For a little, he wondered
if he had not been foolish, after all, in trying a job so difficult
and so perilous. If he should be thrown out of school, he felt
sure it would ruin him--he could never look Polly in the face
again. As he turned to begin the work of teaching, it seemed to
him a case of do or die, and he felt the strength of an ox in his
heavy muscles.
The big boys had settled themselves in a back corner side by
side--a situation too favourable for mischief. He asked them to
take other seats. They complied sullenly and with hesitation. He
looked over books, organized the school in classes, and started one
of them on its way. It was the primer class, including a half
dozen very small boys and girls. They shouted each word in the
reading lesson, laboured in silence with another, and gave voice
again with unabated energy. In their pursuit of learning they
bayed like hounds. Their work began upon this ancient and
informing legend, written to indicate the shout and skip of the
youthful student:--
The--sun--is--up--and--it--is--day--day?--day.
"You're afraid," the teacher began after a little. "Come up here
close to me."
They came to his chair and stood about him.
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