Our New Pupil

by Hester Bittersweet

It was the spring of 1858. I was head teacher in Professor Button’s day and boarding-school for young ladies, an institution distant not a thousand miles from Chicago.

Our retiring bell, which always sounded at ten, had just stopped ringing. The monitress was on her customary round through the halls, giving the order of the hour, “Lights out! Lights out, young ladies!” when Barbara the chamber-maid stopped at my door, with the message that I was wanted downstairs in the Green Parlor.

It was poor little Mrs. Professor who wanted me, of course. She was always having one or another of the teachers down in the Green Parlor to quiz and cross-question, to pump, that is, in plain English.

I was vexed certainly. Those long vulgar gossips I detested upon general principle. Besides, at the moment, I particularly disliked being called away from my work.

I could not leave, of course, until I had established some sort of quiet in my range of halls. I waited, therefore, till Barbara had gathered up the dormitory lamps and carried them away, and till the girls had stopped blowing kisses through the key-holes of their doors and shouting good-nights and all manner of affectionate nonsense to each other from their beds in the different rooms.

At last, in no very amiable temper, I am afraid, I went down stairs; but not till I had slipped a budget of compositions and an unread letter from John into my pocket.

John, by the way, is my twin brother, and a great favorite of mine, though he is deaf and dumb, too, poor fellow! He has nothing more to do with my story, however.

I found a lighted lamp standing on a bracket just outside the Green Parlor door. I stopped there to correct a composition or two. You see, all I could… Read More