Alpena argus. [volume] (Alpena, Mich.) 1893-1909, 1894-03-21

thought! The royal June day,
bright and burning, that hung
above the broad fresh meadows of
Dene!
The schoolroom windows are wide
open, and all the soft beauties of
the quiet outside would seem crowd
ing near and peeping in to tempt
us. The warm wind stirs lazily,
breathing sort of general listless
invitation, which the honeysuckle
on the porch seconds by waving its
slim green fingers, as if pointing
us an easy way to freedom and de-
light. Little white clouds 60 sail
ing down the sky, and lose them
selves beyond the hills; the river
dreams and sparkles, birds cross in
the sunlight from tree to tree, sing
ing and calling to each other, no
doubt, but we cannot hear one note
of all their exquisite music, for the
dull heavy noise that prevails with
in.
1t is not the studious din of rec
itation, but rather a confusion and
discord as of "chaos come again
Girls are yawning, girls are hum
ming, girls are talking, girls are
laughing. Dolly Spencer is writing
notes; Ida Joyce and May Miller
are blowing paper pellets; down in
the corner by the rusty stove Annie
Grant is telling in hoarse whispers,
the story of "Willful Alice" to a
select audience of three wide
mouths and six very wide eyes.
Mary Baner is cutting paper dolls,
well-shielded from view by Mate
Joyce's open atlas.
And Madge Barry, as usual the
center of group, is making an
elaborate caricature of Miss Gaynor
receiving the visiting committee.
There is much crowding, and
craning of necks, and various stlfed
shrieks Of laughter, as the work
progresses, but the artist sits I'M
moved by homage, and undisturbed
by elbows, putting in, with an i'm
partial hand, the gigantic noses and
emphatic shirt collars that are sup
posed to distinguish visiting COM
mittees in general.
As usual, also, | am near to
Madge, at least within reach of her
nod and smile, and the kind pro-
tecting looks she loves to send me
from time to time, perhaps because
| am timid and little, or perhaps
because she knows | watch and
wait for it.
The prim, busy girls on the front
seat are working out exercises, states
in hand. Dot, dot, dot, click, click,
go the hurrying pencils. Miss Gay
nor's monotonous voice reads from
the arithmetic and explains; | can
scarcely hear her above the tumult,
but can see her very plainly in
deed, sitting behind her desk and
leaning forward little on her ell
bow.
She is dressed in a light blue
cambria, with fresh linen at her
wrists and neck; her smooth brown
hair is built IN glossy braids be-
hind, and long coral ear-drops dan
gle from her ears; her cheeks and
lips are brighter than ever, her eyes
more brilliant and restless, but her
voice sounds spent and faint; she
seems to speak and act mechanical
ly as if her mind was far away.
| have just finished writing thirty
punishment lines for splitting my
ink, and am, therefore, at leisure for
time.
1t is only two o'clock. How
slowly the hours move! How
drowsy they make me, the heat and
noise and hustle! If | could only
lay my head down on the desk-lid a
moment, just moment!
/ suppose | am falling gently
asleep, when my sense come back
with jump. A strange sudden
sound, a cry, gasp, rings out
above the droning hum, and stills il
instantly. And we all see Miss
Gaynor leaning back in her chair
as pale as death, holding against
her lips handkerchief stained with
blood.
For a moment or two we sit star
ing at her as if paralyzed. Then
little Lucy Morris, the angel of the
school (she was indeed an angel
and has gone to heaven since),
stands at her side holding a glass Of