PATCHWORK PIECES

Otago Witness, Issue 3861, 13 March 1928, Page 75

PATCHWORK PIECES

By:

Eileen Service. -

(Special for the Otago Witness.) p • XLL—-THE LITTLE GIRL. How was it that a bird could sound so dear? There he was, on the bough, tense with his song, and making everything around him tense to listen. He caused a lump to come in the throat. But that could not be right. Joyful things, like birds, did not hurt. And yet— A bell clanged. The thrush fled from his tree, and Twiddie jerked herself back to reality. She saw that the other children were running, so she ran too; but it was for fear of being late, not from high spirits, that she hurried. She slid into place just as the clanging ceased.

The pupil-teacher was inspecting the class. He had arranged the boys into three rows at the back, and was looking over the girls in front of them. There were only seven of these—the smallest class of girls in the school—but all superior and from such good homes except— His . eye rested on Twiddie with a frown.

“ Late ? ” lie said. Then, in a tone of irritation, “Late, and untidy, too! Look at your shoes. Surely you can see that if you want to keep the tone of the class up you can’t afford to come to school without using shoe polish.” The class smirked. They knew, as he knew, that Twiddie’s shoes had not been neglected, but that the dust which her running had caused had covered their shine and revealed the cracks in their leather. The shoes were shabby, that was their only trouble. Still—if Oid Snobby wanted his gibe, he must have it. The pupil-teacher made them close ranks and stand in line. He did not like Twiddie. She lowered the standard of his girls in every way, even :n looks. How plain she was, standing there! And her clothes! Still frowning, he turned the line to the right and gave the order, “ Quick march!”

The children padded over the dust, clattered up the concrete steps, banged through the porch into their room, and shuffled into their seats. Slates were brought out from the desks and cleaned, and one of the boys distributed fresh pencils. Then the pupil-teacher wrote a set of sums on the blackboard, and the class settled to work. Twiddie bent over her slate. She was no good at sums. Even when she tried her best she failed. And to-day she did not want even to try. There was a dull pain in her chest, as if the feeling she had had when the thrush was singing had been stamped on and bruised. It made her want to take in long breaths and expel them rapidly. But, even so, it did not depart. At the end of the period when the pupil-teacher came round to correct the work she was lost in a jungle of figures, and could not exti icate herself.

He scolded her loudly. She was a disgrace, and he had no patience with her. He had never seen a less intelligent girl in all his life. If it happened like this again she would have to be strapped like a boy. He made her stand on the platform, holding her slate out for everyone to see, while the class, following his cue, tittered as they watched. In the reading lesson that followed her voice sounded so low that she was admonished for sulking, and when spelling time came she had more mistakes than anyone else. Eleven o’clock let the rest free for recreation, but Twiddie had to stay behind to correct her sums. The boys looked at her in scorn as they filed’ out, and the girls made giggling remarks about her appearance. But she took no notice, although she was aware of what thev did.

The bruise was gone now, crushed under something heavy which hurt as a weight hurts when it presses on a nerve. The ache of it made her look sullen as she laboured over her smudged slate. A most unattractive child, the pupilteacher thought, as he went to the infantroom to have morning tea. They Wfre making ready for a geography lesson after play-time, when the door opened and the headmaster, accompanied by a stranger, entered the room. The visitor, he said, had once been a pupil of the school, and was now a scientist known all over the country. To celebrate his return to his native town, he had made a request that was going to be granted. The school was to dismiss at once and have the rest of the day as a holiday.

There was a whoop of delight and a stamping of feet. The pupil-teacher beamed with a proprietary air. “ Come on, boys, three cheers for the gentleman,” lie called, and the walls rang with the response. Then bags were packed, the board cleaned and the class stamped out, Twiddie remained in her place. The pupil-teacher noticed her as he turned to gather his books. “Oh, you!” he said. There was insult in. his tone. “ Staying behind to finish your sums, are you? You should be ashamed to do such work, a great big girl like you. Well, you’d better go how. You can’t stay here alone, and I’m not going to wait with you. So off with you. And let me have better work to-morrow, or else—”

He watched her leave the room. He would not have spoken to one of the other girls like that, but, then, they were different. Twiddie belonged to a class which would not understand any other method. She was stupid, and needed stern measures before she would improve. He hummed a little air as he made ready to depart, Twiddie found the school grounds deserted. Everybody had gone home to tell the news. She was the last scholar to leave. The silence and the loneliness made the weight in her chest feel heavier than ever, and all at once she grew afraid of them. She rushed out of the gate and began to run, speeding on until the school was left behind her and she was well on the road to home.

Everything was strange to-day—birds so lovely that they made one feel like crying, and school so cruel that it was more intolerable than ever. How bitterly she hated it. It was a misery to be endured in the daytime, and a sickening thought to haunt the night. If only she need not go. But her mother wished it so. Even if she were a washerwoman, she used to say, her daughter must have a good education and be like other girls. Her tired face would light up at the words.

TwidC’e went on less quickly. The holiday was a blessing. She could not say how glad she was for it; and yet it had not made the ache go away. Something else must happen before that was dispelled. Suddenly she thought of the “ surprise.” The “ surprise ” was a packet which had been given to her by the vicar’s daughter before she left the district to be married. It was a reward for running errands and carrying messages, and the donor had said as she thrust it into Twiddie’s hands:

“ There, dear. I’ve collected a few pretties, and put them in here to amuse you. You’ve been so helpful that I’d like you to have them if you will. Perhaps you’d rather wait till after I’m away before you look at them—keep the parcel as a sort of surprise packet or something. Well, do; I shan’t mind —in fact, I’d rather like you to.” So Twiddie had put it away, meaning to open it when the right moment came. But the pleasure she experienced in deliberately denying herself something that was all ready for her to have was so unusual that the packet was still unopened. To-day, however, she would break into its mysteries.

When she was free aftei - lunch she went down to the creek. There was a hiding-place like a eave below the bank, and here she sat, laying in her lap the packet which she had carried under her dress. It was oblong, wrapped in green tissue paper, and tied with gold ribbons. She stroked it for a moment before removing the ribbon and paper. Then she opened the box that was revealed. There was a tray of sweets on top — crystallised fruits, nuts set in nougat, iced biscuits and chocolates. Twiddie put one of these last into her mouth, rearranging the others into order with her finger. Then she lifted the tray out by two little attachments and laid it aside.

A medley of things greeted her gaze: a pair of white silk socks with ribbon garters to keep them in place, and white silk gloves to match; a white brocaded Dorothy bag in which was an embroidered handkerchief, and a pocket holding a shilling; lavender water in a tiny cutglass bottle; a prayer book with white ivory covers—this had belonged to the vicar’s daughter herself, a photograph of the giver standing in the sunshine with her hat in her hand—and a letter addressed to Twiddie.

Twiddie took them out one by one, her checks growing scarlet. She was bewildered, and rocked herself back and forth as she sat. The weight had gone from her chest, but in her throat was the same sort of choking feeling as the thrush had made. She looked lielplessly around her. Then she turned back the flap of the. envelope and took out her letter. “ Twiddie dear,” it said, “ this is a funny sort of present to give you, especially with the suggestion that you do not open it just yet. But from what I know of you I think there may come a time when you need to be made happier than you do just now, and this will be appreciated then. You’re an unhappy little girl, Twiddie. I haven’t taught you in Sunday school for two years without seeing that, and I know how courageously you hide it so that your mother won't suspect and worry over you. But you mustn’t be unhappy, because no matter how unkind people are or how much they make you hate yourself I want you to realise that it is only because they cannot see how wrong they are. You arc not poor and old fashioned and ugly, really. You are sensitive and lovely, and, what is more, you have an understanding of beautiful things which some day will make you more different still. Why, you might do or be anything with it! So don’t let circumstances distress you any more, but remember that I believe in you, and that I expect you to justify my faith.”

Twiddie sat very still. Then the lump in her throat seemed to break, and she turned over and lay face downwards. Tears were dreadful things. They hurt so; and yet they made one feel*better after they were over. So she wasn’t poor or old fashioned or ugly. She was sensitive and lovely, and understood beautiful things—like the thrush. Why—nothing else mattered then. She ceased crying and sat up. Through the tears that rimmed her lashes the sunlight made an aureole. She saw, and suddenly smiled, tremulously. •