" It was a word sharply etched in the dialect of that
region. If one were to say _skollur-r-r_, he might come near it.
Every winter morning the scholar entered a little vestibule which
was part of the woodshed. He passed an ash barrel and the odour of
drying wood, hung cap and coat On a peg in the closet, lifted the
latch of a pine door, and came into the schoolroom. If before
nine, it would be noisy with shout and laughter, the buzz of
tongues, the tread of running feet. Big girls, in neat aprons,
would be gossiping at the stove hearth; small boys would be chasing
each other up and down aisles and leaping the whittled desks of
pine; little girls, in checked flannel, or homespun, would be
circling in a song play; big boys would be trying feats of strength
that ended in loud laughter. So it was, the first morning of that
winter term in 1850. A tall youth stood by the window. Suddenly
he gave a loud "sh--h--h!" Running feet fell silently and halted;
words begun with a shout ended in a whisper. A boy making
caricatures at the blackboard dropped his chalk, that now fell
noisily. A whisper, heavy with awe and expectation, flew hissing
from lip to lip--"The teacher!" There came a tramping in the
vestibule, the door-latch jumped with a loud rattle, and in came
Sidney Trove.
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