All
this is spring, and - and yet it isn't. The word is not yet spoken
that sets us free to live the outdoor life; we are yet prisoners and
captives of the house.
But, one day in school, the heat that yesterday was nice and cozy
becomes too dry and baking for endurance. The young ones come in
from recess red, not with the brilliant glow of winter, but a sort
of scalded red. They juke their heads forward to escape their
collars' moist embrace; they reach their hands back of them to pull
their clinging winter underwear away. They fan themselves with
joggerfies, and puff out: "Phew!" and look pleadingly at the shut
windows. One boy, bolder than his fellows, moans with a suffering
lament: "Miss Daniels, cain't we have the windows open? It's awful
hot!" Frightful dangers lurk in draughts. Fresh air will kill
folks. So, not until the afternoon is the prayer answered. Then
the outer world, so long excluded, enters once more the school-room
life. The mellifluous crowing of distant roosters, the rhythmic
creaking of a thirsty pump, the rumble of a loaded wagon, the
clinking of hammers at the blacksmith shop, the whistle of No. 3
away below town, all blend together in the soft spring air into one
lulling harmony.
Winter's alert activity is gone. Who cares for grades and standings
now? The girls, that always are so smart, gape lazily, and stare
at vacancy wishing .
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