Bolum--but the train is going to start. Are you sure you have
your ticket, and your check, and your lunch? Yes, I'll say good-by to
Mary for you.--Good-by, Tim!"
And Tim went around the bend.
VIII
Books! Books! Eternal, infernal books! The sun was printing over the
floor the shadow skeleton of the juniper-tree by the westerly window.
That always told me it was one o'clock. And one o'clock meant books
again--three long hours of wrangling with dull wits, of fencing with
sharper ones; three long hours of a-b-abs, of two-times-twos and
three-times-threes; hours of spelling and of parsing, hours of bounding
and describing. With it all, woven through it, now swelling, now dying
away, now broken by a shrill cry of pain or anger, was the ceaseless
buzzing of the school. There was no rest for the eye, even. The walls
were white, their glare was baneful, and through the chalk-dust mist the
rustling field of young heads suggested anything but peace and repose to
one of my calling. That was the field I worked in.
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