrong, and those near the head had nothing to gain and were not watching so closely as they would have done if there had been a chance to move up. Very timidly Ella put up her hand.

“What is it, Ella?” asked the teacher.

“He should have said, ‘the richest copper mines in the world,’” she answered in a voice that trembled a little, for they were all looking at her.

“That is right,” said the teacher. “Take your place,” and she moved up three places. She was so happy that she could hardly stand still. What a story she would have to tell the mother and to write to Boy Cousin, of going up three places the very first day!

But even greater glory awaited her. The next pupil recited:

“Kentucky is noted for foosle remains of animals and for its mammoth cave.”

“What kind of remains?” asked the teacher, and the boy replied,

“Foosle.”

“The whole class may tell what that word is,” said the teacher, and there was a chorus of “Fossil.”

“Can any one tell what a fossil is?”

No one but Ella raised a hand. Her cheeks were still burning, but she answered bravely:

“A fossil is what used to be a plant or an animal. It has turned into stone, and is dug up out of the ground.”

“Excellent,” said the teacher. “It sounds as if you really knew fossils. Have you any of your own that you could bring to school to show us?”

“Yes,” said Ella, remembering the Doctor’s generous package of specimens. “I have some that were given me and two that I found.”

It was too dark for the reading lesson. The school was dismissed, and Ella went home, her eyes sparkling and her cheeks all aglow. She loved the public school.

CHAPTER XIII
THE TORIES’ ALPHABET

Ella kept a diary because her mother wanted her to. It was not always easy for her to think of something to write in it, but now she had a new subject, “Getting up head.” If she planned carefully, she could make this subject serve her need for three days. For the first day she wrote, “I got up to the head of the class. After I have been there three recitations, I go to the foot and have fifteen extras.” For the second day she wrote, “I hope I can stay at the head of the class three recitations and then go to the foot and have fifteen extras.” For the third day she wrote, “I stayed at the head three recitations, then went to the foot to-day and now have fifteen extras.” It is small wonder that she awoke one morning saying over to herself:

“I get up head | We get up head
Thou gettest up head | You get up head
He gets up head | They get up head”

After two or three weeks, there was much talk about reports. The first one was coming at the end of her first month in the school, and Ella’s heart sank whenever she thought about it. She had been at the head a number of times, and thought she had had more than enough extras to balance her few failures. Still, she had a feeling that something might come that would give her a low rank or might even put her into a lower room.

The reports were to be given out on Friday. Thursday the principal came to the door and asked the teacher to send Ella to the office. Ella turned pale and her hands were cold. She had heard of severe scoldings and even worse that had taken place in that office. She did not know of anything that she had done, but there might be something. She wished she was back in the private school. Her fingers trembled as she knocked at the door.

“Come in,” said the voice of the principal, and she went in.

He said, “There is a matter about which I wish to speak to you, and perhaps it will not be necessary to see your mother.”

This was worse and worse.

“What could she have done,” thought the frightened little girl.

The principal went on:

“I have been looking over the reports of your room, and I find that yours is rather different from what I expected.” He paused a long moment. Then he went on: “You have done remarkably well, better than I thought you could possibly do in a new school with new studies and new ways. When you go home this noon, you may tell your mother what I have said. And there is one thing more. Do you think you can keep this a secret, and not say a word to any one but your mother?”

“Yes, sir, I will,” Ella declared with emphasis.

It would have been simpler to send a note, but this principal liked to try experiments, and he did not always realize the sensitiveness of children. He thought it would be interesting to see of what kind of stuff this little girl was made, and whether the interview would be agreeable to her hardly entered his mind.

“Good-bye,” he said, “and tell your mother you are doing finely.”

The mother thought Ella was too young to skip a class, so she was not promoted.

A week later, Ella met the principal in the hall, and he asked, “Did you tell any one besides your mother?”

He was pleased with the touch of indignation with which she replied, without deigning to say “No,” “I promised I wouldn’t.”

Ella soon forgot the unpleasant part of this interview, and had a comfortable feeling that she and the principal had a secret together. When the other children blamed him, she always stood by him, and she was never afraid of him again.

She was radiantly happy when the reports were given out, for hers read, “Scholarship, 91%, Rank in class, 3. Deportment, Excellent.” Below this, in the space for remarks, the teacher had written, “Ella is studious and well behaved.” This pleased Ella very much.

“You see,” she said to her mother, “she had to write percentage and rank, but she did not have to say anything in the ‘Remarks,’ so she must have done that because she really wanted to.” And she read the line over and over.

Ella’s likes and dislikes were very strong. When she “left out what form and voice the verb ‘forbid’ was,” and so lost her place at the head, she wrote that she “didn’t like grammar at all.” In the middle of the term, when things were a little dull and monotonous, she wrote forlornly:

“Nothing in particular happened to-day, as indeed nothing happens any day but to get up, dress, and start for school; then I study hard all day long and come home at night, go to studying again, and so on, the same old routine over and over again, till I am sure that I am thoroughly sick of it all.”

The trouble was that the lessons had become so much easier that they no longer kept her fully occupied, and she had time to find fault.

However, if Ella did find life monotonous, her teacher did not. The first teacher was ill and out of school, and a much younger one had taken her place.

This new teacher was rather too generous with “extras,” and her pupils soon found out that if they behaved well four days in the week, they could pile up extras enough to make up for all the misdeeds that they could commit on the fifth.

They were very systematic, these naughty children. Four days they behaved like little saints, studying quietly and never whispering; but when the fifth day had come, they wrote notes to one another, they whispered, they made paper dolls, they wriggled and they twisted. They manufactured excuses for walking about the room. How every child could need to go to the dictionary and the waste-basket at least once in five minutes was a mystery to the young teacher. She began to have a nervous dread of Fridays, for fear visitors might come and would report that her classes knew absolutely nothing and behaved exactly as they ought not; for many of her mischievous pupils carried their game so far as to do little studying for Fridays.

Ella would never agree to this. Play and failures in class were two different things. It was fun to play, but it was a disgrace to fail. Besides, Friday’s lesson was always Monday’s review lesson, and, as she very sensibly reasoned, it was better to learn it and have it done with than to spoil Saturday by having to learn a double lesson for Monday.

SHE PLAYED, INDEED SHE DID, SHELTERED BY A BIG OPEN ATLAS

But she played, indeed she did, sheltered by a big open atlas. She made paper dolls and paper furniture, and she folded into boxes and rowboats and dustpans and Chinese junks the squares of paper that in after years were sacred to the stern labors of the kindergarten. This bad child made a regular business arrangement with the little girl who sat in front of her. If, whenever Ella touched her right shoulder three times, she would sit up very straight and act as a support for the open atlas, Ella would give her every week one paper doll, three fly boxes, and two Chinese junks.

Of course the teacher could not help seeing part at least of what was being done “on the Potomac,” as in her own mind she called Ella’s desk; but she was really puzzled what to do, and none of her normal school notebooks gave her the least help. Ella played so quietly and recited her lessons so well—even on Fridays—that it was not easy to be severe with her. How could she be always finding fault with a child who was invariably respectful to her and who slipped up to the head of the class so easily, went to the foot with a store of extras numerous enough to provide for all emergencies, and in a day or two stood at the head again, ready to collect more extras? The term would soon be at an end, and she wisely concluded that she would not walk around to the rear of the atlas when she could avoid it.

About this time came the revealing of the great secret. Ella and Ida still sat together. The paper dolls of each visited those of the other. They shared each other’s worsteds and bright-colored papers, and lent each other new patterns in crocheting and working on canvas and perforated paper. One day, as they were walking home together after school, Ida said to Ella,

“We’re best friends, aren’t we?”

“Of course we are,” declared Ella wonderingly. “Why?”

“Because there’s a secret that we mustn’t tell to any one but our best friends. It’s the Tories’ Alphabet.”

“What are ‘Tories’?”

“I don’t know, but this is their alphabet. It’s just a name for it, I guess. A big girl in the First Room showed it to me, and told me never to let any one have it but my best friends. She said that another girl in a class before that gave it to her. It is an alphabet, and we can write notes with it, and no matter who finds one, it can’t be read.”

“Can’t you show it to your mother?”

“Yes. I showed it to mine after she promised not to tell any one about it; and you could show it to yours if she promised.”

School was no longer monotonous. It was a kind of fairyland where all sorts of marvelous things were happening. Ella looked back with disdain upon her days at the seminary and even at the “Private School for Young Ladies.” If they had lasted all her life, there would never have been anything so thrilling as this. There was no doubt now that she was within the circle to stay.

This is a true copy of the Tories’ Alphabet.

A B C D E F G H I J
K L M N O P Q R S T
U V W X Y Z &

* # + [plus various other symbols]

The sudden change that the revealing of this secret produced was a vast relief to the troubled mind of the teacher. There was no more making of dolls, no more folding of kindergarten papers. The tiny bottles of mucilage disappeared, and never once was a pair of scissors heard to fall upon the floor. Walk back of the atlas when you would, there was nothing to be seen—if you did not come too near—but writing books and scraps of paper whereupon a little girl with unusually poor handwriting was apparently trying her best in her spare time to improve it.

In their mysterious alphabet the two children wrote notes innumerable to each other, and even copied long poems, and they might easily have taken up another study in the time that they gave to it. The teacher knew of course that something was going on, but it was such a relief to have them even apparently at work that she did not open her eyes any wider than was absolutely necessary.

The end of the second term was at hand, and those who stood well in the Second Room were to be promoted to the First Room. Ella was to go. It was an honor to be promoted, but when the reports were given out, she went home with a sober face and lagging steps. Her percentage was 90, and her stand in the class was Number One for the half term. The trouble was with the deportment. Much as the teacher liked her, she could not fairly give her an “Excellent.” The first half of the term was marked “Good,” and the second—which began about the time of the revelation of the secret—was “Very good.” But that was not “Excellent,” and the mother had told her that, although a child might not always be able to take a high stand in her class, she could always be “Excellent” in deportment. The time of reckoning had come.

“Was there anything to prevent you from behaving well?” asked the mother.

“I did behave well four days out of every five, and sometimes others,” Ella replied. “I might have been a good deal worse. I might have had an ‘Unsatisfactory’ in deportment and in any one of the seven studies, or even in all of them, and I didn’t; I only had a ‘Very good’ in just one thing. I don’t think that was bad at all. Anyway, I couldn’t help it.”

“Ella,” said the mother, “the doctors say that often when children seem to be naughty, it is because they are nervously tired and need more sleep. I think the thing to do will be for you to go to bed at eight o’clock every night for the next month. Then you will be rested enough to behave well when you go into the First Room.”

Now one of the girls was to have a party during the next month, and two days of Beejay’s week’s vacation came within its limits. Then, too, this punishment touched her pocketbook seriously. She had never had for a Sunday school teacher a milliner who would give her bits of ribbon, but she did have one at that moment who kept a pretty little fancy store. She was glad of all the mittens that Ella could crochet, and the little girl was becoming quite a capitalist on the proceeds. She had planned many nice things to do with the money that she expected to make; and now there would be no time for anything but her lessons, and when the month was over, it would be too late for mittens.

She had one big cry, then she accepted the situation. One comfort was that the “month” was February and that it was not leap year. Another was that when the day came for her to move into the First Room, the young teacher forgot that she was a teacher and a graduate of the State normal school. She put her arm around the child and said,

“Ella, if you only wouldn’t play quite so much, I would not ask for a better scholar—and anyway, play or no play, you are a dear little girl, and I wish you were my own small sister.”

CHAPTER XIV
AMONG THE “WELL-BEHAVED ANGELS”

The class to be promoted met as usual in the Second Room, and with their books marched into the First Room. Besides the glory of the promotion, Ella’s dignity had another foundation, namely, that she was thoroughly up to date in her equipment. Her smoothly sliding slate pencil that worked like a gold one had not yet been surpassed by any new invention, but the large slate was quite behind the times. The proper thing now was to have what was apparently a book about the size of her arithmetic and grammar, but made up of four small slates, of real slate, but thin and light, and with slender wooden frames. The binding of Ella’s was of a bright, cheery shade of blue, and on the outside was printed in gilt, with a large Spencerian flourish, “Notes.”

The slate was enough to give elegance to her outfit, but the crowning touch of distinction was her book-carrier. Bags had long before gone out of use, if indeed they had ever been in use in that city. The informal court of school girls had decided some time before this that a strap buckled around a little pile of books would do very well for boys, but was not in the best taste for their sisters. Moreover, the strap jammed the edges of the books, and this was an argument against it which was not without force at home, for even in families of little education a schoolbook was an article to be tenderly cared for.

Books were not provided by the city and showered into the hands of pupils to be used or abused according to disposition and home training, or lack of training, and then tossed to the following class. They were to be bought, sometimes with self-denial on the part of children or their parents, to be neatly covered with light brown paper or sometimes with some well-wearing color of calico, and treated with respect. A new book was an acquisition, an article of value to have and to hold. Usually the child’s name and the date of its purchase were written on the flyleaf, often, by special request, in the handwriting of the teacher. Books were used for a long time. With all the glory of promotion to the First Room, only two new books were to be bought. The same geography, grammar, speller, and arithmetic were to serve for the two years before going to the high school.

To carry these precious volumes a new article had recently been invented. The books were laid between two parallel pieces of wood with a strong cord running through holes at either end and wound up by a little wheel and ratchet under the handle. The slight snap that the wheel made in catching was exceedingly agreeable to the ears of little schoolgirl owners.

These carriers were not yet very common; but Ella had with considerable foresight and crocheting of mittens prepared for the future; and now when all the boys and most of the girls marched into the First Room with jagged armfuls of books and slates, Ella, and two or three others carried only neatly screwed up carriers carefully packed with the largest books at the bottom and the smallest at the top, especially when the smallest was a new notebook slate.

The principal sat on the platform, and as Ella went by, she gave him a friendly little smile which he found himself returning. The assistant was assigning seats. These were given out according to the rank of the pupil for the last quarter. Ella had been Number One, and so the place of honor, the seat in the farthest corner from the front, was given to her. Alma sat beside her. Back of her was a wall, and on her right side was another wall.

Alma was a quiet girl who studied hard, and Ella liked her; but Alma never whispered, not even if she had plenty of extras to spare, and, Ella feared, would not even “communicate.” The assistant had explained what was meant by “communicating.” If you smiled at anyone or nodded your head, or took up your deskmate’s pencil with a look that meant, “May I use this?” you were communicating. In short, you were expected to behave “as if you were entirely alone in the room,” said the assistant.

Ella had meant to be very, very good in this new room, but expectations of such preternatural excellence alarmed her. She felt like a naughty little imp dropped by mistake into a roomful of particularly well-behaved angels. Just then she looked up and caught sight of a vacant chair standing near the assistant’s place on the platform. That was where she had sat to do the examples that had admitted her to the Second Room. It was five months ago. None of the First Roomers had paid any attention to her. She was quite beneath them. And now she herself was a First Roomer. She was no longer a naughty little imp, she was one of the particularly well-behaved angels. She was twelve years old, and in two years she would go to the high school. She sat up very straight and arranged her books in her half of the desk with much dignity.

Ella had supposed that the lessons would be harder in the First Room, and she was surprised to find that they were no more difficult than in the Second Room, though perhaps a little more accuracy was required—if that was possible.

The spelling lessons were always written. “People rarely spell words orally,” declared the principal. “Nine tenths of the time they write them. What is needed is the ability to spell correctly on paper, and to spell without the slightest hesitation.”

The first step in this undertaking was to cut foolscap paper into strips between two and three inches wide. This was done by the principal in primitive fashion, that is, with a jackknife and ruler. They were sold to the pupils at eight strips for a cent. When spelling was called, each child wrote her name at the top of a strip, dipped her pen into the ink, and squared for instant action. The assistant took her stand beside one of the swiftest writers of the class and gave out words selected from the lesson of the day, as rapidly as they could be written. Every word must be correct at the first writing. In the first place, there was no time to make any change. In the second place, the attempt was always discovered. Even a shower of little blots, carefully made to resemble the work of a spluttering pen, and incidentally to conceal a mistake, availed nothing. The papers were corrected by the pupils, and never was one allowed to pass with even an undotted i or an uncrossed t.

Straight through the spelling book the children went, reviewing over and over again what they had learned in the lower rooms, and adding to their knowledge by “advance lessons.” They learned columns of words in which ire, yre, ier, iar, igher, and uyer have the same sound; others in which c, d, and ch are silent; they learned words that hunt in couples, pronounced alike but spelled differently and ridiculously apart in meaning; and finally they learned some 1500 of those words of the English language that may be counted upon almost with certainty to produce a crop of failures.

Fifty words were written each day, and to win the longed for 100 per cent, every one of them must be above suspicion. There were examinations in spelling of course, and as a kind of supertest, the class was one day required to write from dictation on the spur of the moment, the following sentence:

It is an agreeable sight to witness the unparalleled embarrassment of the harassed peddler, attempting to gauge the symmetry of an onion which a sibyl had peeled with a poniard, regardless of the innuendoes of the lilies of carnelian hue.

Pupils who ranked high were given in turn the charge of the report book. This was an honor, but also a great responsibility. There were no mistakes in that book, for every figure was watched. “I am keeping my own report very rigidly myself this term,” wrote Ella, “so as to see if there is any foul play.”

Keeping the reports was not only a responsible but a complicated matter. To begin with, there were “whole failures” and “half failures.” A downright “I don’t know” was a whole failure. A slightly muddled recitation, not all wrong and not all right, was a half failure. Then, too, there were extras to be considered and taken account of. Sometimes these were promised in advance, but generally they were given unexpectedly for some specially good piece of work. A particularly good map, an unusually clear recitation of some difficult point, sometimes won from one to ten extras. On one never-to-be-forgotten day, when there was a very hard lesson in grammar, the assistant gave to every one who did not fail ten good solid extras, thus deeply arousing the regret of those who would have studied harder if they had guessed what she meant to do.

Grammar was in the hands of the assistant, and it was whispered among awestruck children that the author of the grammar—author of a printed book!—had said that he wished he could teach his own book as well as she. Could there be greater glory? In the lower rooms, a smaller grammar was used; but on entering the Second Room this larger textbook came to its own, and was used every day for two years and a half. It never occurred to any one that the children might cease to be interested and that it would be better to make a change every little while. The grammar was there to be learned, and learned thoroughly.

When they came to the list of prepositions, Ella was appalled. She had never had the training of the lower grades in learning unrelated words, and to learn this list of sixty-four was much worse than lists of productions. She asked the assistant:

“Why do we have to learn that list?”

“So that you will recognize a preposition when you come to it.”

“But I always do.”

“How do you know one?”

“Just the same way I know a kitten. If it behaves like a kitten, it is a kitten. If it behaves like a preposition, it is a preposition.”

The assistant laughed. “It is true that you always do know a preposition,” she said thoughtfully. “The others learned that list in the lower rooms, and without it I am afraid some of them would not know a preposition from a kitten. We’ll talk this over some day.”

Ella wisely concluded that she need not learn the list, but that she must not tell any one of her privilege. Her experience at the seminary as a “faculty child” had taught her never to reveal faculty secrets, and this one was never told. The assistant did not mention the matter again, but Ella noticed that one day when the embarrassing question would naturally have fallen to her, it was given to some one else.

One evening at the close of the first term in the First Room, Ella did some counting and measuring of paragraphs. Then she said:

“Mother, we have been over only twenty-two pages this whole term. Of course there are exercises besides, but what we have really learned, if it was printed together solidly, would make only seven.”

“I will speak to the assistant if you like,” said the mother, “and ask her if she can arrange to give you longer lessons.”

“Oh, no,” cried Ella in some alarm. “If the lessons were longer, there wouldn’t be any time to read and play and crochet and draw and go to see the other girls and have them come to see me. But I was just thinking how it would sound if I should get to be a famous woman some day and any one asked how much grammar I used to do in a term, and you would have to say, ‘Seven pages.’ Then people would think I must have been horribly stupid.”

“Don’t worry,” advised the mother with a smile. “Before you are a famous woman, there will be time enough to go over more pages. Just learn everything thoroughly. That’s all you have to do now.”

“I do learn everything thoroughly,” declared Ella. “I have to, if I am going to stay at the head of the class—and I am,” she added with emphasis. “Anyway, I like grammar. I don’t like learning rules, of course, and when I give an illustration that is just as good as the one in the book and a great deal more sensible, I don’t see why it should be called wrong. I recited, ‘The adverbial element may be an adverbial clause denoting time.’ The illustration was ‘While I was musing, the fire burned.’ Now when you’re musing, the fire doesn’t burn, it goes out, or at any rate it burns low; so I said, ‘While I was musing, the fire burned low.’ The sentence contained an adverbial clause, and it was good sense and the way fires behave, and it sounded better; but it was counted half a failure. I don’t think that was fair; but I do like parsing and analyzing. It’s real fun to shake a sentence all to pieces till it has to tell you just what it means and what it didn’t intend you should ever know. It’s as much fun as any game. But when an illustration illustrates, it does illustrate. It’s right, and I don’t see how it could be any more right.”

“Perhaps when you become that famous woman, you can write a grammar that will keep every little girl at the head of the class and never allow any one to fail.”

“But I don’t believe I’d care so much about being at the head if every one else was there. Do you think it’s selfish to want to be at the head?”

“How should you feel if some other girl was always at the head? That’s the way to find out,” said the mother.

“I suppose I shouldn’t like it,” Ella replied thoughtfully. “But I like the principal, and I have reason to think that he likes me, and he would be disappointed if I failed on purpose and went down. It would not be right to disappoint him, would it?”

“No,” said the mother, “it would be wrong not to do your best; but you must try just as hard to be kind to all the boys and girls as you do to stand at the head.”

“There’s one boy who doesn’t like me,” said Ella meditatively, “and I never did a thing to him. He told the assistant to-day that I was drawing a picture. She told me to bring it to the desk. I was trying to copy the ‘Landing of the Pilgrims’ from our history. She looked at it, and then she said, ‘Ella has taken great pains with it, and it is very well done. Learn your lessons as well as she does, and you may draw, too. And remember that I do not like tale-bearing.’”

“I hope you didn’t smile and look pleased when she said that.”

“No, I didn’t—neither did the boy. I did make up a face, though,” she added a moment later.

“Why, Ella!”

“Oh, just in my mind, I mean. It didn’t do him any harm, and it made me feel a whole lot better.”

CHAPTER XV
ELLA AND THE PRINCIPAL

Ella was right in thinking that the principal liked her. He was severe, often harsh. Sometimes he seemed to delight in making the children uncomfortable, and even in punishing them. When he read the Bible in the opening exercises, he had a way of emphasizing verses about liars and thieves that made his most truthful and honest pupils cringe and think that they must have said something that was false or done something dishonest. With a voice of scorn and utter contempt he would read, “I cannot dig; to beg I am ashamed,” and then apply the verses to those pupils who were too lazy to dig, but were not ashamed to beg their classmates for help.

Ella was perhaps the one child in school who was not afraid of him. The only time that he had ever shown to her his liking to frighten and tantalize children was on the day when he had sent for her to come to his office; and that little interview had ended so happily that she always thought of it as a jest. Then, too, he had once known the dead father whose memory she worshiped, and that was enough to win her heart.

To this principal it was something new in all his years of teaching to find himself caring what any pupil thought of him; but it was a fact that when he had made some harsh speech and then caught Ella’s look of surprise and regret, he felt uncomfortable. He would have been amazed if any one had said, “You are much more gentle and kindly because you want that child to think well of you,” but it was true nevertheless.

The arithmetic was his share of the teaching, and he conducted it by methods that were successful certainly, but never used in any other school in the city. He was quite likely to break into a rather lame explanation of a problem by handing the one who was reciting a foot-rule and saying, “Go and measure those steps across the street and find out how many square feet of boards are in them”; or, “There’s a pile of wood in the next yard. Go and find out how many cords there are.” Once when he thought a class needed waking up, he suddenly asked, “What would happen if an irresistible force should meet an immovable body?” Again he demanded, “Why can’t a man lift himself up by his bootstraps?” Another time he sent a boy for a wooden rolling hoop. When it arrived, he held it firmly to the chalk ledge of the blackboard, and marked one point on the hoop where it touched the ledge and another exactly opposite that one. Then he turned the hoop a little and demanded, “Why does the point at the top move over more distance than the opposite point at the bottom? You can see that the whole hoop is moving, can’t you? Why don’t they keep together?”

There would be reasons why it did and why it didn’t, until when he thought the class were thoroughly waked up, he would turn back to the lesson and go on as if there had been no interruption. He was as fond of cube root as if it had been a pet child of his own, and when Ella’s class came to that corner of the arithmetic, he took it almost as a personal grievance that they complained of the difficulty.

“You try to do it without thinking,” he declared wrathfully. “If you have just three minutes in which to do something new, take two of them to think out what is the best and quickest way to do it. Cube root is the finest thing in the arithmetic. Miss Ella doesn’t groan over it,” he added, “and you ought to be able to do it as well as she.”

“Ella’s done it before,” said a boy. “She did it before she ever came to this school. She said so.”

The principal’s fine little speech was spoiled. Probably he had never come so near being angry with her. When the class was over, he called her to the desk. “Miss Ella—Ella,” he said, “you must always remember that there are some things which it is better not to tell.”

He had quite a liking for making his pupils turn teachers. Sometimes he would say to a boy or girl in the middle of a recitation, “You may take the class now”; and he would sit back restfully in his big chair on the platform with his eyes half closed.

It was an honor to be asked to hear a class, but it was hardly a pleasure, for the gentleman in the chair was not so sleepy as he seemed, and woe to the substitute teacher if he allowed the slightest mistake to pass.

Sometimes when the teacher of a lower room was absent, he would send one of the First Roomers in to take her place.

“Tell them,” he would say, “to multiply 1 by 2; that product by 3; that by 4; and so on until they have multiplied by 26. Then let every one who has it right go home.”

“Will you please give me the right answer?” the young substitute teacher would ask, and he would reply with apparent indifference,

“Oh, I haven’t it. You can do it while the others are at work”—not an especially easy thing for a child of twelve to do, particularly as he knew well that the principal would look in every little while to make sure that everything was going on in orderly fashion.

Hearing one another’s lessons was common, and correcting one another’s papers; but Ella had an experience in teaching that went far beyond this. One day the principal called her and said,

“Miss Ella—Ella—there’s a boy in the office who says he never understood why you invert the divisor. I want you to go in and explain it to him.”

In a minute Ella came back and said,

“There is a man in there, but there isn’t any boy.”

“Well, boy—man—it is all the same. Just go back and explain it to him as if he was a small boy.”

Ella’s seminary experiences came in play. She had been so used to being counted with grown-ups when she was a member of the “Literary and Scientific Course” that she did not feel the least bit embarrassed or awkward, but explained and cut up an apple to illustrate as easily and naturally as if the strange man had been the boy whom she was expecting to find.

“Did he understand?” asked the principal when she returned to the schoolroom.

“He said he did,” Ella replied.

“I should think he did,” the principal said to Ella’s mother afterwards. “He has been teaching—you can guess how well—somewhere in the backwoods, and he is trying to learn a little something before he goes back. He said he never understood before why you invert the divisor, but I think he will always remember now.”

Most of the work in the First Room was merely a continuation of that in the Second, but there were two new books to be bought and two entirely new subjects to be taken up. One of these new subjects was the writing of compositions. This was the dread of the whole class.

“I don’t see why you should dread that,” said the mother. “You liked to write your ‘Little Pearls’ when you were only eight years old; and you and Boy Cousin had a fine time writing the ‘Bearcamp Books.’ I have seen you spend half an evening over ‘Parker’s Aids to Composition.’ You liked that.”

“Yes,” replied Ella thoughtfully, “but I picked out from Parker’s just what I liked to do. There were sentences with a word left out, and there were sentences where one word was used till I was tired of it. It was just like a puzzle in a paper to make those right; it was play. And when Boy Cousin and I wrote the ‘Bearcamp Books,’ we only wrote the things that came into our own heads. The girls in the First Class say that in school compositions we have to write the things that come into other people’s heads.”

“And you don’t know how to get them out?” said the mother with a smile. “Wait till your first subject is given you, and perhaps it won’t be so bad as you think.”

“The First Class had to write last year on ‘The Seasons,’ ‘Taste and Fashion,’ ‘Books of Value,’ ‘Art and Artists,’ ‘What costs nothing is worth nothing’; and I am sure as sure that I haven’t a word to say about those,” said Ella dolefully.

When the first subject was given, it proved to be “Printing.” Ella tried her best to produce what she thought was in grown-people’s minds about it. She read the articles on printing in two encyclopædias, and then she set to work. After many struggles she wrote:

The honour of inventing printing is usually given to Gutenberg. Scarcely anything is known of his life until the age of thirty-six, when he entered into a contract with a certain company, promising to impart to them whatever knowledge he possessed concerning the secret of printing. The company probably intended to commence the practice of this art, but their plans were frustrated by the death of one of the leading members of the association.

So Ella wrote, primly and stiffly, as she imagined grown-ups always did when they wrote for one another. She even spelled the familiar “honor” with a u, because it had a u in the encyclopædia, and she supposed it ought to have one in a composition.

She struggled with that composition with an energy worthy of a better result; and when it was returned, the world seemed hollow as she read, “Spelling, 5 off,” and saw that the guilty cause of her loss was that word “honour.” Farther down the page, however, there was a comforting little note, “10 extras for the expressions being your own.” Her own, indeed!

One of the two new books bought for use in the First Room was a Sixth Reader. Remembering that the date of its publication was 1866, one can almost name the articles of prose and poetry of which it consisted. Compiled at the close of the Civil War and only fourscore years after the American Revolution, there was of course much about union and freedom and independence. There was the eloquence of Webster and the “Gettysburg speech” of Lincoln; there was “Sheridan’s Ride” and “The Ride of Paul Revere,” and “The Antiquity of Freedom.”

The United States was young and strong, and in natural reaction reading books for children, as well as volumes of selections for older folk, contained many articles about death. In the Sixth Reader was the gruesome tale of Ginevra, who in sport hid in a great chest on her wedding day and was suffocated therein, her body not being found till many years afterwards; there was the “Death of Little Nell,” “Over the River,” “The Conqueror’s Grave,” the “Burial of Sir John Moore,” the story of the Indian who was swept over Niagara Falls, and an especially vivid account of the horrors of the French Revolution. Against all the theories of pedagogy, such thoughts as these were chosen to put into youthful minds—and did them not one bit of harm. The country was all a-thrill with energy, and here in the children’s reader was much of meditative prose and poetry, “The Old Clock on the Stair,” the “Address to a Mummy,” Byron’s “Apostrophe to the Ocean,” Collins’s “Ode to the Passions,” and Gray’s “Elegy in a Country Churchyard”—and the strange part of it all was that the children actually enjoyed these serious writings.

No one, least of all the children themselves, ever demanded entertaining stories in the reading class or a frequent change of readers any more than they demanded interesting examples in arithmetic or a change in the spelling of words or in the multiplication table. The same selections were read over and over, but no one seemed bored by the repetition. The secret was that when the reader was taken in hand, no one expected to be amused. Every one realized that there was some definite work to do. What the author meant must be discovered. Then one after another was called on to read the same paragraph or stanza until the teacher was satisfied that the thought had been fully brought out. The selections in the reader were carefully chosen to give scope to thought and expression. To read well was regarded as an accomplishment. The best reader in the room was looked upon with envy and admiration. Visitors often asked if they might hear a class in reading.

As has been said, when the reader was taken in hand, every one in the class realized that there was work to be done; but of course not all succeeded equally well in doing it. One pupil declared his belief that a “storied urn” meant an urn “that you could tell a lot of stories about.” Another demanded with emphasis,

“And how can man die better

Than facing fearful odes?”

and yet another, coming to

“Yet my last thought is England’s—fly!

To Dacre bear my signet ring,”

read in defiance of both sense and punctuation,

“Yet my last thought is England’s fly.”

It was a long time before he ceased to bear the nickname of “England’s fly.”

CHAPTER XVI
WHEN THE COMMITTEE MEN CAME

The second new book that was purchased in honor of the First Room was a history of the United States. This was quite a grown-up history with its three hundred pages besides the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution. There were maps and pictures. There were even detailed maps of many battles. There were “chronological reviews,” which consisted of long lists of dates, each with its proper event attached. They were recited at express train speed as follows:

1607. Jamestown was founded.

1609. Hudson discovered the Hudson River.

1610. The starving time.

1619. The first legislative assembly in America was convened in Virginia.

The book was not interesting, but it was well written. Ella’s heart was won by the first sentence. This read, “The honor of the discovery of America belongs to Christopher Columbus as an individual, and to Spain as a nation.” The swing, the balance of the words pleased her. She did not know whether it was good or bad, but she did know that she liked it and liked to say it over and over.

The first draft of her composition on “Printing” read, “The honor of inventing printing belongs to Gutenberg as an individual and to Germany as a nation.” But she decided that it was not quite fair to borrow the sound of a whole sentence from some one else; so she compromised by taking half of it.

At the end of the second day’s use of the book, she came home quite in despair.

“I just can’t do it,” she lamented. “I thought it was nice, for it told about Columbus when he was a boy, and about his trying so hard to get some rich king to help him find the way to India by sailing across the Atlantic. The assistant said she did not want us to learn it word for word, and I didn’t. I told it just as I would a story; and I left out that he studied geometry; and it was counted a half failure. I don’t see why any one could not cross the ocean without studying geometry; and I haven’t the least idea what geometry is, anyway.”

The history went on with struggles and unhappiness, for it was never easy for Ella to learn anything word for word, and she found that while this was neither required nor desired, it was nevertheless the only way to make sure of bringing in every detail, and thus avoiding failures and half failures.

Through discoveries and colonies and Indian wars she toiled and part way through the Revolutionary War. Then one day a little girl with bright eyes and glowing cheeks threw open the door of her home and cried:

“I can do it now, mother. They never seemed like real people, but they do now, and some of them are buried in our own cemetery. I found one just now that said, ‘Fell at Bunker Hill.’”

This was rather confused, but little by little the mother understood the situation. An old Revolutionary cemetery lay in the heart of the city, and through it ran the nearest way to school. The city authorities would have been glad to get rid of it and took no care of the place, made no repairs, and did not object to its being used as a playground. Most of the stone wall around it had tumbled down. Monuments were lying on the ground, the door of a tomb had been shattered; but yet it was beautiful, for flowers grew everywhere. Under the trees were white stars of Bethlehem. Violets, daisies, and buttercups were scattered through the grass. Shady lots were covered with periwinkle, and sunny ones were bright and cheery with trim little none-so-pretties. Lilacs, white roses, red roses, and yellow Harrison roses peered through the broken palings of the fences. Lilies of the valley ran in friendly fashion from one lot to another. In spite of the neglect, or perhaps because of it, the old cemetery was a happy place for children, and they enjoyed it. On the way home it had suddenly entered Ella’s head to compare the dates on the stones with those in her history; and in a flash the whole story became real. She had found not only the grave of one who was killed at Bunker Hill, but of one who had been with John Paul Jones in battle on the sea. From that day, history was as real to Ella as the things she could remember in her own life.

She told Alma about her discovery.

“Do you believe we ought to play here,” said Alma, “now that they seem like real living people?”

But Ella had not forgotten her fancy that the dead folk of the little churchyard in the mountains liked to have people come there to eat their Sunday lunch and chat a little together. She remembered too one day when her father and mother and she were walking in a cemetery. She was a tiny child and she began to play on one of the graves. The mother called her away, but the father said, “Oh, let her play. I think if I were there, I should like to have little children come and play around my grave.”

She said to Alma rather shyly,

“I think maybe they’d like to have us.”

“Perhaps they would,” said Alma, “if we played gently and had kind thoughts about them.”

“Of course we should play gently,” said Ella. “We’re not small children any longer. We shall go to the high school in one year more. Oh, I want to go now. I want to be grown up. Don’t you?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps. Why do you want to?”

“One reason is so I can go up in the Fourth of July balloon. I’ve always wanted to, and I will if I ever have five dollars that I can spend just as I like. I suppose I shan’t ever ride in a swanboat, for I’m too old. But let’s go on with the history lesson. Perhaps we’ll find that some of the people in it are here. If they are, let’s pick some flowers and put on their graves.”

With this new inspiration the children roamed about the old cemetery, examining dates and inscriptions.

“Here’s one marked ‘Howe,’” said Ella, “and it says that he died in battle in 1778.”

“Maybe he was related to Admiral Howe,” Alma suggested.

“How he must have felt, then, to have his own uncle—I guess he was an uncle—fighting against the Americans,” said Ella. “Suppose it had been Washington who died in 1778?” she added thoughtfully.

“Then maybe we’d be under a king or a queen. How queer it would be to talk about ‘Her Majesty the Queen of Great Britain and the United States of America.’”

“I don’t believe we’d be under a queen at all. Something would have been sure to happen.”

Both the little girls looked forward with pleasure to the recitation in history on the following day, but they were disappointed, for just before the class was to be called, visitors came in and asked especially if they might hear one of the classes in reading.

There were of course more visitors to the First Room than to the lower grades. One was the superintendent of schools. He used to drop in informally, chat a little in a friendly fashion, and then, when the boys and girls were quite at their ease, he would examine a class or two, look at the maps that had been drawn, make a note, both aloud and in his notebook, of anything that he especially liked, and say good-bye quite as if he had been visiting at their homes.

Members of the school committee had the privilege of making speeches to the pupils. If a man could win a place on this committee, he could, even if he had no talent for public speaking, enjoy all the rewards of eloquence, for he was sure of an audience who would hang upon his words and whose faces would express genuine regret when his speech was evidently drawing to a close.

It was Ella who let the secret out. Once after there had been an address that was both long and dull, the assistant said to her at recess:

“I was pleased to see how attentive you were to our visitor this morning. That was real courtesy.”

“I wanted him to keep on talking,” Ella replied.

“Did you?” questioned the assistant, with a note of surprise that would slip into her voice, quite against her intentions.

“Yes, because if he had talked only ten minutes longer, it would have been too late to have any geography recitation, and I didn’t know the lesson so very well,” replied Ella serenely. “I tried to look just as interested as I possibly could, so he would keep on talking.”

Even if the committee men were not all the most eloquent of public speakers, they rarely failed to have something definite to say and to say it in a way that would make it “stick,” which after all is about as much as any orator can hope to accomplish. One of them brought a stranger with him one day, who asked to see the drawing of maps on the blackboard from memory.

“Very well,” said the principal. “Class in geography.—What is your State?” he asked the guest.

“Georgia,” the guest replied.

“The class may put an outline of Georgia on the board,” said the principal. “North—northeast—east—southwest. Put in the ranges of mountains.” Six rivers were drawn in and the location of six towns marked. It was done too rapidly for even a glance at a neighbor’s map, and with few mistakes.

When the maps were done, the guest spoke highly of the work, the accuracy and the speed manifested. “It was quite a coincidence,” he said, “that their lesson should have been my own State.”

“Their lesson was on Southern Asia,” said the principal quietly, “but what they have once learned, they are responsible for at any moment. Will you say a few words to the pupils?” he asked the committee man, for that was the courtesy demanded by the occasion.

The committee man rose rather ponderously and looked the room over. Then he said:

“You’ve studied about the equator, of course; and now I want to know what a ship does when it comes to the equator. Does it sail over it, or break through it, or what?”

No one said a word. The duller pupils were a little shy. The brighter ones were afraid of some catch, and there was silence. The committee man looked up and down the class. Finally, he pointed his long finger to the farthest corner of the room and said:

“I’d like that boy with red hair to answer the question.”

The boy with red hair was sensitive about bright colors. His face turned scarlet while the rest of the class giggled.

“I want that boy with red hair to answer,” repeated the committee man. “I’ve noticed that when a boy has red hair, he usually has some pretty good brains under it.”

The laugh was turned. The boy with red hair now plucked up courage and said, “The equator is an imaginary line. There is nothing to get over.”

“Good,” said the committee man. “You are the kind of boy I thought you were. Now, don’t forget that the equator isn’t the only difficulty in the world that you will find to be imaginary when you come to it. Good-bye.”

Another visitor told interesting stories about the little red schoolhouse that he attended as a boy, about getting out of bed before light cold winter mornings to help with the farm work before he went to school; of ploughing his way through snowdrifts, of making hay and digging potatoes and threshing grain, of working all day in the hot sun.

“Now, boys,” he said at the close, “I have a secret to tell you. You think it’s rather hard—don’t you?—to be called at eight o’clock in the morning, eat breakfast, and get to school by nine? Well, the secret is that while you are making yourselves comfortable the country boys are making themselves ready to come here to the city a few years from now to take your places. I wonder what you are going to do about it. You want those good places, and there is just one way by which you can hold on to them. It is this, ‘Work hard and don’t grumble.’”

Another committee man talked about perseverance. At the end of his little address he said:

“We have been talking about perseverance, and now I am going to ask you to do something that will make you remember this talk as long as you live. I want you to sing ‘Go on, go on, go on, go on,’ to the tune of ‘Auld Lang Syne.’”

It was sung, and there is no question that it was remembered.

CHAPTER XVII
THE HIGH SCHOOL EXAMINATIONS

One day at the beginning of Ella’s second year in the First Room, the superintendent came to the school and brought with him a stranger, a quiet gentleman with a pleasant smile.

“Do you suppose that is the one?” was the question signaled from one to another.

Three days of the term had passed, and the principal had not appeared. All sorts of rumors were floating about. It was said that he had leave of absence, that he was sick, and finally, that he had resigned and that a new principal might step in at any moment. The assistant was quite equal to the management of the school, and everything was going on well.

The superintendent introduced the stranger to her; then, turning toward the pupils, he introduced to them their new principal. Fortunately it was near the close of the session, for no rules against “communicating” or even whispering could have long suppressed the comparing of notes that was all ready to burst forth. There was no playing on the homeward way that noon; the children were too eager to tell the great news.

Ella was an ardent little partisan. Whatever the principal was to others, he had always been kind to her, and she wrote forlornly in her little diary, “Another king arose which knew not Joseph.”

Of course some different ways of doing things were introduced, and Ella was certain that the older ways were far better. In arithmetic, it had been forbidden to preserve any written work. What was wanted was the ability to do a problem; why preserve it then, if you have the ability to do it at any time? The new way was to keep your problems in a blank book, each one fenced off from the others by a carefully ruled double line, and have them to refer to at any moment. There were good reasons for both ways.

The plan of map-drawing had been to study a map till you had a picture of it in your mind, then to draw that picture on paper or on the blackboard. The new way was to make as nearly an outline of the country to be drawn as could be made with straight lines, and then fit the true outline of the country around it. This worked very well if one happened to remember just how many “measures” long each line of the outline should be; but if the proper length of any one line was forgotten, the pupil was all at sea. The numbers had gone from his mind, and he had no mental picture of the map. Ella’s diary called it “a queer, conglomerated way of drawing Europe.”

Gradually the new principal made his way. Every lesson had to be learned as carefully as ever, but there was a margin to the work. When strange kinds of woods appeared in the list of “productions” that was the children’s horror, the new principal was quite likely to bring some specimens of them to school, and perhaps to invite a group of those children who seemed most interested to spend the evening at his house to see the rest of his cabinet of woods. With him a company went not only to the asbestus ledge, but to a coal mine not far away where they could collect some fossils. He had a valuable microscope, and this he brought to school to reveal the marvels of little things.

So passed the spring term. In those days the spring term began the school year, so that when Ella returned to school in September, she had only three terms more before going to the high school.

It was soon plain that much of the rest of the year would be given to preparation for the high school examinations. Every study was reviewed most thoroughly, from the beginning of the book to the end. For a while geography was recited twice a day, once to the new principal and once to the assistant. Every question in the little pink geographical question book was asked by the teacher and answered by the pupils. The principal exports of Europe, fifty-three articles, were recited over and over. A table of the latitude and longitude of fifty-six places, a thing to give one bad dreams, was repeated in chorus and in solo. More than once the time sacred to the reading class was given to going over the United States or some other country, naming boundaries, rivers, and cities. Maps were drawn until the children could almost have drawn them with their eyes shut. The new principal said it was never his way to offer prizes; but if it had been, he would have offered one long ago for the best map of Europe. “Draw just as good a map as you can,” he said to the First Class, “and we will see about the prizes afterwards.”

The other studies were reviewed in much the same way as the geography. There was more teaching than the teachers could do, and some of the pupils were pressed into the service. Ella hardly recited at all, she was so busy hearing others. Among these were two girls who were sent to her in the office every day. “See if you can possibly make them understand how to analyze a sentence,” said the assistant almost hopelessly.

There were written examinations without end. Surely the children ought to have been well used to them, for they lived and breathed examinations every few days, especially in grammar and arithmetic. Among these examinations were full sets of the questions used for entrance to the high school for the last twelve years, and every one of these was given to the class in hand. The children of the sixties must have been tough little things, for not one of them had nervous prostration.

As the weeks passed on, the work became more and more intense. Every question in the geographical question book had been answered, as has been said. Every topic in history was recited and every map of a battle reviewed. “Miscellaneous Problems” from numerous arithmetics were now showered upon the children’s heads like avalanches. Weird and incredible tales these problems were, tales of men who bought goods on the most impossible terms and sold them in fractional lots of most uncomfortable size; tales of a group of men who bought a grindstone in partnership and left to the members of the First Class the task of finding out how many inches each should grind off to get his money’s worth. Did any one ever work on that problem without a mental vow never, never to buy a share in a partnership grindstone, especially well in toward the center?

The rules of the grammar were thoroughly reviewed and then came a great expanse of opportunity for parsing and analyzing. On pages and pages of the Sixth Reader difficult words were underlined for parsing. The most complicated sentences were carefully dissected, and incidentally a habit of looking closely into the exact meaning of words and the precise shade of thought which they expressed was formed. The study of grammar was much more than a repetition of rules. It had a wide and generous margin. It took the place in the grammar school that is filled by logic in the college.

In spelling, the knowledge of one book was all that was required. Indeed, there was once quite a little insurrection when, in one of the test examinations, the word “pusillanimous” appeared, a word which was not in the spelling book. About music there was grave questioning. Many of the pupils were taking lessons at home, and some were doing quite advanced work. Was it fair to compare this with the work of children whose only instruction came from an hour a week in school? “There will always be a difference in home advantages,” said the wise superintendent, “but these examinations should be limited to what they have had full opportunity to learn in school.” It was decided that the examination in music should be given, but should not be counted in ranking the pupils.

This matter of rank was of vast importance in the eyes of the children, and was watched with interest by some thousands of the older folk of the city. The high school examinations were not given in the grammar schools, but in the high school—which gave to them an added dignity. The papers were corrected with the utmost care and were then ranked according to their percentage. The city was proud of her schools, and to stand Number One in these examinations was looked upon as being the highest honor that it could bestow upon a pupil entering the high school.

This was Ella’s ambition. “I want it! I want it! I want it!” she said to herself. “It seems as if I must have it.” But would she get it? Ever since the first half-term she had been at the head of her class. She had become used to this, and had fallen into the habit of writing carelessly in her diary, “Reports to-day. I was Number One as usual,” and then had forgotten it all and had crocheted a mitten or played ball without thinking any more about it. This, however, was quite different. Her work was to be compared with that of the pupils of the First Class in all the grammar schools of the city. It is no wonder that she was anxious.

The last day of school arrived. Ella went through the exercises almost in a dream. She began to realize that she was going into a strange new school, and she was half afraid. After the day was over and the guests had gone, the whole class wrote their names on the board with “Graduating Class of 1869. Good-bye.”

On the following morning a long procession of boys and girls wound its way up the hill to the high school. They were distributed among the different rooms. Each room was in charge of a teacher, and Ella was delighted to find the assistant standing by the door in her room, ready to welcome her. The place of honor was given to arithmetic; first written, then mental arithmetic. It was “mental” indeed, for not one figure was allowed to be written. The pupils did the examples in their minds as best they could, then set down the answer; and they had had so much practice in keeping the example as well as the work in mind that it seemed to them hardly more than play when a good clear printed copy of the questions lay before them.

What the nerves of the children of 1869 were made of is a mystery, but sure it is that after graduating from the grammar school on Tuesday, going through part of the high school examinations on Wednesday, Ella, and probably many others, went to a party Wednesday evening, and on Thursday finished the examinations—geography, grammar, spelling, history, and music. Thursday afternoon there was a visitor for Ella to take shopping. The visitor went home at night, and now there was time to think. Ella began to be a little alarmed. She thought over one of her answers after another, and wondered whether she had by mistake slipped in a wrong word or figure. “I must be head of the city,” she said to herself. “I want it! I want it! Oh, I want it! I do so wish the principal would come and tell me.”

The doorbell rang; the principal had come.

“Oh, I’m so glad!” Ella cried. “Do please tell me where I stand!”

“You know it takes some time to look over all those papers,” said the principal kindly, “but I will see that you know the results just as soon as possible. I came about the map. Have you forgotten about the map for which a prize was to be given?”

She had not forgotten, but prizes for maps seemed a very small matter to her now, and it really required a little effort to thank the principal as warmly as she thought he would expect. After he had gone, she opened the package rather indifferently. It contained a handsome copy of Æsop’s Fables. With its corners put into slits in the flyleaf was a card with her name and the date. She laid the book down, and wandered restlessly about the room. “Did you notice how queerly he looked at me?” she said to her mother. “He knows that some one else is ahead of me, and that is why he wouldn’t come in. He was very good to bring the book, but I don’t care one bit for it or for anything in it.” She took up the book indifferently and began to turn the leaves over; and behold, with the corners put into slits in a second flyleaf was another card, and on it was written, “Ella, 94 per cent average. Highest in the city.”

One day Ella heard the bell of the grammar school ringing faintly across the old cemetery, and she went down the path between the graves of the Revolutionary heroes to visit the school. The principal and the assistant gave her a warm welcome and a seat on the platform just as if she was a committee man. The pupils looked at her enviously, just as she used to look at the high school girls when they came back to visit. The big waste-basket stood near her. On top of the scraps of paper was a half-sheet, and on it was written a line or two in the “Tories’ Alphabet.” She wondered which of these children were “best friends” and had been admitted to the secret. New maps were on the board, not hers nor those of any of her class. A girl whom she had not especially liked was sitting in her old seat. A class from the Second Room had been promoted, and how young they did look! They were just babies!

ON IT WAS WRITTEN, “ELLA, 94 PER CENT AVERAGE. HIGHEST IN THE CITY”

“Aren’t those children from the Second Room a great deal younger than we were when we came in?” she asked.

The assistant smiled. She had heard that question before.

“Just the same average age,” she replied; “but you know that you have grown up. You are not a little girl any longer; you are a young lady of the high school.”

There was a lump in Ella’s throat. Something had gone out of her life. She was not “in it” any more—and “it” was her vanished childhood.

THE END

APPENDIX
THE EXAMINATION QUESTIONS OF 1869

Mental Arithmetic
1. | ⅛ of a number exceeds 1/9 of it by 20. What is the number?
2. | A can do a piece of work in 1⅕ hours: A and B can do the same work in 48 minutes; in what time can B do it alone?
3. | ½ + ⅓ + ⅕ + ⅙ of a certain number, increased by 3½ + 10^5/7 = 50^5/7 What is the number?
4. | When gold sells at 59 per cent advance, how much can be bought for $100 in bank bills?
5. | What must be the amount of my sales for one year that I may clear $800, at 16 per cent profit?

6.

An attorney collects a bill and receives for his services $1.26, which is ⅛ per cent of the amount of the bill. What was the value of the bill?

7.

If cloth is a yard and a quarter wide, and shrinks 6 per cent in length and 6 per cent in width, what part of a square yard will one yard of the cloth contain after shrinkage?

8. | Bought paper at $1.75 per ream and sold it at 1 cent a sheet. How much per cent did I gain?

9.

If gunpowder is composed of nitre, charcoal, and sulphur in the proportion of 7.6, 1.4, and 1, how much of each article will it take to make 2500 lbs. of gunpowder?

10.

A and B had the same income. A saved ⅛ of his, but B spent $30 a year more than A; and at the end of 8 years, found himself $40 in debt. How much did each spend yearly?

Written Arithmetic
1. | What is the value of 5/7 of {8½}/{9⅔} of (3^2/9)/11 ÷ (2^3/7)/(5½)?
2. | If 1 gal. 1 qt. 2 gi. of water passes through a filter in one hour, how much will pass through in 4 h. 20 m. 24 sec.?

3.

Sold goods for 2½ per cent commission and invested my commission in sugar, which I sold at an advance of 15 per cent, and gained $240. How much was my commission, and what was the value of the goods sold?

4.

If I invest $3500 for 1 year, 2 months, and receive on my investment a dividend of $490, what rate do I receive per year?

5. | A cubic inch of earth weighing 220 grains, consists of 41 billions of infusoria. What is the weight of one insect?

6.

If a man can earn $2^3/16 per day, how many days’ wages will he have to give for a suit of clothes, if the coat costs $25½, the pantaloons $8^9/11, and the vest $5¼?

7.

If a man buys bank stock at 35 per cent above par, what per cent does he receive on his investment if the bank pays 8 per cent on the par value of the stock?

8.

What will be the length of a straight walk between the opposite corners of a rectangle whose length is 40 rods, and width 36 rods?

9.

A, B, and C joined their capital in the proportion of ½, ⅓, ¼. At the end of 9 months they divided their profits, amounting to $2860. How much did each receive?

10. | How much money should you receive from a bank for a note of $820 for 90 days, discounted at 8 per cent?
Grammar

1.

Write the plural of baby, belief, journey, potato, prospectus, sheep, wife; and the feminine nouns corresponding to actor, bridegroom, heir.

2. | Compare able, beautiful, chief, free, like.
3. | Write the possessive case, singular and plural, of deer, goose, it, lady, man.

4.

State the mood, tense, and voice of the following verbs: I am struck. He is reading. Dost thou sleep? He will have been thinking. Do not run.

5.

Write a sentence containing a transitive verb with an object, and change the sentence to one expressing the same thought with the proper forms of the same words, with the verb in the passive voice.

6.

Comprise in a single sentence an adjective element of the third class, a complex objective element of the first class, and a complex adverbial element of the second class.

7. | Analyze the following sentence: “‘All’s well that ends well,’ is a familiar proverb.”
| Parse the words in italics in the following sentences:—
8. | That is true. It is seen that that “that” stands first in the sentence.
9. | It is difficult to decide what to do under circumstances so unusual as these.

10.

Correct the following sentences: It has been talked over between you, John and I. The cause of these quarrels are unknown. I ain’t got none. You daresn’t do it. What had I ought to do?

Geography
1. | Name the rivers in America, beginning on the Northeast, that flow into the Atlantic.
2. | Draw a map of Maryland, with its rivers and principal towns.
3. | What does Central America comprise?
4. | What are the principal exports of South America?
5. | What are the principal towns in England?
6. | What are the principal towns in Scotland?
7. | What are the principal towns in France?
8. | What are the principal seaports in Spain?
9. | What are the principal towns in Austria?
10. | Describe the route and the waters a steamer would pass through in going from New York to Manilla.
History
1. | Give an account of the discoveries of the Cabots.
2. | Give an account of the settlement of Salem.
3. | Give an account of the causes of the French and Indian War.
4. | Give an account of the First Continental Congress.
5. | Give an account of the Evacuation of Boston.
6. | Describe the Battle of Camden.
7. | Give the names of the most important events of 1781.
8. | State the causes of the Civil War.
9. | Describe Sherman’s March.
10. | Describe Lee’s Surrender.
Music

1.

Describe a diatonic scale, stating how many notes it contains; how many tones and semi-tones; the order of these tones and semi-tones, and give the scientific reason why No. 8 agrees with No. 1.

2. | Give the signatures of the keys of Mi, Fa, Si, and La flat.
3. | Write out eight notes, beginning with Mi flat, and flat the notes where necessary.
4. | What is a chromatic scale?

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Table of Contents

- ELLA
- CONTENTS
- ELLA
- CHAPTER I A LITTLE GIRL AND A BIG SEMINARY

- CHAPTER II A LADY OF THE ENGLISH AND CLASSICAL GRADUATING COURSE

- CHAPTER III THE THREE TRAGEDIES OF ELLA’S SEMINARY LIFE

- CHAPTER IV GRADUATION DAY AND ITS MISFORTUNES

- CHAPTER V ON THE WAY TO GRANDMOTHER’S
- CHAPTER VI THE REAL NEW HAMPSHIRE
- CHAPTER VII BOY COUSIN
- CHAPTER VIII RAINY DAYS AND SUNDAYS
- CHAPTER IX BOOKS AND PLAY
- CHAPTER X LIKE OTHER GIRLS

- CHAPTER XI ELLA’S FIRST DAY IN THE PUBLIC SCHOOL

- CHAPTER XII “FOOSLE” REMAINS
- CHAPTER XIII THE TORIES’ ALPHABET
- CHAPTER XIV AMONG THE “WELL-BEHAVED ANGELS”
- CHAPTER XV ELLA AND THE PRINCIPAL
- CHAPTER XVI WHEN THE COMMITTEE MEN CAME
- CHAPTER XVII THE HIGH SCHOOL EXAMINATIONS
- APPENDIX THE EXAMINATION QUESTIONS OF 1869
- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE