Читать книгу Silas X. Floyd's Short Stories for Colored People Both Old and Young - Silas Xavier Floyd - Страница 6

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There was no doubt about it,—of all the little colored boys and girls who went to the Peabody school, Margaret was the dullest. Her teacher said so, her friends said so, her parents were of the same opinion, and if asked herself, Margaret would undoubtedly have frankly acknowledged that her undisputed and proper place was at the foot of the class. Her brother Charles, who was one year younger than she, had proudly graduated from the fifth grade and was making rapid progress in the sixth. He did not spend one-half the time studying that Margaret did, and yet when it came time for recitations, he would stand up and recite in a manner that warmed his teacher’s heart and made him the envy of most all of his schoolmates.

An Exciting Moment.

If Margaret was backward in her studies, little Mable Green certainly was not. Arithmetic, geography, writing, reading, she excelled in all of them. She was a very bright little colored girl and a very good looking one, too. Mable knew this just as well as all of the boys and girls did,—she was not exactly foolish and vain, but she had been so praised and petted by her school friends and teachers that she was inclined to be a little conceited, what we all would call “stuck up.” Once a month a prize was given for the scholar who stood highest in certain studies, and Mable had twice been the successful pupil,—she had two highly prized silver medals to show for her skill.

Now one of the members of the school board was a farmer about forty years of age, kind-hearted, but a little old-fashioned. He believed in boys and girls knowing how to read and write and spell correctly, but he did not care for what he called the “new-fangled” ideas of some of the other members of the board. He was very much opposed to a course in music and elocution that was being considered by the school board, and did not hesitate to let every one know how he felt about it. Now he knew Mable and liked her—he was very much interested in the way in which she stood at the head of her classes and wanted to do something to encourage her in sticking to the old-fashioned forms of education. He thought over this for a long time, and finally decided to hold a spelling match. Now you all probably know what a spelling match is. Two sides are chosen who stand up on opposite sides of the room, and the teacher give out words, commencing at the head of the row,—any one who misses a word has to sit down, and the last one to stand up wins the prize for his side, also is pronounced the best speller and gets the personal prize.

The board all thought this a fine scheme, and so it was decided to hold the spelling match on Thanksgiving evening at the schoolhouse. The teacher was to pronounce the words, while the members of the board were to give her lists of words from which to choose.

“What are you going to give for a prize, Mr. Edwards?” asked the teacher.

“Well, I thought I would give twenty dollars,” replied the man. “Yes, I rather plan to give a bright twenty-dollar gold piece.”

The news spread like wild fire. Never had there been such excitement. This was a small fortune, and Mable’s mother pinned a bright red bow in her hair, and put on her prettiest frock,—Mable had already considered the prize as won,—in fact, she had planned just how she would spend it,—she was a good speller and felt confident that she could win.

The night arrived, bright and crisp November weather, with a bright moon overhead,—the little schoolhouse was packed. It was decided that all children in the fifth, sixth and seventh grades would be allowed to compete. Now, Margaret had been in a highly excited state ever since hearing of the contest—strange to say, she was a good speller. It has often been said, and quite correctly, too, that spelling is a gift,—that some people spell correctly quite naturally, while no amount of study or practice can make a good speller out of any one who was born with a head that ached and throbbed at the mere thought of spelling. She had never had fifty cents of her own in her whole life—twenty dollars in gold—it did not seem possible that there could be that much money in the whole world.

Sides were chosen and Margaret was almost hidden by fat Reggie Andrews, who stood next to her. Mable was right across the room from her, and smiled in a somewhat scornful manner at the girl she thought was a “dummy.”

The teacher began to pronounce the words and you could have almost heard a pin drop; the first few times around but few scholars dropped out, Reggie going down the third time on “mucilage.” Margaret gave a sigh of relief—Reggie had made her very nervous.

Nothing happened that amounted to much until the teacher began to give out words containing “ie” and “ei.” Now these words are very difficult unless a speller knows the rule—“ie” is almost always used except after the letter “c,”—following this letter “c,” it is always “ei.” Margaret had learned this rule in the second grade, and these words had no terror for her—she was gaining confidence now and the audience began to sit up and take notice. Soon but five were left standing,—three on Margaret’s side and only Mable and one little colored boy on the other. It seemed for a time that these five would have to divide the prize,—word after word was spelled and no one missed—the audience was hanging spellbound on every syllable, and the dignified members of the board were trying to act naturally, although in reality, greatly wrought up.

“Exhaustible,” suddenly said the teacher.

There was a moment’s hesitation, and then Ann Houston, on Margaret’s side glibly said:

“E-x-a-u-s-t-i-b-l-e.”

“Wrong; be seated,” and with much sniffling and rubbing her eyes, Ann walked sorrowfully to her seat.

The boy on Mable’s side shuffled his feet, looked up, down and around the room, and finally blurted out:

“E-x-h-a-u-s-t-a-b-l-e.”

“Wrong!” and Bobbie joined Ann in sorrowful silence.

Rose Holcomb, the one remaining girl on Margaret’s side, had become rattled—she rolled her eyes wildly up and down and then guessed,—she made a very bad guess.

“E-c-h-o-s-t-i-b-l-e!” and Rose was also counted out and took her seat, tossing her head and looking indifferently around.

It was now Mable’s turn, and she had sufficient intelligence to have profited by the experience of Ann and Bobbie—had the word been pronounced to her first, she would probably have misspelled it, but now she spelled it out firmly and confidently, letter for letter, without a hitch.

Now Mable faced Margaret for the final test—both were greatly excited, but their nervousness had passed—it was now that Margaret’s natural ability came to her aid. Word after word she spelled, and the crowd watched her in amazement. Here was the supposedly dull and backward pupil, the recognized “foot of the class,” standing up gallantly to the last against Mable, the favorite, to whom everybody had conceded the prize as already won.

The largest cities in America, in South America and Europe, proper names, animals,—the words became more and more difficult. Finally, the names of flowers were given—Mable had studied botany and was familiar with flowers—Margaret was now relying on her natural ability and nerve—all things come to an end, and at last the teacher pronounced the name of the flower—

“F-U-C-H-S-I-A.”

Now it is a fact that there is probably no more tricky word in the English language than this—it all depends upon where to place the letter “s.” Mable knew what fuchsias were,—knew all about the different parts, the petals, the stem,—she had spelled the word correctly many times, but, alas, she was a trifle hasty and exclaimed:

“F-U-S-C-H-I-A.”

“Wrong!”—Mable burst into tears,—and with loud sobs ran to her seat and threw herself down, her face buried in her arms.

All eyes were now on Margaret. She was strongly tempted to spell this commencing “ph”—it seemed correct, but something told her that Mable had been almost right. Almost, but not quite! Mable’s dramatic finish had given her time to think for a moment, and when the word was once more pronounced she was ready—without hesitation she spelled slowly and distinctly:

“F-U-C-H-S-I-A.”

“Correct,—Margaret, you have won the prize.”

Margaret’s knees almost gave way under her—surely she must be dreaming—it could not possibly be herself to whom the committeeman was advancing with a light blue plush case—every one was clapping their hands, and the boys had so forgotten themselves as to whistle through their fingers and noisily stamp their feet.

“Margaret, You Have Won the Prize.”

“It gives me great pleasure,” said Mr. Edwards, “to give this twenty-dollar gold piece to Margaret Hawkins, and to pronounce her the best speller in the school.”

Poor Mable cried herself to sleep that night, but it was a good lesson for her—it taught her to be more considerate of others, and that there were something at which she could be beaten.

Every one treated Margaret with increased respect, and her success was also good for her—she began to improve in her other studies, and as she gained in confidence, gradually became, if not one of the best, at least a very good scholar.

Mr. Edwards says his next prize will be given for the best all-around pupil at the close of the term—and Mable is once more looking forward with hope.