rved for stories, she said. She
thought they needed them more than arithmetic.

"Besides," she added, "probably the Sheridan person knows all about
figures. I'm going to put all the arithmetic classes the last thing in the
afternoon, and if we don't get around to them, why all right. It's
unfortunate, of course, but it can't be helped."

One day was quite sufficient to establish the name and the fame of the
Bear Canyon school-teacher. Around every supper-table circled tales of her
wisdom, her beauty, her strange way of speaking, and her general
superiority over any teacher Bear Canyon had ever hired. Her ability to
tell stories was lauded to the skies, and her genius at making six
hitherto mercilessly long hours seem like three marvelously short ones was
freely advertised. History under this new teacher had become something
more than a dog-eared text-book; geography more than stained and torn
wall-maps; reading more than a torturesome process of making sounds. They
proudly told their parents what the Constitution of the United States had
looked like when their teacher had last seen it; the size and shape of
Plymouth Rock as recorded by her during her last visit there. They re-told
her stories one by one to the children at home, too young for school.
Allan Jarvis did his part. He told his father he would go to school
without a word, if the new teacher could be persuaded to stay in Bear
Canyon.

Because of this Mr. Benjamin Jarvis left his work the third day, put on a
clean shirt, and visited the school himself. Mr. Samuel Wilson joined him,
as did the third trustee from farther up the canyon. When these three
gentlemen entered, the oldest History class was engaged in reproducing
the trial of Nathan Hale, the leading man in the cast being the big Jarvis
boy. It was a novel method of teaching history, the trustees said to
themselves, remembering the barren instruction they had received, but it
seemed effectual. That night they offered the new teacher a permanent job
in Bear Canyon. The teacher in Sheridan was not over-anxious to come, they
said, and the position was Mary's if she cared to accept it.

But Mary was going to college, she explained to the disappointed trustees.
Perhaps, some day, she would come back--some day when she had learned more
about teaching. As it was, Friday night must end her labors, grateful as
she was, and happy as she felt over the reception Bear Canyon had given
her.

It came all too soon--