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Page 11
"Well, I should n't think you had patience enough for any sort of
teaching," said Margery candidly.
"Neither did I suppose so myself, and I have n't any patience to spare,
that is, for boarders, or dishes, or beds; but I love children so
dearly that they never try my patience as other things do."
"You have had the play side of the kindergarten, Polly, while Miss
Denison had the care. There must be a work-a-day side to it; I'm sure
Miss Denison very often looks tired to death."
"Of course!" cried Polly. "I know it 's hard work; but who cares
whether a thing is hard or not, if one loves it? I don't mind work; I
only mind working at something I dislike and can never learn to like.
Why, Margery, at the Sunday-school picnics you go off in the broiling
sun and sit on a camp-chair and sketch, while I play Fox and Geese with
the children, and each of us pities the other and thinks she must be
dying with heat. It 's just the difference between us! You carry your
easel and stool and paint-boxes and umbrella up the steepest hill, and
never mind if your back aches; I bend over Miss Denison's children with
their drawing or building, and never think of my back-ache, do you see?"
"Yes; but I always keep up my spirits by thinking that though I may be
tired and discouraged, it is worth while because it is Art I am working
at; and for the sake of being an artist I ought to be willing to endure
anything. You would n't have that feeling to inspire and help you."
"I should like to know why I would n't," exclaimed Polly, with flashing
eyes. "I should like to know why teaching may not be an art. I
confess I don't know exactly what an artist is, or rather what the
dictionary definition of art is; but sit down in Miss Burke's room at
the college; you can't stay there half an hour without thinking that,
rather than have her teach you anything, you would be an ignorant
little cannibal on a desert island! She does n't know how, and there
is nothing beautiful about it. But look at Miss Denison! When she
comes into her kindergarten it is like the sunrise, and she makes
everything blossom that she touches. It is all so simple and sweet
that it seems as if anybody could do it; but when you try it you find
that it is quite different. Whether she plays or sings, or talks or
works with the children, it is perfect. 'It all seems so easy when you
do it,' I said to her yesterday, and she pointed to the quotation for
the day in her calendar. It was a sentence from George MacDonald:
'Ease is the lovely result of forgotten toil.' Now it may be that Miss
Mary Denison is only an angel; but I think that she 's an artist."
"On second thoughts, perhaps you are right in your meaning of the word,
though it does n't follow that all teachers are artists."
"No; nor that all the painters are," retorted Polly. "Think of that
poor Miss Thomas in your outdoor class. Last week, when you were
sketching the cow in front of the old barn, I sat behind her for half
an hour. Her barn grew softer and softer and her cow harder and
harder, till when she finished, the barn looked as if it were molded in
jelly and the cow as if it were carved in red sandstone."
"She ought not to be allowed to paint," said Margery decisively.
"Of course she ought n't! That's just what I say; and I ought not to
be allowed to keep boarders, and I won't!"
"I must say you have wonderful courage, Polly. It seems so natural and
easy for you to strike out for yourself in a new line that it must be
you feel a sense of power, and that you will be successful."
Polly's manner changed abruptly as she glanced in at her mother's empty
chair before she replied.
"Courage! Sometimes I think I have n't a morsel. I am a gilded sham.
My knees tremble whenever I think of my future 'career,' as I call it.
Mamma thinks me filled with a burning desire for a wider sphere of
action, and so I am, but chiefly for her sake. Courage! There 's
nothing like having a blessed, tired little mother to take care of,--a
mother whom you want to snatch from the jaws of a horrible fate. That
's a trifle strong, but it's dramatic! You see, Margery, a woman like
my mother is not going to remain forever in her present rank in her
profession,--she is too superior; she is bound to rise. Now, what
would become of her if she rose? Why, first, she would keep a country
hotel, and sit on the front piazza in a red rocker, and chat with the
commercial travelers; and then she would become the head of a summer
resort, with a billiard-room and a bowling-alley. I must be
self-supporting, and 'I will never desert Mr. Micawber,' so I should
make beds and dust in Hotel Number One, and in Hotel Number Two
entertain the guests with my music and my 'sprightly manners,'--that's
what Mr. Greenwood calls them, and the only reason I am sorry we live
in a republic is that I can't have him guillotined for doing it, but
must swallow my wrath because he pays twenty dollars a week and seldom
dines at home. Finally, in Hotel Number Three I should probably marry
the ninepin-man or the head clerk, so as to consolidate the management
and save salaries, and there would end the annals of the Olivers! No,
Margery!" cried Polly, waving the scissors in the air, "everybody is
down on the beach, and I can make the welkin ring if I like, so hear
me: The boarders must go! How, when, and where they shall go are
three problems I have n't yet solved; and what I shall find to take the
place of them when they do go is a fourth problem, and the knottiest
one of all!"
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