tion to get
out of it is branded as a sacrilege. He has taken the pedagogic veil
and must wear it. But Lyman was not satisfied with the respect given
to this calling; he longed for something else, not of a more active
nature, it is true, but something that might embrace a broader swing.
The soft atmosphere had turned the edge of his physical energy, but
his mind was eager and grasping. His history was that dear fallacy,
that silken toga which many of us have wrapped about ourselves--the
belief that a good score at college means immediate success out in the
world. And he had worked desperately to finish his education, had
taken care of horses and waited upon table at a summer resort in the
White Mountains. His first great and cynical shock was to find that
his "accomplishment" certificate was one of an enormous edition; that
it meant comparatively nothing in the great brutal world of trade;
that modesty was a drawback, and that gentleness was as weak as
timidity. And repeated failures drove him from New England to a
community where, it had been said, the people were less sharp, less
cold, and far less exacting. He was getting along in years when he
took up the school--past thirty-five. He was tall, lean, and inclined
toward angularity. He had never been handsome, but about his honest
face there was something so manly, so wholesome, so engaging, that it
took but one touch of sentiment to light it almost to fascinating
attractiveness. Children, oftener than grown persons, were struck with
his kindly eyes; and his voice had been compared with church music, so
deep and so sacred in tone; and yet it was full of a whimsical humor,
for the eyes splashed warm mischief and the mouth was a silent, half
sad laugh.

It was observed one evening that Lyman passed the post-office with
two sheep-covered books under his arm, and when he had gone beyond
hearing, old Buckley Lightfoot, the oracle, turned to Jimmie Bledsoe,
who was weighing out shingle nails, and said:

"Jimmie, hold on there a moment with your clatter."

"Can't just now, Uncle Buckley. Lige, here, is in a hurry for his
nails."

"But didn't I tell you to hold on a moment? Look here, Lige," he
added, clearing his throat with a warning rasp, "are you in such a
powerful swivit after you've heard what I said? I ask, are you?"

"Well," Lige began to drawl, "I want to finish coverin' my roof before
night, for it looks mighty like rain. And I told him I was in a
hurry."