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Page 88 text:
Mrs. Ethel Siner Shockey Mathematics Mr. John H. Snapp English Miss Elizabeth Sutherland English, Science Mrs. Clyde Ramsey Turner English Miss Priscilla Pauline Webb Science, Mathematics Mr. William Wellons Mathematics Miss Carrie Newsome Mr. Selden H. Watkins Sp radlin Biology History Mrs. Elsie K. Wertz English, History Mrs. Pearl C. Strickler English Miss Verba May Wood French
Page 87 text:
Miss Virginia Moore II istory Mrs. Carrie Martin Pedigo English Mr. James E. Peters Mathematics, Physics Mrs. Elizabeth B. Moorefield Shorthand, Bookkeeping Mr. J. Edward Oglesby Civics, Economics, Sociology Mrs. Nelle Hartman Peery M usic Mrs. Louise D. Rice Latin, Algebra Miss Staples Persinger Physical Education Miss Elizabeth O. Ridout Home-Making Miss Frances Oney Bookkeeping Miss Sarah Kirk Rowbotham English, Vocational Civics
Page 89 text:
A Typical School Day I turn on my pillow, dazed and puzzled, fumbling for the cord which I jerk to light my room. No light is needed. Through the window a dim, flickering street lamp reveals the neighbor’s lawn, a tall brushy hedge, and a scraggly mulberry tree. In the distance I can see a mountain peak, innumerable roofs, and a few stars in an inspiring bit of clear and peaceful sky. There are no cars, no buses, no crow¬ ing cocks, no shrieking sirens. Ah! This is rest! I breathe anew the cool, sweet air of Salem the Beloved. I love to live! I greet the coming day. There goes that ninety-eight-cent alarm clock! I wound it last night and set the hand at six. Now it unwinds into my ear the oft repeated tale: “It’s two hours till school time. You must dress—dress care¬ fully. Teachers always should be well-groomed.” Which hose look best with the old blue dress? Gray ones. Oh, there’s a run! I must have needle, thread, spectacles. A letter is due the homefolks. I should send a check to pay that bill today. Here are fifteen different blanks to fill, one hundred and fifty names to copy, ninety-nine test papers to grade. I’m neglecting my friends. The church needs my support. Incidentally, I need a bite of breakfast. (A hungry teacher can’t dole out mental victuals to youths who are hungering and thirsting for knowledge.) Now, while it’s quiet, I ought to complete that questionnaire sent in last week from the Planet Mars. Let me see! How old am 1 ? How long have I taught? Am I white—or green? Figures and words get mixed at school when one teacher has sixteen varieties of interruption to every square inch of desk space. I must be sure to call Mrs. Brown. She desires my poised and gracious presence at a tea tomorrow after¬ noon. I promised to appear on the program at the Anti-Worry Club this evening! My committee meets here Friday! O, the dust on that table! This is the day I planned to have my hair done! I take a sip of coffee and a piece of toast, then make a conscious and not unpleasant effort to chew, digest, absorb, and assimilate all the life-giving, brain-boosting vitamins contained in one soft-boiled egg. There’s a dash of butter, a smear of jelly, and one more piece of toast. There’s a stirrup-cup of coffee and my school day has begun. A neighbor, who is more than kind to do so, stops her car at my curb and hurries me to school. The air is crisp and clear. The very mountains seem to enjoy it. A whole caravan of buses (biliously yellow in complexion) are being emptied of their precious car¬ goes. Long files of pedestrians, as numerous as migratory birds, fill the spaces before me. There are bare heads, bare knees; few books, many books, no books; sweaters, gypsy scarfs, every color of the rainbow; fantastic and faddish jewels; colored ribbons, permanent waves; bouncing balls, wise saws, light hearts, laughter. Across my mind flash such trite phrases as Mamma’s darlings, job-hunters, future generations, responsibility, cannon-fodder, democracy, opportunity, immortality of the soul. I pass into the open door of the best high school in Old Virginia. Couples to right of me, Couples by stairway walls, Couples to left of me, Couples ’gainst locker doors, Couples in front of me, Couples in window sills, Volley and thunder. Coo—to my wonder. A few unsophisticated mortals romp and play like natural boys. Some rare specimens of humanity are grouped in a deserted classroom preparing a lesson. (0, newsibus rarebus!) Groups swarm into the library. A few seem to be seekers after knowledge. (See Robert L. Ripley.) Several teachers dart through the corridors. They seem to be racing with the bells and Father Time. The principal interviews a carpenter, an electrician, the janitor, the secretary, three teachers, and an irate patron. He signs one hundred and fifty-seven excuses, sells ten books, makes change, writes a receipt, greets an agitated bus-driver, and fingerprints two prospective pugilists who have used the school bus as their temporary ring. (After these two have completed their education, they hope to appear in the Arena at Rome.) Nine o’clock comes. I dust my desk and set it in order, provide proper lighting and ventilation, check excuses, sign building passes, call rolls, make absentee lists, greet students and co-workers. (I preen a little on the sly, for the sake of my pupils’ eyesight.) Then I inquire about sick members, discuss the warring nations beyond the seas, supervise devotional exercises, and read the announcements from the office. By this time I am eminently qualified for all the odd jobs of a Handy Andy in a three-ring circus. As each teacher begins the strenuous task of throwing into the vast pool of ignorance the few pebbles he has gathered from the shore, the sound waves ripple and reverberate along the hallway. A medley of accents falls upon the ear like the most spasmodic of Wagnerian operas: ioi—“These are the times that try men’s souls—He snatched the lightning from the skies and— A stitch in time saves nine. A good book is the precious life-blood of—Once upon a midnight dreary— Build thee more stately mansions—(I can’t teach people who have no desire for knowledge!)
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