Little Miss Redhead

Front matter

LITTLE

MISS REDHEAD

Two very dear friends walked the rest of the

XIX. Home Work Becomes an Adventure

A Mis-Adventure

Frankie Visits School

Memorial Day .

“School Is Done!”

The Graduating Class Meets a Sub¬ stitute

Flopsy Pays a Call .

Doubts and Bright Hopes That Week before Graduation “The End of All Stories”

PAGE

LITTLE

MISS REDHEAD

Flossy

Chapter One

I T was a radiantly beautiful morning early in May for the sky was that lovely clear blue, the grass that soft green that poets love so well to put into their songs of spring. Here and there in a backyard near School Number Nine a peach or cherry tree was in full bloom. School Number Nine was the newest school in town and on this May morning it looked quite like spring itself, for its spic and span red and white bricks blended into the whole bright picture. On most of its classroom window sills were vases of flowers brought from some mother and father’s gar¬ den. There were bunches too, of purple violets and myrtles, these did not come from a nearby garden but from a secret “bunk” out in the meadows and in the stretch of woodland just beyond the town. On the first floor—in the kindergarten and first grade win¬ dows “cut out” red and yellow tulips were pasted in long rows against the panes.

Mr. Marks, the janitor of School Number Nine, had forsaken his indoor job at the furnace and was out on the side lawn, leaning on a rake. He was close enough to the hedge, so that he could talk kindly to the little girls as they passed—perhaps tease them a bit 5 or scold at the boys, if in their haste they cut ofF the corners of his cherished lawn. Every boy and girl in School Number Nine knew Mr. Marks—everyone from the kindergarten to the eight A. And they had as much—if not more—respect for him as they had for Mr. Morris, the principal. The janitor of a public school is a very important personage.

About four blocks away from the school in a pretty little white house a terrific commotion was going on in the darkest recesses of a cloak closet under the hall stairs.

Mrs. Moore dropped what she was doing in the kitchen and hurried out into the hall in alarm, and stood at the open door and peered into the closet. Just as she did so a galosh flew out followed im¬ mediately by a rubber-boot. She looked utterly be¬ wildered and dismayed as she managed to get her foot away in time to escape a roller-skate.

“Who is in there, for goodness sakes?” she asked sharply. “Is it Frankie?”

“Ids me,” came in muffled tones from behind over¬ coats and rain-coats. “Oh dear, I am just dis-gusted! ” a girl’s voice wailed.

“Flopsy Moore, what on earth are you doing? I thought that you had gone to school long ago. It must be late. Come out of there.”

Flopsy Moore obeyed her mother’s command to “come out” knocking everything which-ways as she came. Her face was a sad contrast to the radiant May morning. In one hand she sulkily held a pair of “sneakers” by the laces.

“Alice makes me so— mad! She lets me get all the way to school before she asked me if I had my sneaks. She could see as well as anything that I didn’t have them. She had hers hidden under her arm—so I couldn’t see them. I know her little tricks. I’d get killed, if I didn’t have them for c gym’ I’d have to stay after school and—everything—”

Her mother sighed.

“I’d like to make you put that closet in order this very minute but you haven’t the time. You look like a wild Indian, your hair is all standing up on end.” Mrs. Moore tried to smooth her daughter’s red-brown curls, but Flopsy pulled away.

“It’s all right.” Flopsy was irritable.

Her mother sighed again, a little more heavily than before.

“Flopsy,” she exclaimed suddenly, “what are you doing now?” There was a note of exasperation in her voice.

Flopsy had walked to the nearest chair in the living room and was sitting on the edge of it as precisely and as coolly as though she had all the time in the world.

“Sitting down,” she answered shortly.

“So I see,” her mother remarked drily, “but why, may I venture to ask? You are late now.”

“You have to sit down and count ten when you come back after you’ve forgotten something or you will be disappointed.”

“Well, since you are worrying now about being late I can’t for the life of me see that sitting down and resting is a sure way of not being disappointed— you silly little goose,” her mother called after her as Flopsy darted out the door.

Flopsy did not take the time to answer. Her mother stood for some minutes watching her, first with an amused smile and then with a faintly puzzled expres¬ sion. Flopsy looked as though she were playing “hop¬ scotch” all by herself.

She was not playing hop-scotch. She was running as fast as she could, and at the same time avoiding the cracks in the sidewalk.

“If I don’t step on a crack from here to school,” she was promising herself, “I won’t be late.”

When she turned the corner that brought the whole school before her vision her heart leaped with fear —there were only a few stragglers now—the rest of the children were inside and out of sight.

A boy running in back of her, caught up to her and deliberately gave her a push.

“Hurry up, Flopsy-Wopsy-loves-her-Popsy, you will be late,” he taunted.

“William Forbes, you are the freshest—” her eyes blazed with temper. She did not bother to finish her sentence, for she had stumbled over two cracks. She stood stock still. William darted ahead of her and over his shoulder he tossed back one more gibe.

“Yes, I am—but don’t forget ‘Peter Rabbit’ and that Flopsy and Mopsy were the two little rabbits. So hurry up, you little rabbit.”

Flopsy did not “hurry,” she followed William slowly and forlornly. It was all up! Bad luck all day.

By some good luck she was not late though she was in no humor to notice it. She followed the Seven A line up the stairs. William was just ahead of her and she longed to give him one good kick in the back of his heels.

Flopsy gave her teacher, Miss Hilton, a swift look of appraisal the minute that she took her seat. Her feelings slumped lower than they had been. Miss Hilton was wearing a plain dark brown dress. Flopsy hated that dress, and she had long ago decided that when Miss Hilton wore it she was “crankier” than ever. She was now thoroughly resigned. It was going to be a very unlucky day.

The Seven A, on Thursday mornings, had their opening exercises in their own room. Miss Hilton read the Twenty-third Psalm, after which they bent their heads for the Lord’s Prayer. Then William Forbes, looking very important, walked to the front of the room, removed the American flag from its perch, held it proudly erect as the class stood to salute it. After that they sang the first and last verse of the Star Spangled Banner. Then William strutted to his seat. Flopsy glowered at him this morning—he made her “sick”—he thought he was so important!

“It’s such a beautiful morning, and probably it will be lovely again to-morrow. Very likely Miss An¬ drews will ask you to sing ‘Welcome sweet Spring¬ time, we greet thee with song,’ so I want the boys to practice their parts. I should hate to have Miss An¬ drews complain about them again. They were quite terrible on Tuesday.”

The boys slumped and scowled. Flopsy made a face at Dottie Green and turned her small nose up into the air. Nothing in school tried her soul and patience more than having the boys sing their parts, especially to “syllables” and not to words.

So for the next fifteen minutes the fourteen boys in the Seven A, croaked huskily—do-do-la-re-me,— and the rest of it, greeting sweet springtime just as melodiously as a lot of bullfrogs in a pond.

Flopsy sat in the front seat of row six right next the door. Miss Hilton had very good reasons of her own for seeing to it that Flopsy had a first seat. While the boys were struggling with the alto part, Flopsy squirmed about—her eyes seeking something interesting, so that she would forget the annoying tuneless do-re-me’s. William usually sat behind her, but Miss Hilton had moved him over to another row so that he would be nearer to the other boys.

Behind William sat Alice Holt. Alice Holt was Flopsy’s “best friend”—that is most of the time. Alice was only a few months older than Flopsy—but she looked a full year older. Her very light brown hair was bobbed and she wore it straight, and it was very becoming to her delicate features. She was what is called a “smart-looking child”—for she carried her¬ self well, and wore her clothes, so that grown-up people said she had an “air about her.” Right now she was watching Flopsy with a faintly amused smile in her gray eyes. She knew very well that Flopsy was “mad,” and she also realized that she would hate to sit still doing nothing. She thought that Flopsy would write a note—an angry one—or maybe she would for¬ get her grievance altogether. Flopsy always forgot easily.

Flopsy’s eyes were fixed on the door. Someone, in fact several people,— men y were making big black shadows against the ground-glass. Her mouth pursed up in a round red “O,” and eyes opened wide with excitement. One man was leaning against the swing¬ ing door and made it sway. She could hear voices. She bent her head to listen. Yes, men’s voices—Mr. Morris’s and—and—? She sat up very straight as a sudden thought came to her. Miss Hilton was too absorbed with the boys to notice her or the door. Flopsy looked about eagerly to discover if anyone saw what she saw or heard what she heard. Alice was right. Flopsy forgot. She turned right around and excitedly motioned to the door. Alice shook her head—she could not see the door; Flopsy was very much pleased. She would have the pleasure of break¬ ing the news to Alice. She made a motion of writing, her lips shaped, “I’ll write.”

She grabbed a small piece of paper and scribbled furiously.

Dear Alice: Mr. Morris and a crowd of men are pushing at the door. They are making a big noise. I bet its that old crank on the Board of Education. Wouldn’t that be awful? ans. ans. ans. back quickly.

Flopsy

Without any caution whatsoever, she turned around and tossed the note to Alice.

Alice, however, was more wary and she turned to see what Miss Hilton was doing. She kept her eyes on her teacher as she opened the much folded piece of paper. She did not look pleased as she read. She grabbed up a pencil and scrawled across the bot¬ tom of Flopsy’s note:

Dear Flopsy: Dont ans. Dont ans. Turn around. Tear up this note. Alice

Alice slid the note over William’s desk, pushing it with her ruler, one eye on the door as she did so. Flopsy caught it, and without any discretion at all opened it.

“She’s an old scared-cat,” Flopsy frowned. Then she took a larger piece of paper to write Alice a real note, and to tell her just what she thought of her. Then and there she remembered the sneakers. Alice made her sick. But the voices were growing louder outside the door—and the sound of them held Flopsy’s attention for the moment—and she forgot Alice.

“It’s my bad luck,” she told herself. “I knew it was coming.” Her heart pounded with apprehension. That old crank on the Board of Education came into their room every few weeks it seemed and glared around the room. He glared at the weather map, glared at their product map, glared at their drawings which were pinned up on the wall, glared at the honor roll;—in fact, he did nothing but glare. Even Miss Hilton did not seem to like him very much because she was very quiet and rarely smiled when he was in the room.

Flopsy longed to spread the bad tidings. She tried to get William’s eye—or Harold’s. The door gave a very sharp almost angry swing. Miss Hilton turned her head. She saw the door, and she also noted Flopsy’s excited expression. She raised her eyes to the ceiling, quite as though she said a short prayer. She lowered them and set her lips in a tight line. Then she sighed faintly.

“All right, Flora, that will do. Turn around and sit still,” she spoke firmly, and just a little sharply. “Boys, go back to your own seats—quickly, and quietly! Quietly , I said,” she repeated in a low grim tone.

“Flora, please don’t have me look at you again. Please keep your eyes on me, not on that door.” Flopsy had put her head down on her desk so that she could peer better at the door—and listen better. At Miss Hilton’s command she sat up stiff and re¬ signed.

The door at last burst open. Mr. Bates, the “old crank, on the board” (the boys called him old man Bats) stalked in first, behind him was a little fat man with a red face, and Mr. Morris, the principal.

Miss Hilton rose from her seat, and bowed for¬ mally.

“Let them go on with their work,” Mr. Bates said, and then pushed out his lower lip in an ugly fashion, and glared at the class from under his shaggy eye¬ brows. “They have wasted enough time as it is.”

Miss Hilton and Mr. Morris exchanged glances. One could hear a pin drop in the room.

“I think they work pretty hard,” Mr. Morris smiled.

“Umph,” grunted Mr. Bates. “Their marks don’t show it.” It was the first time that the Seven A had heard him speak and his voice seemed to chill them. Cold shivers were running up and down many a spine in a way not natural for a radiant May morn¬ ing*

“How many think that Number Nine is the best school in town?” He stood before them his head pushed forward, his hands behind him.

Their fears fled—their eyes brightened. Eagerly, excitedly they waved their hands about in the air.

“So—!” he pursed up his lips. “So—you—do?”

Miss Hilton was forgotten. Had her class looked at her they would have seen that her blue eyes were filled with distress.

“How many of you think this is the best Seven A in the town?” an amused and cynical smile played about his mouth. Miss Hilton was shaking her head sadly—but her class did not notice her.

Quite delightedly they waved their hands again. They were bursting with pride.

“Well it is not , not by a long shot.” He snapped the words out, almost ferociously. “Not—by—a— long—shot! ”

They were hurt, humiliated, and bewildered. Had anyone else in the world defied their loyalty to their class and school they would have argued and furi¬ ously denied it. But, they could do nothing—say nothing. Many a pair of eyes were wide with dumb reproach.

“Number Five beats you all to pieces. Yes, all to pieces. You think you live in the nicest section of the town, and maybe you do. You come from nice homes where you get every advantage. Over at Number Five—those children there know what it is to go hungry. What do you have for breakfast? Cereals, fruit, eggs and what not? You would be surprised to know the class records of those children who have only a cup of coffee for breakfast. Do you know any¬ one who has only a cup of coffee for—breakfast—?” He paused. William’s eyes gleamed with the sud¬ denness of the right answer which came darting to his mind.

“Yes,” Mr. Bates frowned. He did not appear to be hopeful of an answer.

William stood in the middle of the aisle and flushed, as he faced Mr. Bates. He gulped before he answered.

“My aunt, she is trying to reduce.”

The little fat man who had come in with Mr. Bates stood stock still—he had been roving around the room on tip-toes. At William’s answer he made such a funny face, that a few of the children snick¬ ered.

Mr. Bates scowled darkly, for he thought that William was just a “little smart Alec.” He could not realize that William was merely speaking the simple truth.

Miss Hilton gave Mr. Morris a swift look of dis¬ may and turned her back upon her very subdued classroom of children.

“You are way behind in your work. Weeks behind in your grade.” Mr. Bates completely ignored Wil¬ liam and the snickers. “This Seven A is the slowest one in the town. I can’t see any excuse for it.”

“Mr. Bates,” Mr. Morris stepped forward, “please allow me to say a few words for this Seven A. Last term, before Miss Hilton came, when they were Seven B’s; we had a very hard time getting substi¬ tutes, for their own teacher was sick in the hospital for months. Until Christmas we had to fall back on High School girls, occasionally I had to send a mere eighth grade girl in here to hold the class. Some¬ times they had one teacher in the morning and an¬ other in the afternoon. Just half a day at a time—”

Flopsy was nodding her head vigorously in perfect agreement and approval to everything Mr. Morris said, exactly as though she had been called upon to check up on his statements. Mr. Morris noticed her smiling face and nodding head.

“How many teachers did you have last term, little girl?” he turned to her suddenly with just a suspi¬ cion of a smile in his eyes.

Flopsy was so taken aback, so surprised at being called upon, that she stood up in a dazed fashion. Nothing, usually pleased her more than to stand up and ask questions or to answer them—except in arith¬ metic. She loved to volunteer information about al¬ most everything, but at this minute she hardly knew what Mr. Bates asked, but Mr. Morris’s last sentence stuck in her mind. She stood up solemnly, the smile gone and her eyes big and round. She moistened her lips and choked a little and answered:

“Ten and a half.”

Strange to say, no one thought this funny but Mr. Bates.

“Which half of a teacher was it you had—her better half or—?”

Instantly the class saw the joke, and burst into delighted giggles. Flopsy sat down blushing pain¬ fully. She did not like to be laughed at unless she was deliberately trying to be “funny.”

“Well,” continued Mr. Bates, stern again, “we want no more nonsense now. Mr. Watkins and I are going to leave you—but when we come again, I want to find that you are all up to grade. Very likely, you took advantage of your substitute teachers and were up to mischief. That is your fault. All right, Mr. Watkins, come along.” Mr. Bates nodded good-bye to Miss Hilton and then he and Mr. Watkins stalked out of the room.

Mr. Morris started after them, but stopped abruptly right at Flopsy’s desk. Miss Hilton walked over to him. When Flopsy sat in row six and in the front seat she often heard conversations not in¬ tended for her—she really couldn’t help hearing what was said so close to her desk. So, since it was not her fault, she cocked her head to catch as much as she could.

“Don’t be discouraged,” Mr. Morris said in a low tone.

Miss Hilton looked up swiftly into his face with a grateful smile and then looked down. Her lips quivered the least bit but she answered steadily:

“Oh, no, that would never do, would it?”

Mr. Morris watched her for a few minutes thoughtfully. He smiled, and in a low teasing tone continued:

“Laugh! Nothing is funnier to me than the an¬ swers a stranger can get when he or she starts throw¬ ing questions at a class. You never can tell what is coming. Serves them right!”

Miss Hilton’s whole expression changed. Her eyes were twinkling.

“I don’t think that she had the fraction right. It might have been two-tenths of a teacher—I am sure I’ve felt like the smallest kind of a fraction at times—” she laughed lightly.

Flopsy knew that they were talking about her and she lowered her head so that her curls tumbled over her face. Mr. Morris echoed Miss Hilton’s laugh heartily, and with one hand pushed the door open.

“That’s the spirit! Laugh! Laugh! and work!” He left the room.

Miss Hilton slowly walked over to her desk and sat down. The Seven A sat very still and waited breath¬ lessly for her first words. Maybe she would tell them that she thought Mr. Bates was talking through his hat—and that she would tell him so. They longed to hear someone get up and denounce him for daring to say that Number Nine was not the best school in town.

“As you know,” Miss Hilton began in a low voice, “you have your written test in arithmetic to¬ morrow. The averages of the week will be made out and then we will change seats as usual on Fridays. I want to see some changes. Flora Moore has sat in row six too long now. Flora, if she tries very hard and keeps her mind on what she is doing ought to move up a few rows. So should William. Last week Alice Holt went from row four to row six—to¬ morrow Pd like to see her go back to row four—at least. You know you all voted to do this—change seats on Fridays? Well now—?” Miss Hilton glanced about her class. They were nodding their heads. “And,” she went on, “Fleurette Muldoon did very well the first few days she was with us, but I am sorry to notice that she is getting careless lately.” The Seven A looked at the “new girl” in row five.

Fleurette held up her chin and appeared more pleased than otherwise. She ignored the criticism and thought only of “she did very well.”

Flopsy really noticed the “new girl” for the first time, and turned around in her seat and stared at her. Fleurette’s black hair fascinated her. Flopsy adored black hair because it was so very different from red. Besides, something about Fleurette’s manner made Flopsy feel that she was not a goody-goody. Flopsy had a supreme contempt for goody-goodies.

Miss Hilton went on:

“Mary Howard has been at the head of the class now for a long time—perhaps someone else might be for a while.”

The Seven A stared at Mary Howard—there was some envy in their eyes as they looked towards that coveted first seat in row one. Mary Howard was coolly indifferent to the envious stares of her class¬ mates.

“I think that I will send row six to the black-board for practice—row six!” she ordered. And row six rose and took their places at the black-board. Miss Hilton gave them each a problem.

Alice finished hers first and took her seat.

William finished second and as he went past Flora, he pushed her arm and made her chalk scratch across the board. Flora whirled around abruptly, only to find William in his seat staring at her with big inno¬ cent eyes. She went on with her work hopelessly. She put numbers down and instantly erased them. All of row six were now in their seats but Flora and Milton. They worked on and on— Flora put down her chalk in despair and burst into sobs. Low sobs at first, and then stormy.

“Hush, Flora, don’t cry. Milton isn’t crying—and see he isn’t crying—yet.” Miss Hilton’s tone was kind, she was trying to amuse Flora. Milton grinned and kept on plugging. Flora kept on crying.

“Flora, you may take your seat—” Miss Hilton’s eyes were filled with concern and sympathy.

Flora cried awhile and then stopped suddenly as she heard a whisper back of her. Alice was arrang¬ ing to throw a note along the floor past William’s desk. Swiftly Flora caught it and opened it.

Dear Flopsy: Wait for me after school. I want to tell you about Dottie. Ans. Ans. Ans. quick.

Alice

Flopsy answered back quickly as she was ordered.

Dottie’s got a swelled-head, just because she has to wear rest glasses. Your problem was a cinchy one.

Flopsy Ans. Ans.

Alice caught the note and read it with a frown. She took her pencil and fairly scratched her answer into the paper.

You make me sick. You are a sore-head thats all. My example was harder than yours. Alice Ans. back P.S.

Get mad if you want to. Ans. Ans.

Flopsy never received the note for Miss Hilton suddenly looked in their direction. She stared de¬ liberately with a world of meaning in her glance, first at one girl and then at the other.

“I have nothing more to say to anyone. I am sorry for you when things go wrong, but not when you simply set out to waste your time. Today means a great deal to you, to me, to Mr. Morris. You cannot afford to waste your time today. Take out your geog¬ raphies.”

Silently as possible the Seven A took their geog¬ raphies from their desks.

They were thinking of the next day—their arith¬ metic test—the exciting change of seats—and what an awful mean man Mr. Bates was, as they opened to that day’s geography lesson. They were very quiet the rest of that day.

Mr. Morris opened the door, and called in just be¬ fore the close of school.

“How is everything going?”

“Come in tomorrow afternoon and see,” Miss Hilton answered with a faint tired smile.

Chapter Two

F LOPSY walked slowly home from Alice’s house late that afternoon, just before supper. The day had been exactly as disgusting in every way, as she had feared it would be when she realized she had forgotten her sneakers and had stepped on a crack in the sidewalk.

She and Alice had squabbled all afternoon over everything, anything, and nothing at all. Several times that dire threat—“Pll never , never , speak to you again, Alice Holt, as long as I live,” had almost slipped off her tongue. But she had just managed each time to hold it back. Her father always made so much fun of her when she announced, “I am never going to speak to Alice again.” He always got out a little note book and wrote in it. “This makes nine thousand, seven hundred and twenty-five times you have said that. I am keeping track of it,” he had said the last time. No, she had not said it again, but she had left Alice this afternoon in no very good humor. She was not exactly mad at her, but she wasn’t very glad at her either.

Her thoughts were very gloomy as she walked. Ever since she was twelve she had had bad luck. She had been twelve for a month. Miss Hilton had come a few months before she had had her twelfth birthday, and before it, she had been very nice but since her birthday she had got very cranky.

Flopsy recalled sadly just how very nice Miss Hilton had been those first weeks. She had told them stories every afternoon just before dismissal. She told them about where she had lived out West—Raw-

She told them stories just before dismissal.

hide was the name of it. She used to tell them about the ranch, about horses, coyotes, sage brush, rattle¬ snakes, buzzards and panning for gold—and cowboys. The cowboys were the best! While she talked, she would stand by the windows, and would say things like this:

“Supposing I were looking out of my window at the ranch, everything out there would be so very different. I wouldn’t see any trolleys or automobiles racing up and down t t he street—in fact, I wouldn’t see streets and pavements—nor even trees. It is so crowded out this window. So much to see. From my window at home—” and she would describe so lovingly, so vividly the wide stretches and stretches of sage brush—the vast desert, and the boundless sky. All of the Seven A saw it with her—they longed with her, were homesick with her for Rawhide. Rawhide must be like the movies.

But, Miss Hilton did not talk about Rawhide any more. Once or twice since the boys had asked her questions, but she had answered listlessly and with only a sad smile. Now she talked about nothing but school subjects, Flopsy complained to herself. Now, she was nothing at all but a regular teacher!

“Just a cranky old teacher,” Flopsy decided. “And she is going to give me a bad mark tomorrow. Oh, dear, I wish I didn’t have to go to school to¬ morrow. I wish I could get sick or something or break my leg.” This last did not quite please her, it sounded painful. “Not that—but— I know! I wish—”

Flopsy stopped short, raised her head suddenly for an almost pleasant thought came to her. “I know— a cold.”

The more she thought of a cold, the more cheer¬ ful she became. Once, Flopsy had had a very bad cold and she had thoroughly enjoyed it. Her voice sounded so interesting and so she had talked more than usual, just to hear the husky notes in it. It had been very exciting to have people say, “My, but you have an awful cold.” And then, “Oh—NO—Oh— NO!” she would say in lofty derision and with fine sarcasm. The only thing about a cold she did not like was, the first day it was really better and no one remarked about her voice.