The Examination

: Glengarry Schooldays

The two years of Archibald Munro's regime were the golden age of the

school, and for a whole generation "The Section" regarded that period as

the standard for comparison in the following years. Munro had a genius

for making his pupils work. They threw themselves with enthusiasm into

all they undertook--studies, debate nights, games, and in everything the

master was the source of inspiration.

And now his l
st examination day had come, and the whole Section

was stirred with enthusiasm for their master, and with grief at his


The day before examination was spent in "cleaning the school." This

semi-annual event, which always preceded the examination, was almost as

enjoyable as the examination day itself, if indeed it was not more

so. The school met in the morning for a final polish for the morrow's

recitations. Then after a speech by the master the little ones were

dismissed and allowed to go home though they never by any chance took

advantage of this permission. Then the master and the bigger boys and

girls set to work to prepare the school for the great day. The boys were

told off in sections, some to get dry cedar boughs from the swamp for

the big fire outside, over which the iron sugar-kettle was swung to heat

the scrubbing water; others off into the woods for balsam-trees for the

evergreen decorations; others to draw water and wait upon the scrubbers.

It was a day of delightful excitement, but this year there was below the

excitement a deep, warm feeling of love and sadness, as both teacher

and pupils thought of to-morrow. There was an additional thrill to the

excitement, that the master was to be presented with a gold watch and

chain, and that this had been kept a dead secret from him.

What a day it was! With wild whoops the boys went off for the dry cedar

and the evergreens, while the girls, looking very housewifely with

skirts tucked back and sleeves rolled up, began to sweep and otherwise

prepare the room for scrubbing.

The gathering of the evergreens was a delightful labor. High up in the

balsam-trees the more daring boys would climb, and then, holding by

the swaying top, would swing themselves far out from the trunk and come

crashing through the limbs into the deep, soft snow, bringing half the

tree with them. What larks they had! What chasing of rabbits along their

beaten runways! What fierce and happy snow fights! And then, the triumph

of their return, laden with their evergreen trophies, to find the big

fire blazing under the great iron kettle and the water boiling, and the

girls well on with the scrubbing.

Then, while the girls scrubbed first the benches and desks, and last of

all, the floors, the boys washed the windows and put up the evergreen

decorations. Every corner had its pillar of green, every window had its

frame of green, the old blackboard, the occasion of many a heartache to

the unmathematical, was wreathed into loveliness; the maps, with their

bewildering boundaries, rivers and mountains, capes, bays and islands,

became for once worlds of beauty under the magic touch of the greenery.

On the wall just over his desk, the master wrought out in evergreen an

arching "WELCOME," but later on, the big girls, with some shy blushing,

boldly tacked up underneath an answering "FAREWELL." By the time the

short afternoon had faded into the early evening, the school stood,

to the eyes of all familiar with the common sordidness of its everyday

dress, a picture of artistic loveliness. And after the master's little

speech of thanks for their good work that afternoon, and for all their

goodness to him, the boys and girls went their ways with that strangely

unnameable heart-emptiness that brings an ache to the throat, but

somehow makes happier for the ache.

The examination day was the great school event of the year. It was the

social function of the Section as well. Toward this event all the school

life moved, and its approach was attended by a deepening excitement,

shared by children and parents alike, which made a kind of holiday

feeling in the air.

The school opened an hour later than ordinarily, and the children came

all in their Sunday clothes, the boys feeling stiff and uncomfortable,

and regarding each other with looks half shy and half contemptuous,

realizing that they were unnatural in each other's sight; the girls

with hair in marvelous frizzes and shiny ringlets, with new ribbons, and

white aprons over their home-made winsey dresses, carried their unwonted

grandeur with an ease and delight that made the boys secretly envy but

apparently despise them. The one unpardonable crime with all the boys

in that country was that of being "proud." The boy convicted of "shoween

off," was utterly contemned by his fellows. Hence, any delight in new

clothes or in a finer appearance than usual was carefully avoided.

Ranald always hated new clothes. He felt them an intolerable burden. He

did not mind his new homespun, home-made flannel check shirt of mixed

red and white, but the heavy fulled-cloth suit made by his Aunt Kirsty

felt like a suit of mail. He moved heavily in it and felt queer, and

knew that he looked as he felt. The result was that he was in no genial

mood, and was on the alert for any indication of levity at his expense.

Hughie, on the contrary, like the girls, delighted in new clothes.

His new black suit, made down from one of his father's, with infinite

planning and pains by his mother, and finished only at twelve o'clock

the night before, gave him unmixed pleasure. And handsome he looked in

it. All the little girls proclaimed that in their shy, admiring glances,

while the big girls teased and petted and threatened to kiss him. Of

course the boys all scorned him and his finery, and tried to "take him

down," but Hughie was so unfeignedly pleased with himself, and moved so

easily and naturally in his grand attire, and was so cheery and frank

and happy, that no one thought of calling him "proud."

Soon after ten the sleighloads began to arrive. It was a mild winter

day, when the snow packed well, and there fluttered down through the

still air a few lazy flakes, large, soft, and feathery, like bits of the

clouds floating white against the blue sky. The sleighs were driven up

to the door with a great flourish and jingle of bells, and while the

master welcomed the ladies, the fathers and big brothers drove the

horses to the shelter of the thick-standing pines, and unhitching them,

tied them to the sleigh-boxes, where, blanketed and fed, they remained

for the day.

Within an hour the little school-house was packed, the children crowded

tight into the long desks, and the visitors on the benches along the

walls and in the seats of the big boys and girls. On the platform were

such of the trustees as could muster up the necessary courage--old Peter

MacRae, who had been a dominie in the Old Country, the young minister

and his wife, and the schoolteacher from the "Sixteenth."

First came the wee tots, who, in wide-eyed, serious innocence, went

through their letters and their "ox" and "cat" combinations and

permutations with great gusto and distinction. Then they were dismissed

to their seats by a series of mental arithmetic questions, sums

of varying difficulty being propounded, until little white-haired,

blue-eyed Johnnie Aird, with the single big curl on the top of his head,

was left alone.

"One and one, Johnnie?" said the master, smiling down at the rosy face.

"Three," promptly replied Johnnie, and retired to his seat amid the

delighted applause of visitors and pupils, and followed by the proud,

fond, albeit almost tearful, gaze of his mother. He was her baby, born

long after her other babies had grown up into sturdy youth, and all the

dearer for that.

Then up through the Readers, till the Fifth was reached, the examination

progressed, each class being handed over to the charge of a visitor, who

forthwith went upon examination as truly as did the class.

"Fifth class!" In due order the class marched up to the chalk line on

the floor in front of the master's desk, and stood waiting.

The reading lesson was Fitz-Greene Halleck's "Marco Bozzaris," a

selection of considerable dramatic power, and calling for a somewhat

spirited rendering. The master would not have chosen this lesson, but he

had laid down the rule that there was to be no special drilling of the

pupils for an exhibition, but that the school should be seen doing its

every-day work; and in the reading, the lessons for the previous day

were to be those of the examination day. By an evil fortune, the reading

for the day was the dramatic "Marco Bozzaris." The master shivered

inwardly as he thought of the possibility of Thomas Finch, with his

stolidly monotonous voice, being called upon to read the thrilling lines

recording the panic-stricken death-cry of the Turk: "To arms! They come!

The Greek! The Greek!" But Thomas, by careful plodding, had climbed to

fourth place, and the danger lay in the third verse.

"Will you take this class, Mr. MacRae?" said the master, handing him the

book. He knew that the dominie was not interested in the art of reading

beyond the point of correct pronunciation, and hence he hoped the class

might get off easily. The dominie took the book reluctantly. What he

desired was the "arith-MET-ic" class, and did not care to be "put off"

with mere reading.

"Well, Ranald, let us hear you," he rather growled. Ranald went at his

work with quiet confidence; he knew all the words.

"Page 187, Marco Bozzaris.

"At midnight in his guarded tent, The Turk lay dreaming of the hour

When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent,

Should tremble at his power."

And so on steadily to the end of his verse.


The next was "Betsy Dan," the daughter of Dan Campbell, of "The Island."

Now, Betsy Dan was very red in hair and face, very shy and very nervous,

and always on the point of giggles. It was a trial to her to read on

ordinary days, but to-day it was almost more than she could bear. To

make matters worse, sitting immediately behind her, and sheltered from

the eye of the master, sat Jimmie Cameron, Don's youngest brother.

Jimmie was always on the alert for mischief, and ever ready to go off

into fits of laughter, which he managed to check only by grabbing tight

hold of his nose. Just now he was busy pulling at the strings of Betsy

Dan's apron with one hand, while with the other he was hanging onto his

nose, and swaying in paroxysms of laughter.

Very red in the face, Betsy Dan began her verse.

"At midnight in the forest shades, Bozzaris--"

Pause, while Betsy Dan clutched behind her.

"--Bozzaris ranged--"

("Tchik! tchik!") a snicker from Jimmie in the rear.

"--his Suliote band, True as the steel of--"

("im-im,") Betsy Dan struggles with her giggles.

"Elizabeth!" The master's voice is stern and sharp.

Betsy Dan bridles up, while Jimmie is momentarily sobered by the

master's tone.

"True as the steel of their tried blades, Heroes in heart and hand.

There had the Persians thousands stood--"

("Tchik! tchik! tchik,") a long snicker from Jimmie, whose nose cannot

be kept quite in control. It is becoming too much for poor Betsy Dan,

whose lips begin to twitch.


("im-im, thit-tit-tit,") Betsy Dan is making mighty efforts to hold in

her giggles.

"--had the glad earth (tchik!) drunk their blood, On old Pl-a-a-t-t-e-a-'s day."

Whack! whack!

"Elizabeth Campbell!" The master's tone was quite terrible.

"I don't care! He won't leave me alone. He's just--just (sob)

pu--pulling at me (sob) all the time."

By this time Betsy's apron was up to her eyes, and her sobs were quite


"James, stand up!" Jimmie slowly rose, red with laughter, and covered

with confusion.

"I-I-I di-dn't touch her!" he protested.

"O--h!" said little Aleck Sinclair, who had been enjoying Jimmie's prank

hugely; "he was--"

"That'll do, Aleck, I didn't ask you. James is quite able to tell me

himself. Now, James!"

"I-I-I was only just doing that," said Jimmie, sober enough now, and

terrified at the results of his mischief.

"Doing what?" said the master, repressing a smile at Jimmie's woebegone


"Just-just that!" and Jimmie touched gingerly with the point of his

finger the bows of Betsy Dan's apron-strings.

"Oh, I see. You were annoying Elizabeth while she was reading. No wonder

she found it difficult. Now, do you think that was very nice?"

Jimmie twisted himself into a semicircle.


"Come here, James!" Jimmie looked frightened, came round the class, and

up to the master.

"Now, then," continued the master, facing Jimmie round in front of Betsy

Dan, who was still using her apron upon her eyes, "tell Elizabeth you

are sorry."

Jimmie stood in an agony of silent awkwardness, curving himself in

varying directions.

"Are you sorry?"


"Well, tell her so."

Jimmie drew a long breath and braced himself for the ordeal. He stood a

moment or two, working his eyes up shyly from Betsy Dan's shoes to

her face, caught her glancing at him from behind her apron, and began,

"I-I-I'm (tchik! tchik) sor-ry," (tchik). Betsy Dan's look was too much

for the little chap's gravity.

A roar swept over the school-house. Even the grim dominie's face


"Go to your seat and behave yourself," said the master, giving Jimmie a

slight cuff. "Now, Margaret, let us go on."

Margaret's was the difficult verse. But to Margaret's quiet voice and

gentle heart, anything like shriek or battle-cry was foreign enough, so

with even tone, and unmodulated by any shade of passion, she read the

cry, "To arms! They come! The Greek! The Greek!" Nor was her voice to

be moved from its gentle, monotonous flow even by the battle-cry of

Bozzaris, "Strike! till the last armed foe expires!"

"Next," said the dominie, glad to get on with his task.

The master breathed freely, when, alas for his hopes, the minister spoke


"But, Margaret, do you think Bozzaris cheered his men in so gentle a

voice as that?"

Margaret smiled sweetly, but remained silent, glad to get over the


"Wouldn't you like to try it again?" suggested the minister.

Margaret flushed up at once.

"Oh, no," said his wife, who had noticed Margaret's flushing face.

"Girls are not supposed to be soldiers, are they, Margaret?"

Margaret flashed a grateful look at her.

"That's a boy's verse."

"Ay! that it is," said the old dominie; "and I would wish very much that

Mrs. Murray would conduct this class."

But the minister's wife would not hear of it, protesting that the

dominie could do it much better. The old man, however, insisted, saying

that he had no great liking for this part of the examination, and

would wish to reserve himself, with the master's permission, for the

"arith-MET-ic" class.

Mrs. Murray, seeing that it would please the dominie, took the book,

with a spot of color coming in her delicate, high-bred face.

"You must all do your best now, to help me," she said, with a smile that

brought an answering smile flashing along the line. Even Thomas Finch

allowed his stolid face a gleam of intelligent sympathy, which, however,

he immediately suppressed, for he remembered that the next turn was

his, and that he must be getting himself into the appearance of dogged

desperation which he considered suitable to a reading exercise.

"Now, Thomas," said the minister's wife, sweetly, and Thomas plunged


"They fought like brave men, long--"

"Oh, Thomas, I think we will try that man's verse again, with the cries

of battle in it, you know. I am sure you can do that well."

It was all the same to Thomas. There were no words he could not spell,

and he saw no reason why he should not do that verse as well as

any other. So, with an extra knitting of his eyebrows, he set forth



Thomas's voice fell with the unvarying regularity of the beat of a




"But, Thomas, wait a minute. You see you must speak these words, 'To

arms! They come!' differently from the others. These words were shrieked

by the sentries, and you must show that in your reading."

"Speak them out, man," said the minister, sharply, and a little

nervously, fearing that his wife had undertaken too great a task, and

hating to see her defeated.

"Now, Thomas," said Mrs. Murray, "try again. And remember the sentries

shrieked these words, 'To arms!' and so on."

Thomas squared his shoulders, spread his feet apart, added a wrinkle

to his frown, and a deeper note of desperation to his tone, and began



The master shuddered.

"Now, Thomas, excuse me. That's better, but we can improve that yet."

Mrs. Murray was not to be beaten. The attention of the whole school,

even to Jimmie Cameron, as well as that of the visitors, was now

concentrated upon the event.

"See," she went on, "each phrase by itself. 'An hour passed on: the Turk

awoke.' Now, try that far."

Again Thomas tried, this time with complete success. The visitors


"Ah, that's it, Thomas. I was sure you could do it."

Thomas relaxed a little, but not unduly. He was not sure what was yet

before him.

"Now we will get that 'sentries shriek.' See, Thomas, like this a

little," and she read the words with fine expression.

"You must put more pith, more force, into those words, Thomas. Speak

out, man!" interjected the minister, who was wishing it was all over.

"Now, Thomas, I think this will be the last time. You have done very

well, but I feel sure you can do better."

The minister's wife looked at Thomas as she said this, with so

fascinating a smile that the frown on Thomas' face deepened into a

hideous scowl, and he planted himself with a do-or-die expression in

every angle of his solid frame. Realizing the extreme necessity of the

moment, he pitched his voice several tones higher than ever before in

his life inside a house and before people, and made his final attempt.

"An-hour-passed-on: the-Turk-awoke: That-bright-dream-WAS-his-last."

And now, feeling that the crisis was upon him, and confusing speed

with intensity, and sound with passion, he rushed his words, with

ever-increasing speed, into a wild yell.



There was a moment of startled stillness, then, "tchik! tchik!" It was

Jimmie again, holding his nose and swaying in a vain effort to control a

paroxysm of snickers at Thomas' unusual outburst.

It was like a match to powder. Again the whole school burst into a

roar of uncontrollable laughter. Even the minister, the master, and the

dominie, could not resist. The only faces unmoved were those of Thomas

Finch and the minister's wife. He had tried his best, and it was to

please her, and she knew it.

A swift, shamed glance round, and his eyes rested on her face. That

face was sweet and grave as she leaned toward him, and said, "Thank you,

Thomas. That was well done." And Thomas, still looking at her, flushed

to his hair roots and down the back of his neck, while the scowl on his

forehead faded into a frown, and then into smoothness.

"And if you always try your best like that, Thomas, you will be a great

and good man some day."

Her voice was low and soft, as if intended for him alone, but in the

sudden silence that followed the laughter it thrilled to every heart in

the room, and Thomas was surprised to find himself trying to swallow a

lump in his throat, and to keep his eyes from blinking; and in his face,

stolid and heavy, a new expression was struggling for utterance. "Here,

take me," it said; "all that I have is thine," and later days brought

the opportunity to prove it.

The rest of the reading lesson passed without incident. Indeed, there

pervaded the whole school that feeling of reaction which always succeeds

an emotional climax. The master decided to omit the geography and

grammar classes, which should have immediately followed, and have dinner

at once, and so allow both children and visitors time to recover tone

for the spelling and arithmetic of the afternoon.

The dinner was an elaborate and appalling variety of pies and cakes,

served by the big girls and their sisters, who had recently left

school, and who consequently bore themselves with all proper dignity and

importance. Two of the boys passed round a pail of water and a tin cup,

that all the thirsty might drink. From hand to hand, and from lip to

lip the cup passed, with a fine contempt of microbes. The only point

of etiquette insisted upon was that no "leavings" should be allowed to

remain in the cup or thrown back into the pail, but should be carefully

flung upon the floor.

There had been examination feasts in pre-historic days in the Twentieth

school, when the boys indulged in free fights at long range, using as

missiles remnants of pie crust and cake, whose consistency rendered them

deadly enough to "bloody" a nose or black an eye. But these barbaric

encounters ceased with Archie Munro's advent, and now the boys vied with

each other in "minding their manners." Not only was there no snatching

of food or exhibition of greediness, but there was a severe repression

of any apparent eagerness for the tempting dainties, lest it should be

suspected that such were unusual at home. Even the little boys felt that

it would be bad manners to take a second piece of cake or pie unless

specially pressed; but their eager, bulging eyes revealed only too

plainly their heart's desire, and the kindly waiters knew their duty

sufficiently to urge a second, third, and fourth supply of the toothsome

currant or berry pie, the solid fruit cake, or the oily doughnut, till

the point was reached where desire failed.

"Have some more, Jimmie. Have a doughnut," said the master, who had been

admiring Jimmie's gastronomic achievements.

"He's had ten a'ready," shouted little Aleck Sinclair, Jimmie's special


Jimmie smiled in conscious pride, but remained silent.

"What! eaten ten doughnuts?" asked the master, feigning alarm.

"He's got four in his pocket, too," said Aleck, in triumph.

"He's got a pie in his own pocket," retorted Jimmie, driven to


"A pie!" exclaimed the master. "Better take it out. A pocket's not the

best place for a pie. Why don't you eat it, Aleck?"

"I can't," lamented Aleck. "I'm full up."

"He said he's nearly busted," said Jimmie, anxiously. "He's got a

pain here," pointing to his left eye. The bigger boys and some of the

visitors who had gathered round shouted with laughter.

"Oh, pshaw, Aleck!" said the master, encouragingly, "that's all right.

As long as the pain is as high up as your eye you'll recover. I tell you

what, put your pie down on the desk here, Jimmie will take care of it,

and run down to the gate and tell Don I want him."

Aleck, with great care and considerable difficulty, extracted from his

pocket a segment of black currant pie, hopelessly battered, but still

intact. He regarded it fondly for a moment or two, and then, with a very

dubious look at Jimmie, ran away on his errand for the master.

It took him some little time to find Don, and meanwhile the master's

attention was drawn away by his duty to the visitors. The pie left to

Jimmie's care had an unfortunately tempting fringe of loose pieces about

it that marred its symmetry. Jimmie proceeded to trim it into shape. So

absorbed did he become in this trimming process, that before he realized

what he was about, he woke suddenly to the startling fact that the pie

had shrunk into a comparatively insignificant size. It would be worse

than useless to save the mutilated remains for Aleck; there was nothing

for it now but to get the reproachful remnant out of the way. He was

so busily occupied with this praiseworthy proceeding that he failed to

notice Aleck enter the room, flushed with his race, eager and once more


Arriving at his seat, he came upon Jimmie engaged in devouring the pie

left in his charge. With a cry of dismay and rage he flung himself upon

the little gourmand, and after a short struggle, secured the precious

pie; but alas, bereft of its most delicious part--it was picked clean

of its currants. For a moment he gazed, grief-stricken, at the leathery,

viscous remnant in his hand. Then, with a wrathful exclamation, "Here,

then, you can just take it then, you big pig, you!" He seized Jimmie by

the neck, and jammed the sticky pie crust on his face, where it stuck

like an adhesive plaster. Jimmie, taken by surprise, and rendered

nerveless by the pangs of an accusing conscience, made no resistance,

but set up a howl that attracted the attention of the master and the

whole company.

"Why, Jimmie!" exclaimed the master, removing the doughy mixture from

the little lad's face, "what on earth are you trying to do? What is

wrong, Aleck?"

"He ate my pie," said Aleck, defiantly.

"Ate it? Well, apparently not. But never mind, Aleck, we shall get you

another pie."

"There isn't any more," said Aleck, mournfully; "that was the last


"Oh, well, we shall find something else just as good," said the master,

going off after one of the big girls; and returning with a doughnut

and a peculiarly deadly looking piece of fruit cake, he succeeded in

comforting the disappointed and still indignant Aleck.

The afternoon was given to the more serious part of the school

work--writing, arithmetic, and spelling, while, for those whose

ambitions extended beyond the limits of the public school, the master

had begun a Euclid class, which was at once his despair and his

pride. In the Twentieth school of that date there was no waste of the

children's time in foolish and fantastic branches of study, in showy

exercises and accomplishments, whose display was at once ruinous to

the nerves of the visitors, and to the self-respect and modesty of

the children. The ideal of the school was to fit the children for the

struggle into which their lives would thrust them, so that the boy who

could spell and read and cipher was supposed to be ready for his life

work. Those whose ambition led them into the subtleties of Euclid's

problems and theorems were supposed to be in preparation for somewhat

higher spheres of life.

Through the various classes of arithmetic the examination proceeded, the

little ones struggling with great seriousness through their addition

and subtraction sums, and being wrought up to the highest pitch of

excitement by their contest for the first place. By the time the fifth

class was reached, the air was heavy with the feeling of battle. Indeed,

it was amazing to note how the master had succeeded in arousing in the

whole school an intense spirit of emulation. From little Johnnie Aird up

to Thomas Finch, the pupils carried the hearts of soldiers.

Through fractions, the "Rule of Three," percentages, and stocks, the

senior class swept with a trail of glory. In vain old Peter MacRae

strewed their path with his favorite posers. The brilliant achievements

of the class seemed to sink him deeper and deeper into the gloom of

discontent, while the master, the minister and his wife, as well as

the visitors, could not conceal their delight. As a last resort the old

dominie sought to stem their victorious career with his famous problem

in Practice, and to his huge enjoyment, one after another of the class

had to acknowledge defeat. The truth was, the master had passed lightly

over this rule in the arithmetic, considering the solution of problems

by the method of Practice as a little antiquated, and hardly worthy of

much study. The failure of the class, however, brought the dominie his

hour of triumph, and so complete had been the success of the examination

that the master was abundantly willing that he should enjoy it.

Then followed the judging of the copy-books. The best and cleanest book

in each class was given the proud distinction of a testimonial written

upon the first blank page, with the date of the examination and the

signatures of the examiners attached. It was afterwards borne home in

triumph by the happy owner, to be stored among the family archives,

and perhaps among the sacred things that mothers keep in their holy of


After the copy-books had been duly appraised, there followed an hour

in which the excitement of the day reached its highest mark. The whole

school, with such of the visitors as could be persuaded to join, were

ranged in opposing ranks in the deadly conflict of a spelling-match. The

master, the teacher from the Sixteenth, and even the minister's wife,

yielded to the tremendous pressure of public demand that they should

enter the fray. The contest had a most dramatic finish, and it was felt

that the extreme possibility of enthusiasm and excitement was reached

when the minister's wife spelled down the teacher from the Sixteenth,

who every one knew, was the champion speller of all the country that lay

toward the Front, and had a special private armory of deadly missiles

laid up against just such a conflict as this. The tumultuous triumph

of the children was not to be controlled. Again and again they followed

Hughie in wild yells, not only because his mother was a great favorite

with them all, but because she had wrested a victory from the champion

of the Front, for the Front, in all matters pertaining to culture and

fashion, thought itself quite superior to the more backwoods country of

the Twentieth.

It was with no small difficulty that the master brought the school to

such a degree of order that the closing speeches could be received with

becoming respect and attention. The trustees, according to custom, were

invited to express their opinion upon the examination, and upon school

matters generally. The chairman, John Cameron, "Long John," as he was

called, broke the ice after much persuasion, and slowly rising from

the desk into which he had compressed his long, lank form, he made his

speech. Long John was a great admirer of the master, but for all that,

and perhaps because of that, he allowed himself no warmer words of

commendation than that he was well pleased with the way in which

the children had conducted themselves. "They have done credit to

themselves," he said, "and to their teacher. And indeed I am sorry he is

leaving us, for, so far, I have heard no complaints in the Section."

The other trustees followed in the path thus blazed out for them by Long

John. They were all well pleased with the examination, and they were

all sorry to lose the master, and they had heard no complaints. It

was perfectly understood that no words of praise could add to the high

testimony that they "had heard no complaints."

The dominie's speech was a little more elaborate. Somewhat reluctantly

he acknowledged that the school had acquitted itself with "very

considerable credit," especially the "arith-MET-ic" class, and indeed,

considering all the circumstances, Mr. Munro was to be congratulated

upon the results of his work in the Section. But the minister's warm

expression of delight at the day's proceedings, and of regret at the

departure of the master, more than atoned for the trustees' cautious

testimony, and the dominie's somewhat grudging praise.

Then came the moment of the day. A great stillness fell upon the school

as the master rose to make his farewell speech. But before he could

say a word, up from their seats walked Betsy Dan and Thomas Finch,

and ranged themselves before him. The whole assemblage tingled with

suppressed excitement. The great secret with which they had been

burdening themselves for the past few weeks was now to be out. Slowly

Thomas extracted the manuscript from his trousers pocket, and smoothed

out its many folds, while Betsy Dan waited nervously in the rear.

"Oh, why did they set Thomas to this?" whispered the minister's wife,

who had a profound sense of humor. The truth was, the choice of the

school had fallen upon Ranald and Margaret Aird. Margaret was quite

willing to act, but Ranald refused point-blank, and privately persuaded

Thomas to accept the honor in his stead. To this Thomas agreed, all the

more readily that Margaret, whom he adored from a respectful distance,

was to be his partner. But Margaret, who would gladly have been

associated with Ranald, on the suggestion that Thomas should take his

place, put up her lower lip in that symbol of scorn so effective with

girls, but which no boy has ever yet accomplished, and declared that

indeed, and she would see that Tom Finch far enough, which plainly

meant "no." Consequently they had to fall back upon Betsy Dan, who, in

addition to being excessively nervous, was extremely good-natured.

And Thomas, though he would greatly have preferred Margaret as his

assistant, was quite ready to accept Betsy Dan.

The interval of waiting while Thomas deliberately smoothed out the

creases of the paper was exceedingly hard upon Betsy Dan, whose face

grew redder each moment. Jimmie Cameron, too, who realized that the

occasion was one of unusual solemnity, was gazing at Thomas with

intense interest growing into amusement, and was holding his fingers

in readiness to seize his nose, and so check any explosion of snickers.

Just as Thomas had got the last fold of his paper straightened out, and

was turning it right end up, it somehow slipped through his fingers to

the floor. This was too much for Jimmie, who only saved himself from

utter disgrace by promptly seizing his nose and holding on for dear

life. Thomas gave Jimmie a passing glare and straightened himself up

for his work. With a furious frown he cleared his throat and began in

a solemn, deep-toned roar, "Dear teacher, learning with regret that you

are about to sever your connection," etc., etc. All went well until

he came to the words, "We beg you to accept this gift, not for its

intrinsic value," etc., which was the cue for Betsy Dan. But Betsy Dan

was engaged in terrorizing Jimmie, and failed to come in, till, after an

awful pause, Thomas gave her a sharp nudge, and whispered audibly, "Give

it to him, you gowk." Poor Betsy Dan, in sudden confusion, whipped her

hand out from under her apron, and thrusting a box at the master, said

hurriedly, "Here it is, sir." As Thomas solemnly concluded his address,

a smile ran round the room, while Jimmie doubled himself up in his

efforts to suppress a tempest of snickers.

The master, however, seemed to see nothing humorous in the situation,

but bowing gravely to Thomas and Betsy Dan, he said, kindly, "Thank you,

Thomas! Thank you, Elizabeth!" Something in his tone brought the school

to attention, and even Jimmie forgot to have regard to his nose. For

a few moments the master stood looking upon the faces of his pupils,

dwelling upon them one by one, till his eyes rested upon the wee tots in

the front seat, looking at him with eyes of innocent and serious wonder.

Then he thanked the children for their gift in a few simple words,

assuring them that he should always wear the watch with pride and

grateful remembrance of the Twentieth school, and of his happy days

among them.

But when he came to say his words of farewell, and to thank them for

their goodness to him, and their loyal backing of him while he was their

teacher, his voice grew husky, and for a moment wavered. Then, after

a pause, he spoke of what had been his ideal among them. "It is a good

thing to have your minds trained and stored with useful knowledge, but

there are better things than that. To learn honor, truth, and right; to

be manly and womanly; to be self-controlled and brave and gentle--these

are better than all possible stores of learning; and if I have taught

you these at all, then I have done what I most wished to do. I have

often failed, and I have often been discouraged, and might have given up

were it not for the help I received at my worst times from our minister

and from Mrs. Murray, who often saved me from despair."

A sudden flush tinged the grave, beautiful face of the minister's young

wife. A light filled her eyes as the master said these words, for she

remembered days when the young man's pain was almost greater than he

could bear, and when he was near to giving up.

When the master ceased, the minister spoke a few words in appreciation

of the work he had done in the school, and in the whole Section, during

his three years' stay among them, and expressed his conviction that many

a young lad would grow into a better man because he had known Archibald

Munro, and some of them would never forget what he had done for them.

By this time all the big girls and many of the visitors were openly

weeping. The boys were looking straight in front of them, their faces

set in an appearance of savage gloom, for they knew well how near they

were to "acting like the girls."

After a short prayer by the minister, the children filed out past the

master, who stood at the door and shook hands with them one by one. When

the big boys, and the young men who had gone to school in the winter

months, came to say good by, they shook hands silently, and then stood

close about him as if hating to let him go. He had caught for them in

many a close base-ball match; he had saved their goal in many a fierce

shinny fight with the Front; and while he had ruled them with an iron

rule, he had always treated them fairly. He had never failed them; he

had never weakened; he had always been a man among them. No wonder they

stood close about him and hated to lose him. Suddenly big Bob Fraser

called out in a husky voice, "Three cheers for the captain!" and every

one was glad of the chance to let himself out in a roar. And that was

the last of the farewells.