The words
hardly took on the form of a suave request: they were uttered in too
earnest, grave, and intent a tone.
I had dismissed my school for the day. The roar of the young lions just
released from bondage had not died away when George Olver entered the
school-room, closed the door behind him, and stood in a manly and
self-reliant attitude, his hat in his hand.
"No, ma'am," he said, in answer to some gesture of mine; "I'll be much
obleeged if _you'll_ set down in the chair."
"There's times, teacher," he then went on, gravely and steadily; "when
ordinary friends, like you and me, meetin' each other in the road, or in
a neighbor's house, maybe, we say, 'How d'ye do?' or 'It's a pleasant
day,' or the like o' that, and all well and good. It's a fair
understandin', and enough said 'twixt you and me: and then ag'in, there's
times when the wind blows up rough, as ye might say, and oncommon dark,
and some harm a befallin' of us, when we git closter together and more a
dependin' on each other, and then them old words ain't o' much account to
us, but to speak out different what need be without fear or shame."
"Yes," I said, much impressed by George Olver's manner.
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