When I awoke the next morning, I felt stiff all over. I was tempted to stay under the covers, but my body would not allow me the privilege. I thought of the small structure marked “Girls” way across the clearing and wondered if my legs would be able to walk the distance. I did wish that they had thought to build it nearer the teacherage.
I dressed clumsily and started walking slowly. The sun was up and shining down on a picture-pretty world. By the time I had traveled across to the building and back, some of the kinks were loosening, and I decided that I would be able to face the day after all, even emptying the tub of cold bath water!
While I waited for the water to heat for my morning coffee, I took my Bible and turned to the passage in Nehemiah where I had been reading. Though Nehemiah was leading a whole nation and rebuilding a city, I found some exciting parallels between his story and my new life way out here in the Canadian frontier. The day suddenly seemed to hold great promise. The kettle was singing merrily before I finished my prayer, and I proceeded to fix my breakfast.
I spent the morning carrying books and classroom aids to the little schoolhouse, then made a quick lunch and spent the afternoon organizing things. The classroom soon looked inhabited and inviting. I even wrote a few simple adding exercises on the blackboard. I hung the alphabet and number charts, put up some study pictures and maps, and the room began to come alive.
Around five o’clock while I was still lingering in the classroom, choosing the Psalms that I would read for the opening on Monday morning, I heard the jingle of harness. It was Mr. Johnson delivering the tables and benches. He had a near-grown son with him who took one look at me and went red to the very roots of his hair. I pretended not to notice, to save him further embarrassment, and showed them where to place the furniture. Mr. Johnson gazed around the now-furnished classroom, and tears began to gather in his eyes and trickle down his creased cheeks.
“Da Lord be praised!” he exclaimed. “It really be so. Ve do haf school. Yah?”
His deep feelings touched me.
After they had gone, I surveyed the schoolroom again, my feelings swinging between pride and apprehension. Walking back and forth, touching each article, changing this or that, rearranging something here or there, I was only too aware that I had very few aids to assist me in teaching these children. How I wished that I had more—but that was foolishness. I would just have to do what I could with what I had.
After writing “My name is Miss Thatcher” in block letters on the blackboard, I reluctantly turned to go home to prepare my evening meal.
Monday, I thought, please come quickly—lest I burst.
As I walked toward the door, I noticed a printed list posted beside it. I had not spotted it before, and I now stopped to read it. It was captioned, “Rules for the Teacher,” and my eyes ran quickly down the page. They read as follows:
I didn’t expect to have any trouble obeying the lengthy list; still, it bothered me some to be dictated to in such a fashion. At first I was going to blame the whole thing on Mr. Higgins; but then I remembered other such lists that I had read and realized this one wasn’t so different after all. I decided to pretend that I hadn’t seen it. I would have observed all of its mandates anyway.