At the top of the hill, reluctant to go back to the town that lay
beyond, he stood contemplating the ancient school building that held so
bravely its commanding position, and looked so pitiful in its shabby old
age. Then passing through a gap in the tumble-down fence, and crossing
the weed-filled yard, he entered the building.
For a while he wandered curiously about the time-worn rooms, reading the
names scratched on the plaster walls, cut in the desks and seats, on the
window casing, and on the big square posts that, in the lower rooms,
supported the ceiling. He laughed to himself, as he noticed how the sides
of these posts facing away from the raised platform at the end of the
room were most elaborately carved. It suggested so vividly the life
that had once stirred within the old walls.
Several of the names were already familiar to him. He tried to imagine
the venerable heads of families he knew, as they were in the days when
they sat upon these worn benches. Did Judge Strong or Elder Jordan,
perhaps, throw one of those spit-balls that stuck so hard and fast to
the ceiling? And did some of the grandmothers he had met giggle and hide
their faces at Nathaniel's cunning evasion of the teacher's quick effort
to locate the successful marksman? Had those staid pillars of the church
ever been swayed and bent by passions of young manhood and womanhood?
Had their minds ever been stirred by the questions and doubts of youth?
Had their hearts ever throbbed with eager longing to know--to feel life
in its fullness?
Seating himself at one of the battered desks he tried to bring back the
days that were gone, and to see about him the faces of those who once
had filled the room with the strength and gladness of their youth.
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