The Portland daily press. [volume] (Portland, Me.) 1862-1921, 1900-06-30
THE soHooLHoUsE on THE HfL.


."All the world loves . lover Il not
more true than that all the world loves
an old schoolhouse. Dear, homely, jack
knife hacked old wallis How many ten
der associations, how many rAosses Of ro-
nance cling thereonl For the boys and
girls Of the past generation continued on
In the district school. winters, at least,
till they were well mp TO maturity. Who
does not remember who Of such as were
blest with such youth, the enviable po-
sitlon Of those superior and exalted beings
the big boys and girls In the back
seatsf
BY Fan old schoolhouse" Is meant, not
one of our modern, starched and ironed
ediflces, with all their up-to-date appli-
acnes. their charts and globes, their sys-
TENS and paraphernalia Of electricity and
steam--not that fine young 1900 gallant at
all but his plain, old-fashioncd elder
brother, the real thing OF generation
ago. This Is meant, the little red school
house on the hill, isolated, unshaded.
open alike to the blasts Of winter, an d
the thunderstorms Of summer, when the
school mistress was fain TO dismiss the
session and gather the frightened chill
dren for imaginary protection about her
knee. That little red schoolhouse with
microscopic windows, a door with an
iron hasp, with two long rows OF seats
across and stove between, this Is the
kind Of thing that Is meant.
This old survivor of day gone by lives
In form in few forgotten districts, and
in the memory of all the grave men and
women walking their divers paths OF
life, who conned their spellingbooks in
their early pursuit of knowledge, under
that seventy mine roof. Meet one OF
those grave travellers, refer to those old
schooldays-how instantaneous Is the
flash Of responsel
You suggest that Master Jones had his
virtues, though you denied him them
| then. The grave traveller eagerly re-
spends that, Mistress Mahala Dobbs was
after all good old soul, IL her spectacles
we re iron-bowed. You revert to the
night OF the spelling school, and tell how
you were the last on your side to be
spelled down. The grave trave Ter In
quires, with a twinkle of the eye, II you
remember who spelled you down. You
confess, growing mellow, that 1t was you
who wrote the verse of q tender nature,
in the back of Sarah James arithmetic.
The grave traveller has break in his
voice as he confides that he has never
forgotten Maria. Silence. You both
pretend to be finding something in side
two bat
deal of bending over and fishing a good
deal. Without seeming to find it, you
straighten up and survey the weather.
Then you both remember how you tried
to go home with the same girl, one night,
and both Of you got fthe 'mitten." She
took the arm Of the fiddler, Jack.
You laugh, now, and say what good
joke 1t was. 1t was serious crisis then.
Well, you conclude, Ann Susan married
him, married the fiddler Jack. and she
danced to a sorry tune, poor girl Again
your memory, and that Of the grave trav-
eler, agree with remarkable unanimity
as touching the birch switches you were
both sent out to cut, as means of grace
to each other Tin the hands of the mis-
tress), after you had run away from
school down to the brook to wade. Oh
yes you can laugh at the remembrance
of that too, for the smart of your shins
was quickly salved under the overwhelm-
ing preponderance Of fun.
All, the multitudinous "reminiscences
that the Old Home Week hand-clasps
will electrify to lifei
CLARA MARCELL + GREENE.