Boarding Round/Chapter 5

In "boarding round" it was customary for the master, unless some other arrangement had been made, to go, for the first night, to the home of the man who was the committee that year. So James Sears asked his scholars where Mr. Watts lived. They told him with great minuteness. He had better go across the lots; it was a long way around the road. It was quite two miles, but he could cut across, and it wouldn't be more than one mile. He was to go down first to a little brook, in the hollow, follow that up stream a short distance, then get over a new high stone wall, follow a path through the woods till he should come to a lane that would take him to a house, where he would do well to inquire, and they would tell him how to take the right road to Mr. Watts'. He couldn't lose the way.

It was nearly five o'clock when the master was ready to start. The day was cloudy, and ​it would be dark early. He hesitated whether it was safe for him to attempt the crosslots plan. But he must not be late for supper; he believed he had sufficient Yankee blood in him to enable him to find his way. He would get through before dark. So he set out, turning into the old pasture, in which he thought he could see, in the distance, the little brook that had been spoken of. He found that; he got over a wall; he found himself in a piece of woods; the path was not very distinct, but he thought he must be right; so he kept on; he saw something which he took to be the lane which he was to follow to a certain house. No house appeared; but he kept on, going over a hill, that didn't seem quite like the way which the boys had described; yet he would keep on; there was nothing else to do. He at length saw a house which was at some distance away, and his path did not lead to it. But he had better make for it, and inquire. He did so. He was told that he was going just the wrong way. "Well," said the schoolmaster, "if there is any road that will take me to Mr. Watts' house, please put me into that; I've had enough of the lots." He was shown the road; but that would take him right past the schoolhouse, about half a mile away. It was now beginning to grow dark. So there was but one thing to do. He must walk the two miles and a half as quickly as possible. He set himself to the inevitable ​task with a will; but he had not gone far before he found it necessary to stop at some house and inquire the way. He would be directed straight ahead, but soon it would appear that the "straight ahead" went in two directions. So he must inquire again. At last it seemed to him that he had gone far enough. At a house where he stopped, he was told that he had come about half a mile beyond a road where he should have turned off. He must go back to that point, turn to the right, and he would find Mr. Watts' house the third on the left.

James Ray Sears rapped at the door of that third house. A young mother, with a babe in her arms, appeared before him. He asked, "Is this Mrs. Watts? I am Mr. Sears, your schoolmaster."

"Why, come in, Mr. Sears; you must be very tired, walking so far. We are glad to see you, and we will do the best we can for your comfort. But there has been some mistake. We made arrangements for Mrs. Grant, who lives near the schoolhouse, to take you. We didn't mean to leave you to find your way clear up here alone. Now sit down in this easy chair, and rest yourself. Our supper is not quite ready yet."

Mrs. Watts' baby was crying, because it should have been asleep in its cradle, and her little boy, of four years, was clinging to her skirts. The baby continued to cry after it ​was put in its cradle, for it had taken cold and was fussy." With all the poor mother could do, the little one would not sleep, or be quiet. Just then the teacher heard some one come to the back door, and say, "Ellen, I have a bit of liver here; I think we'd like this for supper, if you haven't anything ready yet." But in under tones, the reply was, "Mr. Sears is in the parlor; he didn't get the word, and has come. We shan't want the liver to-night. You do up your chores as soon as you can, and come in, and visit with him, for I must now get something suitable for supper."

Like the good husband that he was, he hurried out to the barn to get his chores done. But the baby continued to cry, while four-year-old Willie began to edge his way cautiously towards the stranger. James Sears understood the situation perfectly. He had come where there was no preparation for him, and Mrs. Watts, with her sick baby, was being put to her wits' end. He resolved what he would do. He went boldly into the kitchen, and said to his hostess, "Mrs. Watts, I beg your pardon, but I am going to take care of your baby. Put her right into my arms now, and don't you think anything about her while you get the supper."

Notwithstanding all the mother's protests, he secured the baby. But he found that while he walked with it, it would be quiet; the moment he stopped walking, and attempted to sit ​down, the poor little thing would cry. So he continued to walk the room. He had got accustomed to walking; a little more wouldn't hurt him perhaps. At least, he philosophized in that way, as the hand of the clock moved slowly around, and at last pointed to a quarter to eight. Meanwhile the tantalizing aroma of the biscuits, which Mrs. Watts had hurriedly got into the stove oven, and were now done, came through the half open door to the kitchen. This well nigh overcame the patience of the baby's patient nurse, for he had had only just a little "bite" at noon,—a doughnut that he had put in his pocket,—since leaving home before daylight. There began to be a feeling of "all-goneness" in the region of his stomach, which was more disagreeable than the prolonged muscular tension of his arms. But he braced up his courage, and kept on walking. The clock struck eight. Still the sweet odor of the biscuits, with now the added fragrance of coffee, was in cheering evidence, a prophecy of what was soon to come to pass. And surely so, for Mr. Watts came bursting into the parlor. He waited for no ceremonies. He was wearing the great apron that he had put on in the morning, to keep his clothes clean while engaged in butchering that day.

"Well, Mr. Sears, I am very glad to see you; but we didn't mean to put you to the trouble to come as far as this, the first day, ​to get something to eat. It's too awful bad. I hope you are well."

"Very well, thank you, Mr. Watts. I don't mind walking a little way."

"Why, Hiram! Why have you come in here with that thing on? For mercy's sake, do go out and fix yourself up, so you will look decent." And Mrs. Watts added, "Supper's ready now. Don't keep the master waiting longer; he's just famished; I know he must be."

"Well, dearie, we've got all the time there is ahead of us. I was bothered with that old lame cow; I had to doctor her up, you know. I was sorry to be hindered. And I hadn't met Mr. Sears. I must take time to just say, 'How d'ye do?'"

Now Mrs. Watts took the baby that had just got to sleep, and laid it gently in the cradle. When she was satisfied that it would continue to sleep, she hastened back to the parlor, where her good husband and the teacher were still conversing.

"Why, my dear, why in the world don't you get that old dirty apron off, wash up, and get ready to come to the table. My biscuits came out nice, but they'll all be cold before we are ready to eat them, at this rate."

"I was just telling Mr. Sears what a time we had with the old hog, up there at Tom Sniver's. With all the butchering I've done, I never got into quite such a scrape before."

​"But we shall all be in a worse scrape if we don't have anything to eat before midnight."

"Yes, but just a minute, till I finish my story. The funniest of it all was, that old Tom was about 'half seas over,' as they say, and to take care of him and the old hog was too much—"

"But you can talk when you get to the table; I shall ask Mr. Sears to come with me, if you don't wish to."

"Well, wife, but I'm hungry as a bear in the woods. I guess I will be around where you are, when you have something to eat."

"Yes, indeed," responded the wife, "if there were a policeman here, I'd have you arrested as a maniac."

Mr. Watts was a good-natured, happy-go-lucky, jolly sort of a man, who ate his meals when he had time. But in response to his wife's playful threat to have him arrested, he at once prepared himself to come to the table. It was a table to attract one, though he were much less in want of food than was the schoolmaster. With slices of cold sparerib, and nice, round, mealy potatoes, and old fashioned cider apple sauce—the great, well-browned biscuits, with fresh butter, were most appetizing. The schoolmaster was desirous of getting well "under way" before he spent much time in conversation. But his ever-ready host could eat and talk at the same time. One of ​his first remarks at the table was, "You see, Mr. Sears, that my wife is a splendid cook. This I have learned since we were married. I thought I knew enough about her that was good before, but this has come in as a great addition to my happy expectations."

The teacher was in a mood to entertain the fullest appreciation of all that his odd, and sometimes too talkative, but really kindhearted, host had said. He had hardly tasted food for fully fifteen hours.

In the more than an hour of conversation, after the supper, it was reckoned that the master would need to board two and a half nights to each scholar. But as there were some places to which he ought not to go, he might call it three nights, especially where there was but one scholar from a family.

When he was about to leave in the morning, Mr. and Mrs. Watts expressed the great pleasure which the mistake made in his coming had given them, and they assured him that, a little later on, they should make arrangements for his coming under more favorable circumstances. Pete, a boy living with them, would begin to go to school after Thanksgiving.

Nothing unusual occurred in the schoolroom this second day. Mrs. Grant's little girl Mary informed her teacher that her mother was expecting him at her house that evening. He hoped that he might find there the rest ​which he was beginning to feel the need of. The Grants were fine people, and they welcomed their teacher. Mary was their only child. She was eight years old, bright and affectionate, but with a persistency of will which often troubled the fond parents, whose undivided love she received. And thus it was, that in their attempts to discipline the little darling, indulgence and restraint were often mingled in unequal parts. The way in which she was controlled had an unexpected relation to the rest that the schoolmaster was hoping to get, and was also an illustration of a certain kind of family government, not unfrequently known in other places besides the Corner district.

"Mary, you mustn't do that."

"I want to, Mamma."

"No, Mary, I don't wish to have you."

"I don't care, I'm going to."

"Mary! Mary!"

"I shall, Mamma."

"Don't you say so, dear; I shall have to punish you."

"You won't punish me. You shan't, Mamma."

"Mary, don't you say so; it's very naughty."

"I shall say so, if you don't let me have my new doll."

"Not your new one now. I want you to keep that nice and clean till grandma comes."

"Grandma'll let me have it. She always ​lets me have what I want. She's good to me."

"Why, Mary, what a naughty girl you are!"

The mother takes the little girl by her arm, and forces her along to a chair. "There, sit still till you can talk to me in a better way."

Mary begins to scream, and gets down from her seat. Her mother puts her back.

"There! you are in that chair, and you sit there till I tell you you may get up."

The child sits still till her mother has got back to her work, then gets down and runs for the door.

"Mary, come back here."

This is said in a manner which shows a little more determination, and Mary halts. Her mother catches her, and shakes her gently.

"I should think you'd be ashamed to let the master see you act so. What kind of a girl will he think you are?"

Mary kicks and screams to get away from her mother, but is overpowered and put back in the chair.

"There! stay there, and don't you get up again."

"I won't stay."

Mary jumps out of the chair, and starts to run. She is quickly caught, and shaken more vigorously. Her arm is pinched so that she screams as if suffering intense pain. By a very quick movement she goes back into the chair.

​"What will the master think of you? Does he have to punish you in school in this way?"

"No, he ain't like you, Mamma. He don't punish me."

"But he'll have to punish you, and I shall too, if you act in this way."

The little girl didn't quite dare to get down from the chair again.

"I will stay in the chair, if you will let me have my new doll."

"Will you keep it very clean?"

"Yes, Mamma."

Mrs. Grant was now ready to do almost anything to get out of the unpleasant predicament in which she found herself, in the presence of the schoolmaster.

"Then take your dolly and sit quietly. Be mamma's good girl, now, won't you? I must get supper."

Mary sat talking to her doll for the space of three minutes.

"Mamma, I've been a good girl. I don't want to sit here longer. I want to rock Peggy in her cradle. Mayn't I, Mamma?"

"If you'll be very quiet, and not trouble the master. He wants to read. Don't you talk now."

Mr. Sears had taken up the paper that he might not appear to be giving attention to what was going on. He felt very sorry for Mrs. Grant, and was greatly surprised at such manifestations of disobedience on the part of ​the little girl. He had found her sweet and pretty—easily controlled, as he had thought.

"I'll be quiet, Mamma, but I'm going to rock Peggy."

Mary rocked her doll so hard that it went out of the cradle on the floor, and its wax nose was badly bruised.

"Mary, you said you would be quiet."

"I'm rocking Peggy, and it went out of the cradle."

Mrs. Grant caught up the doll, and she noticed the injured nose. She put it away. She put Mary back in the chair. The girl knew that it meant that she should stay there. She sat a while thinking.

"Give me some candy, Mamma."

"You can't have candy; you've been naughty."

Mary awaits developments.

Her father comes home from his work.

"Good evening, Mr. Sears. Glad to see you. It was through some mistake that we failed to have you with us last evening. We are glad to see you now."

"Thank you, Mr. Grant. I shall endeavor to get acquainted with the parents of my scholars as soon as may be."

"We shall all be glad to get acquainted with you," replied Mr. Grant. "I hope everything is getting started satisfactorily. It must be a little hard, I should think, for the first day or two. If the scholars are obedient ​and orderly, you have no trouble. My little girl here was eager to go again this morning. I hope she doesn't make you trouble."

"Oh, no; she's been a very nice little girl these two days. It doesn't take the children very long to learn whether they must mind or not."

"Papa! Papa!"

"Where are you, my little darling? Why, you are sitting in that chair. Did mamma put you there? I'm afraid you haven't been a good girl."

"I haven't been much naughty. I want to get down. Have you brought me some candy, Papa?"

"I'm afraid you haven't been good."

"I have. I will, Papa. If you'll give me some candy, I will be good all the time."

From the paper in his pocket her father gives her two or three pieces, saying, "There, take that, and be a good girl."

"This is so little, Papa. I want more."

Mary is given the paper of candy, to take what she wants.

"Thank you, Papa, I like you."

"Now go into the kitchen, and don't bother here."

Until late in the evening the master was kept in one continuous conversation in regard to the bringing up of children—especially other folks' children—the course pursued by former teachers, the trouble which they had ​had with certain families, and some of the larger boys, and how they might have avoided their mistakes, how they had shown partiality to certain of the girls, and other similar topics, too many to be enumerated.

The master was greatly wearied from constant talking in the schoolroom, as he left it, and only wished he might go at once to a quiet room and rest. But when, at half past ten o'clock, he went to his bed, he began to see that visiting, and not rest, was what was before him. And not ordinary visiting, but such as included an enforced interest in much of the private life of many families, with the necessity of using skill in avoiding taking sides in the unhappy opinions which some might cherish respecting their neighbors, together with an honest effort to please every one.

The master continued boarding at Mr. Grant's till Saturday, because he seemed to be welcome, and no one else had invited him. But he could not think of trying to crowd himself in there over Sunday. What should he do? He had no arrangement for any place beyond Friday night. He had ventured to speak to some of his scholars, asking whether he might go to one of their homes for the Sabbath; but in every case, word came back that he would be welcome after Thanksgiving. He felt sure that he should be in need of something to eat after Thanksgiving, but how to bridge over the chasm till that time, was not ​a question that could be wholly disregarded.

Saturday night came, he dismissed his school, and locked the schoolhouse door. With satchel in hand he sat down on the doorstep, and entered, without enthusiasm, upon a course of meditation. "To be, or not to be? whether 'tis nobler—" these words of Shakespeare seemed to furnish the most natural theme for his somewhat incoherent thoughts. But sitting on the doorstep was not going to give him his supper. Whatever doubt he might have on some points, there was no doubt here. So he got up, and stood up, and looked around him. He looked up the road, he looked down the road, he looked over to a road that ran across—which way should he take? In his own mind one possibility was ruled out—he would not start off crosslots. That temptation he had overcome. If there were a hotel, and if he had a little spare change—but what use in "ifs"? they wouldn't give him his supper. He might start and walk home; but that would be a ten-mile walk; the proposition was not alluring. Should he turn tramp, and throw himself upon the compassion of the community? That would not comport with the dignity of the pedagogic profession, to say nothing of other more practical considerations. He resolved to challenge an unresponsive world. Why should he die a coward? No, he would summon up a kind of Ajax fearless​ness. He would walk down the road. He was sure he had a right there. He would see what it might bring him. He would hold his head erect. He was not going to jump off from any precipice. If he should fall, unable to rise, there would be time enough then to say Finis.

James had noticed a large white house, about a quarter of a mile down the road. He seemed impelled to go towards that. As he approached it, he noticed an elderly man cutting wood in the yard. He resolved to stop and speak to the man; it could do no harm. As he came up to him, they exchanged pleasant greetings. The elderly man said to him, "You are a stranger in these parts, I take it."

"Yes, sir, I am."

"And are you not our schoolteacher?"

"Yes, sir, I am the teacher in this district."

"On your way to your boarding place?"

"I have no boarding place. I am trying to find some one to take pity on me, and give me a shelter for the night."

"That seems rather unfortunate. If you'd like to stop with us, you will be most welcome."

"Thank you, sir! thank you, sir. The tide of my ill fortune has surely turned! I no longer feel like an outcast."

"Outcast! come in, come in. My name is Hale. They call me Captain, because I was once captain of a militia company."

​James found a most congenial home with Captain and Mrs. Hale. She, the motherly and saintly woman that she was, made him feel almost as if he were at his own father's house. She and her good husband had heard much about the new teacher, and of the excellent family to which he belonged. So they wanted no further proof of his worthiness of their kind attention. Mrs. Hale at once asked him to make their house his home, while he should be with them, and she would attend to his laundry. This seemed almost too good for the recent homeless schoolmaster to believe. How had he found such kind and generous friends!