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A Full-fledged Schoolma'am
When Anne reached the school that morning . . . for the first time in her
life she had traversed the Birch Path deaf and blind to its beauties . . .
all was quiet and still. The preceding teacher had trained the children to
be in their places at her arrival, and when Anne entered the schoolroom
she was confronted by prim rows of "shining morning faces" and bright,
inquisitive eyes. She hung up her hat and faced her pupils, hoping that
she did not look as frightened and foolish as she felt and that they would
not perceive how she was trembling.
She had sat up until nearly twelve the preceding night composing a speech
she meant to make to her pupils upon opening the school. She had revised
and improved it painstakingly, and then she had learned it off by heart.
It was a very good speech and had some very fine ideas in it, especially
about mutual help and earnest striving after knowledge. The only trouble
was that she could not now remember a word of it.
After what seemed to her a year . . . about ten seconds in reality . . .
she said faintly, "Take your Testaments, please," and sank breathlessly
into her chair under cover of the rustle and clatter of desk lids that
followed. While the children read their verses Anne marshalled her shaky
wits into order and looked over the array of little pilgrims to the
Most of them were, of course, quite well known to her. Her own classmates
had passed out in the preceding year but the rest had all gone to school
with her, excepting the primer class and ten newcomers to Avonlea. Anne
secretly felt more interest in these ten than in those whose possibilities
were already fairly well mapped out to her. To be sure, they might be just
as commonplace as the rest; but on the other hand there MIGHT be a genius
among them. It was a thrilling idea.
Sitting by himself at a corner desk was Anthony Pye. He had a dark, sullen
little face, and was staring at Anne with a hostile expression in his
black eyes. Anne instantly made up her mind that she would win that boy's
affection and discomfit the Pyes utterly.
In the other corner another strange boy was sitting with Arty Sloane. . .
a jolly looking little chap, with a snub nose, freckled face, and big,
light blue eyes, fringed with whitish lashes . . . probably the DonNELL
boy; and if resemblance went for anything, his sister was sitting across
the aisle with Mary Bell. Anne wondered what sort of mother the child had,
to send her to school dressed as she was. She wore a faded pink silk
dress, trimmed with a great deal of cotton lace, soiled white kid
slippers, and silk stockings. Her sandy hair was tortured into innumerable
kinky and unnatural curls, surmounted by a flamboyant bow of pink ribbon
bigger than her head. Judging from her expression she was very well
satisfied with herself.
A pale little thing, with smooth ripples of fine, silky, fawn-colored hair
flowing over her shoulders, must, Anne thought, be Annetta Bell, whose
parents had formerly lived in the Newbridge school district, but, by
reason of hauling their house fifty yards north of its old site were now
in Avonlea. Three pallid little girls crowded into one seat were certainly
Cottons; and there was no doubt that the small beauty with the long brown
curls and hazel eyes, who was casting coquettish looks at Jack Gills over
the edge of her Testament, was Prillie Rogerson, whose father had recently
married a second wife and brought Prillie home from her grandmother's in
Grafton. A tall, awkward girl in a back seat, who seemed to have too many
feet and hands, Anne could not place at all, but later on discovered that
her name was Barbara Shaw and that she had come to live with an Avonlea
aunt. She was also to find that if Barbara ever managed to walk down the
aisle without falling over her own or somebody else's feet the Avonlea
scholars wrote the unusual fact up on the porch wall to commemorate it.
But when Anne's eyes met those of the boy at the front desk facing her
own, a queer little thrill went over her, as if she had found her genius.
She knew this must be Paul Irving and that Mrs. Rachel Lynde had been
right for once when she prophesied that he would be unlike the Avonlea
children. More than that, Anne realized that he was unlike other children
anywhere, and that there was a soul subtly akin to her own gazing at her
out of the very dark blue eyes that were watching her so intently.
She knew Paul was ten but he looked no more than eight. He had the most
beautiful little face she had ever seen in a child . . . features of
exquisite delicacy and refinement, framed in a halo of chestnut curls. His
mouth was delicious, being full without pouting, the crimson lips just
softly touching and curving into finely finished little corners that
narrowly escaped being dimpled. He had a sober, grave, meditative
expression, as if his spirit was much older than his body; but when Anne
smiled softly at him it vanished in a sudden answering smile, which seemed
an illumination of his whole being, as if some lamp had suddenly kindled
into flame inside of him, irradiating him from top to toe. Best of all, it
was involuntary, born of no external effort or motive, but simply the
outflashing of a hidden personality, rare and fine and sweet. With a quick
interchange of smiles Anne and Paul were fast friends forever before a
word had passed between them.
The day went by like a dream. Anne could never clearly recall it
afterwards. It almost seemed as if it were not she who was teaching but
somebody else. She heard classes and worked sums and set copies
mechanically. The children behaved quite well; only two cases of
discipline occurred. Morley Andrews was caught driving a pair of trained
crickets in the aisle. Anne stood Morley on the platform for an hour and .
. . which Morley felt much more keenly . . . confiscated his crickets. She
put them in a box and on the way from school set them free in Violet Vale;
but Morley believed, then and ever afterwards, that she took them home and
kept them for her own amusement.
The other culprit was Anthony Pye, who poured the last drops of water from
his slate bottle down the back of Aurelia Clay's neck. Anne kept Anthony
in at recess and talked to him about what was expected of gentlemen,
admonishing him that they never poured water down ladies' necks. She
wanted all her boys to be gentlemen, she said. Her little lecture was
quite kind and touching; but unfortunately Anthony remained absolutely
untouched. He listened to her in silence, with the same sullen expression,
and whistled scornfully as he went out. Anne sighed; and then cheered
herself up by remembering that winning a Pye's affections, like the
building of Rome, wasn't the work of a day. In fact, it was doubtful
whether some of the Pyes had any affections to win; but Anne hoped better
things of Anthony, who looked as if he might be a rather nice boy if one
ever got behind his sullenness.
When school was dismissed and the children had gone Anne dropped wearily
into her chair. Her head ached and she felt woefully discouraged. There
was no real reason for discouragement, since nothing very dreadful had
occurred; but Anne was very tired and inclined to believe that she would
never learn to like teaching. And how terrible it would be to be doing
something you didn't like every day for . . . well, say forty years. Anne
was of two minds whether to have her cry out then and there, or wait till
she was safely in her own white room at home. Before she could decide
there was a click of heels and a silken swish on the porch floor, and Anne
found herself confronted by a lady whose appearance made her recall a
recent criticism of Mr. Harrison's on an overdressed female he had seen in
a Charlottetown store. "She looked like a head-on collision between a
fashion plate and a nightmare."
The newcomer was gorgeously arrayed in a pale blue summer silk, puffed,
frilled, and shirred wherever puff, frill, or shirring could possibly be
placed. Her head was surmounted by a huge white chiffon hat, bedecked with
three long but rather stringy ostrich feathers. A veil of pink chiffon,
lavishly sprinkled with huge black dots, hung like a flounce from the hat
brim to her shoulders and floated off in two airy streamers behind her.
She wore all the jewelry that could be crowded on one small woman, and a
very strong odor of perfume attended her.
"I am Mrs. DonNELL . . . Mrs. H. B. DonNELL," announced this vision, "and
I have come in to see you about something Clarice Almira told me when she
came home to dinner today. It annoyed me EXCESSIVELY."
"I'm sorry," faltered Anne, vainly trying to recollect any incident of the
morning connected with the Donnell children.
"Clarice Almira told me that you pronounced our name DONnell. Now, Miss
Shirley, the correct pronunciation of our name is DonNELL . . . accent on
the last syllable. I hope you'll remember this in future."
"I'll try to," gasped Anne, choking back a wild desire to laugh. "I know
by experience that it's very unpleasant to have one's name SPELLED wrong
and I suppose it must be even worse to have it pronounced wrong."
"Certainly it is. And Clarice Almira also informed me that you call my son
"He told me his name was Jacob," protested Anne.
"I might well have expected that," said Mrs. H. B. Donnell, in a tone
which implied that gratitude in children was not to be looked for in this
degenerate age. "That boy has such plebeian tastes, Miss Shirley. When he
was born I wanted to call him St. Clair . . . it sounds SO aristocratic,
doesn't it? But his father insisted he should be called Jacob after his
uncle. I yielded, because Uncle Jacob was a rich old bachelor. And what do
you think, Miss Shirley? When our innocent boy was five years old Uncle
Jacob actually went and got married and now he has three boys of his own.
Did you ever hear of such ingratitude? The moment the invitation to the
wedding . . . for he had the impertinence to send us an invitation, Miss
Shirley . . . came to the house I said, 'No more Jacobs for me, thank
you.' From that day I called my son St. Clair and St. Clair I am
determined he shall be called. His father obstinately continues to call
him Jacob, and the boy himself has a perfectly unaccountable preference
for the vulgar name. But St. Clair he is and St. Clair he shall remain.
You will kindly remember this, Miss Shirley, will you not? THANK you. I
told Clarice Almira that I was sure it was only a misunderstanding and
that a word would set it right. Donnell. . . accent on the last syllable .
. . and St. Clair . . . on no account Jacob. You'll remember? THANK you."
When Mrs. H. B. DonNELL had skimmed away Anne locked the school door and
went home. At the foot of the hill she found Paul Irving by the Birch
Path. He held out to her a cluster of the dainty little wild orchids which
Avonlea children called "rice lillies."
"Please, teacher, I found these in Mr. Wright's field," he said shyly,
"and I came back to give them to you because I thought you were the kind
of lady that would like them, and because . . ." he lifted his big
beautiful eyes . . . "I like you, teacher."
"You darling," said Anne, taking the fragrant spikes. As if Paul's words
had been a spell of magic, discouragement and weariness passed from her
spirit, and hope upwelled in her heart like a dancing fountain. She went
through the Birch Path light-footedly, attended by the sweetness of her
orchids as by a benediction.
"Well, how did you get along?" Marilla wanted to know.
"Ask me that a month later and I may be able to tell you. I can't now . .
. I don't know myself . . . I'm too near it. My thoughts feel as if they
had been all stirred up until they were thick and muddy. The only thing I
feel really sure of having accomplished today is that I taught Cliffie
Wright that A is A. He never knew it before. Isn't it something to have
started a soul along a path that may end in Shakespeare and Paradise
Mrs. Lynde came up later on with more encouragement. That good lady had
waylaid the schoolchildren at her gate and demanded of them how they liked
their new teacher.
"And every one of them said they liked you splendid, Anne, except Anthony
Pye. I must admit he didn't. He said you 'weren't any good, just like all
girl teachers.' There's the Pye leaven for you. But never mind."
"I'm not going to mind," said Anne quietly, "and I'm going to make Anthony
Pye like me yet. Patience and kindness will surely win him."
"Well, you can never tell about a Pye," said Mrs. Rachel cautiously. "They
go by contraries, like dreams, often as not. As for that DonNELL woman,
she'll get no DonNELLing from me, I can assure you. The name is DONnell
and always has been. The woman is crazy, that's what. She has a pug dog
she calls Queenie and it has its meals at the table along with the family,
eating off a china plate. I'd be afraid of a judgment if I was her. Thomas
says Donnell himself is a sensible, hard-working man, but he hadn't much
gumption when he picked out a wife, that's what."