by Oliver Optic
CHAPTER IV
ESSAYS AND ESSAYS
The dining room was a large, square, light room, filled with tables,each holding twelve. Alison piloted her roommate to a seat next toherself, at her old table, where Evelyn, Katherine and Joan were alreadyseated, the rest of the group being at the next table. The new Englishteacher, Miss Burnett, presided--a pretty girl, not many years olderthan her prospective pupils. Brown-haired and brown-eyed, with a deep,soft rose color in her cheeks, she was exactly the type that girls a fewyears younger would naturally fall in love with on sight.
Accordingly, the group of girls at her table, running true to form,promptly "fell for her" with schoolgirl unanimity; copied the way shedid her hair, whether it was becoming to them or not, practiced herengaging smile, and even copied her clothes, as far as possible. Brownwas her favorite color--a deep, rich brown that suited her eyes and hairand blended with the rose glow in her cheeks. This shade of brownpromptly became popular.
Life at Briarwood soon settled into an accustomed routine of classes,sports and recreation, and the days were full and busy. Miss Burnett hadan eager class, more interested in the study of their mother tongue thanthey had ever been before, simply because she taught it.
Toward Thanksgiving she gave them an essay contest, and Alison and herroommate became more congenial as they discussed subjects and titles.But their tastes and ideas were very different.
"I don't believe I could write anything worth reading, but I'll try,because Miss Burnett wants us to," said Alison, to whom the study ofEnglish was genuine enjoyment.
"And I'll try because I've got to," responded Marcia with a wry face.
"Just let her hear you saying _got_, that's all," laughed Alison,reaching for her book.
"I hate all lessons, but I believe I hate English worst of any," saidMarcia crossly. "I don't see why we have to study it."
"Why did you come to college, if you hate it so?" asked Alisoncuriously.
"Oh, because one must do something, I suppose."
"But why do you take English?"
"Because the rest of you do, and I don't like to be left out. Besides,Miss Harland made me. Are you going to track meet this afternoon?"
"Yes."
"Then, will you lend me your English Literature? Rosalind borrowed mineand hasn't returned it."
"And welcome. There it is on the table."
"Thank you. I'll work while you play, like the ant and the grasshopper,"said Marcia more graciously than usual.
It was a brilliant autumn afternoon, and most of the girls were temptedout. The hall was deserted, save for Marcia, scribbling hard in herroom.
"Finished already?" asked Alison, coming in just in time for supper,flushed and breathless after a basketball game.
Marcia was just putting away her writing materials. She looked upnonchalantly. "Almost. I've only to correct and copy it."
"You've had a grand quiet time to work. I wish I had been asindustrious; but it was so lovely out. We had a splendid practice."
Nothing was talked of in school for the next few days but the essays,which were to be handed in the week before Thanksgiving, and the prizewinner would be announced on the day before--"to give us extra reason tobe thankful," said Joan.
Katherine had written a scholarly essay, giving a sort of bird's-eyeview of the entire field of English literature, concisely expressed.Privately, she believed herself sure of the prize, but no suchself-laudatory opinion was hinted at in her dignified demeanor.
Joan had skipped airily over the earlier periods, coming rapidly down topresent-day fiction in the space of four pages. "She'll like minebecause it's short, anyway," she congratulated herself.
Most of the other girls had tried, because Miss Burnett wished it. Someof the efforts were better, some worse, than others, some impossible.Alison, coming from her history class one morning, suddenly realizedthat the time was almost up, and her essay was still unwritten. A fewunfinished beginnings, rejected as unsatisfactory, were all she had toshow.
She had a vacant period next, and she took a sudden resolve. "I'll writethat essay in the next forty-five minutes, or know the reason," she toldherself sternly, and going to her room she posted a "busy" sign on thedoor as a gentle hint that visitors were not desired, and fell to work.
As she opened her English Literature, several half-sheets of paper fellout, each scribbled over with her unsuccessful beginnings.... Shelaughed and dropped them into the wastebasket. Then she picked up afolded paper that she did not recognize. When had she written anexercise in blue ink? She opened it, puzzled. What did it mean? Anessay, apparently, in Rosalind's unmistakable writing, which was likeherself, pretty, but entirely characterless. It was entitled "_The Riverof Time._" Plainly, it was Rosalind's idea of an essay on Englishliterature, which she described as a river flowing down the ages, onwhose waters were found lovely pearls. These pearls were represented bythe names of a few outstanding writers, but after a few inadequatesentences Rosalind's imagination had apparently failed her.
Realizing after a glance at the first page that it was not meant for hereyes, Alison resolutely folded the paper, smiling. Literature was notRosalind's strong point, but she was so pretty and winning that oneforgave and smiled, as at the efforts of a child.
"Poor little Rosalind," she thought, and put the paper aside, to begiven back to the writer at the first opportunity. Then she fell to workon her own essay, and had finished her first copy by the time the periodended.
