Sometimes, when the classes have been interesting, and there have been many of them,—for oftentimes the school lasts seven long hours,—and the children have become tired, or it is just before a holiday, when at home the oven has been heated for the bath, suddenly, without saying a word, two or three boys, during the second or third class after dinner, will come running into the room, and hastily remove their hats.
"Where are you going?"
"Home."
"But how about lessons?—there's the singing."
"But the boys say it's time to go home," says the lad, twisting his cap.
"But who says so?"
"The children have gone."
"How is that! how is that!" exclaims the teacher, dumfounded, for he is always ready for his other lessons. "Hold on!"
But into the room rushes another lad, with eager, important face.
"What are you waiting for?" he asks angrily of the one who has been detained, and is irresolutely picking the wool from his sheepskin cap. "The bo-oys have all started on! they are as far as the blacksmith's."
"Gone?"
"Yes, gone!" and both start off on the run, shouting as they reach the door, "Good-by, Ivan Ivanovitch."
And who are those boys who have decided to go home as they have?
God only knows. You would never find out who advised the step. They held no consultation, made no harangue, but still these children decided to go home.
"The boys are going!" and they pound their heels on the steps; another leaps like a cat down the porch, and, sliding and tumbling through the snow, and chasing each other along the narrow path, the children run home with merry shouts. Such things happen once or twice a week.
This is mortifying and unpleasant for the teacher, who does not approve of this, but who also does not
