The Believing Years (Interesting Ebooks)

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CHAPTER I

MR. COLBURN

Each boy in the school-room had fixed his mind on two objects: the calendar and the clock. On the former stood out in big black characters
June
20
The clock pointed to the hour of three. Exactly sixty minutes separated us from vacation. It was the day of our dreams,—the last day of school.
We had thought of it, thought of it far back when snow still covered the ground; planned for it, lived in hope of it. To-morrow the tyrannical bell should be silent, and no one could say: "Time to start for school!"
Many forces had been at work hurrying this day forward: the first blades of grass, the first leaves on the horse-chestnut trees, the first robin who ran across the grass-plots overlooking the frog pond, the first dandelion that gleamed in the grass. All were signs and symbols of it.
But in spite of so many omens, the day itself had been outrageously slow to arrive. The robins had abated the enthusiasm of the first few weeks, and become quieter. They were sober householders and family men, now. The golden blossoms of the dandelions were transformed into that shape in which they are useful chiefly to blow upon three times to see at what o'clock your mother wants you. The season had arrived for swimming,—indeed, it had been here for weeks,—Ed Mason and Rob Currier claimed to have gone in swimming at Four Rocks as early as the last day of April. The fish in Little River needed our careful attention. And in front of Austin's shop had long stood a sign displaying a pink pyramid with a spoon stuck therein, and the seductive words "Ice Cream," a spectacle that made our Fourth of July money stir uneasily in our pockets.
In short, all the elements of vacation were here,—all but the thing itself. Each morning the summons came at twenty minutes of nine, and each morning we trod the dismal path. Pencils squeaked, and slaty smells arose as the slates were covered with figures and then cleaned with damp sponges. The pungent odor of cedar, from newly sharpened lead-pencils, mingled with the fragrance of pickled limes,—smuggled into school and eaten contrary to the orders of Miss Temple, the teacher. Outside, summer called us in a dozen different ways. And, uneasy prisoners, we chafed and wriggled in our seats.
But, somehow, the days had dragged by, and even this final one had nearly gone. At the last moment, when our release was so near at hand, a dismal spectre arose before us to block the way. It was the forbidding form of Mr. Colburn.
This was a man who had written an arithmetic,—an arithmetic of singular and diabolical ingenuity. He had done this thing long before any of us were born, and then he had passed from the earth. But his work had remained to annoy us. Occasionally, during the last hour of the afternoon session, we wrestled with Mr. Colburn, by request. This was in addition to the regular arithmetic lesson in the morning.
I conceived Mr. Colburn as a tall, spare man, clad in brown leather. His face was brown and leathery, too, and it was puckered and sour. In one hand he held his famous book,—in the other, a big switch. He was full of impertinent curiosity, was Mr. Colburn, and he had no manner of interest in the things that really concerned us.

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