Heart of Gold | Page 3

a sharp rap on the desk, and when order was restored, Miss Phelps said encouragingly, "Ganymede and what, Peace? Surely not pigeon! You didn't mean that, now did you?"
But Peace had come to the end of her resources. If it wasn't pigeons, what was it?
"Tell her, children," prompted Miss Phelps, as Peace floundered helplessly.
"An eagle," yelled the chorus of eager voices.
An eagle! Queer, but she had heard no mention made of an eagle; and she trembled in her shoes for fear the teacher would ask still more embarrassing questions.
Fortunately, however, Miss Phelps turned to the lad across the aisle, and said, "Johnny, you may tell us the story of Ganymede."
Johnny was nearly bursting his jacket in his eagerness to publish his knowledge; so to Peace's immense gratification and relief, he gabbled off his version of Ganymede's experience with Jupiter's eagle. And Peace breathed more freely when he sat down puffing with pride at the teacher's, "Well told, Johnny."
"Mercy! I'm glad she didn't ask me any more about the old fellow," Peace sighed. "I--I guess I didn't hear much she said, but that horrid mythology is so dry. I don't see why she keeps reading the stuff to us. I'd a sight rather study about physiology and cardrack valves and oil-factory nerves in the nose like Cherry does; though I don't see how she ever remembers those long words and what part of the body they b'long to. I'd--yes, I'd rather have mental 'rithmetic every day of the week than mythology about old gods that never lived, and did only mean things to everybody when they b'lieved they lived."
"Peace Greenfield!" sounded an exasperated voice in her ear. "If you would rather watch those pigeons across the street than to pay attention to your lessons, we will just excuse you and let you stand by the window until--"
"I wasn't watching a single pigeon that time," Peace broke in hotly. "I was only thinking about those hateful gods folks used to b'lieve in, and wondering why the School Board makes us study about them when they were just clear fakes--every one of 'em--'nstead of learning things that really did happen at some time. There's enough true, int'resting things going on around us to keep us busy without studying fakes, seems to me."
Now it happened that the mythological tales with which Miss Phelps regaled her small charges from time to time were not a part of the regular course of study laid out for her grade, and at this pupil's blunt criticism, the teacher's face became scarlet; but she quickly regained her poise, and turning to the school, asked, "How many of you enjoy listening to these myths which I have been reading?"
A dozen wavering, uncertain hands went up. The rest remained clasped on their desks.
The woman was astounded. "What kind of stories do you like best?" she faltered.
"Those in the new Readers," responded the pupils as with one voice.
Mechanically Miss Phelps reached for one of the volumes, and opening it at random, read the New England tale of the Pine-tree Shillings to her delighted audience.
Peace tried to center her thoughts upon what was being read, but the lure of the Spring sunshine and blue sky was too great to be resisted; and before the story was ended, she was again wandering in realms of her own. Down by the river where the pussy willows grew, out in the marshland where the cowslips soon would blow, up the gently sloping hillside, far up where the tall shaft of marble stood sentinel over the grave of her beloved Lilac Lady, she wandered, planning, planning what she would do when the warm Spring sunshine had chased away the Frost King for another year.
The book closed with a sudden snap, and the teacher demanded crisply, "All who think they can tell the story as well as Johnny told us about Ganymede, raise your hands."
Vaguely aware that Miss Phelps had told them to raise their hands, Peace quickly shot one plump arm into the air and waved it frantically.
"Very well, Peace, you may begin."
Peace bounced to her feet. What was expected of her? Why had she raised her hand?
"Aw, tell her about the pine-tree shillings," prompted boastful Johnny in a whisper, and Peace plunged boldly into the half-heard story, wondering within herself how she was going to end it respectably when she did not know the true ending because her mind had been wool-gathering.
"Once there was a man--a man--a man--" blundered the girl, trying in vain to remember whether or not he had a name.
"Yes, a man," repeated the teacher impatiently. "Go on. Where did he live and what did he do?"
"He lived in olden times," replied Peace, grasping eagerly at the suggestion.
"Well, but in what country? Asia or Africa?"
"Neither. He lived in the New England,"--the New England