The Evolution of the Ugly Duckling

By Estella Webb Thomas

Chapter 3

January 15 — A letter from Mother at home. Mrs. Douglas died suddenly last Sunday, and her son has taken her back to the old home for burial. Dear little lady, she seemed to love life so! I wonder why he didn’t let me know ? Now the other Margaret will marry him to comfort him while he is there, and he’ll never come west again.

It was for the sake of his mother’s health they first came and now he is free to step into his father’s practice, marry Margaret, and live happy ever after. Oh, well, why should an Ugly Duckling always be envying the Swans that swim briefly across her vision? An Ugly Duckling who will never be a swan herself — never!

January 22 — I’ve taken to writing on Friday evenings, as there is nothing to scribble about during the week, and I am still trying to appeal to the finicky appetite of those ogres — the Editors.

Mr. Dixon came in at recess and told me about the Teacher’s Institute. It seems he thinks we should both go ; and then I had a letter from Marie Webster, my friend who teaches at Centerville, begging me to go, so I suppose I must. I surely hate the expense, as I’m saving pennies for a good typewriter and some new summer clothes. Well, the Institute will be a change, at least.

Haven’t heard any more about the Douglases. Mother writes but doesn’t mention if the doctor has returned — and of course he won’t.

February 8 — Institute was not at all bad! I was glad that I got me a nice party dress, for the Faculty of the State University entertained the visiting teachers at afternoon tea and a ball in the evening. In the afternoon I wore my pretty new suit with a beautiful little bouquet of violets with which Mr. Dixon unexpectedly presented me. The University Profs, and wives were lined up by the door into which we were ushered ; and as we went in we introduced ourselves by name and school to the mighty ones, and were benignly hand-shaken before we moved on.

I was just behind Mr. Dixon, as that was the way we were arranged in the* line, and Marie was just behind me. Behind her was an extremely fat woman with a very flowery hat, who seemed so obsessed with her own importance that she could not wait her turn to shake hands and announce herself in her rich bass.

We had got to the third faculty member, not counting wives, when a dried-up little dignitary deafly requested Mr, Dixon’s name repeated, and then asked in an interested way if he were the F.L. Dixon who had been contributing articles on Rural School Problems to the State Educational Magazine. While Mr. Dixon, to my amazement, was modestly admitting this and receiving the old gentleman’s effusive approbation, Marie hissed in my ear,

“Will you walk a little faster,”
Said the whiting to the snail,
“There’s a porpoise close behind me
And she’s treading on my tail!”

This familiar quotation was so apt, with the stout, porpoise-like creature impatiently shoving Marie, that I giggled right out in meeting. I could have bitten off my tongue the next instant, I was so afraid Mr. Dixon would think I was laughing at the old gentleman’s fuss over him. I could not see his face but his ears, I noticed, were very red.

I didn’t see anything more of him until the dance, to which I went with Marie and Jack Tuttle, the fellow she is going to marry. 1 intended to apologize to Mr. Dixon for the ill-timed giggle ; but he came, as soon as I arrived, and gravely repeated the rest of the quotation from “Alice” as a request to dance:

“See how eagerly the lobsters and the turtles all advance! They are waiting on the shingle ; will you come and join the dance? Will you, won’t you? will you, won’t you? will you join the dance? Will you, won’t you? will you, won’t you? won’t you join the dance?”

I made two or three discoveries about Mr. Dixon this past week. For one thing, he is quite distinguished-looking in his quiet way. Not tall and dark, like — some people, but of medium height and slender, and looks excellent in evening clothes. Then his hair isn’t gray from age, as I once supposed, but must have turned prematurely gray from sickness or trouble and lends an air of distinction to his still youthful face. I am sure he isn’t more than thirty-five, though I might have guessed him fifty a month ago.

The fact is, I never really looked at the man till I saw so much attention paid him at the Institute. Can it be that he is burying himself in country schools for the purpose of studying conditions there? And what on earth does he say about Primary teachers, who don’t amount to much at their best, and often aren’t at their best? My blood runs cold! I am going to concentrate, on making a good impression or that man, or rather on correcting the bad one I must certainly have made! How glad the school children will be!

February 15 — I’ve been so busy imparting knowledge, writing reams of unsalable stuff, and making a good impression on Mr. Dixon (in a strictly professional way, of course) that I have neglected my diary — haven’t recorded any heart-throbs for nearly a month ; but if there had been anything of importance happen, I should have recorded that fast enough!

This means, of course, that I have never heard a word of a certain dark-eyed young doctor since he cast me and my belongings on the morning train for Pine Valley, six weeks ago! Mother, in the most provoking way, writes long letters, concerned chiefly with the dear Professor’s doings and sayings, and never mentions our next-door neighbor’s whereabouts. I hate to ask outright — the Professor is always scenting a romance!

I suppose Margaret has married him by this time. (Not the Professor, of course!) Just like her! to nab him the first time he showed his head in her neighborhood again! All right for you, Margaret! I only hope he turns out to be a regular bear, and makes you regret your piggishness a thousand times over!

There! I feel better, now ; what a comfort a diary is!

March 15 — I was surprised on the Friday afternoon after my last entry, to have Mr. Dixon come into my room as I was straightening my desk for the night and ask rather diffidently if I would like a tramp over the hills with him. He had noticed that I looked rather pale lately, and fancied I sat too much over my writing.

“Now, who told you that I am trying to write?” I asked indignantly, for I thought I had kept that little matter a secret, but he answered with a smile that he had seen several of my little things in the magazines, and liked them immensely. Then he went on to tell me that he was gathering material for some articles on the flora and fauna of this region — hence the walks.

Well, I went and came home for Mrs. Lowell’s early supper really refreshed, going at my evening’s work with more interest than for many a day. Since then the tramps have become almost an institution. Mr. Dixon is an interesting talker and I’ve learned a lot of things about natural history that I would never have known otherwise.

I asked him if he is a naturalist in disguise, and he owned that he is getting material for a book, and chose a country school that he might have the opportunity to study his subject at first hand. I am dying of curiosity to know something of his personal history, but he never talks personalities, and of course I can’t ask.

April 3 — School will be out in three weeks, O, joy! And yet I’ll surely miss the interesting times I’ve had with Mr. Dixon and all the dear little pests I’ve struggled with this past winter; even Mrs. Lowell’s “Now, Honey, make out a meal, don’t be so dainty!” that has vexed me so many times. I had a love letter today from Johnny Hackett, the school tough — he pressed it into my hand as the line marched out,

“Dere Techer

“I luv yu ef I doan ack like it. It maks me cri to thinck school will clos so sune. I am shur sorry I hav bin so onerly. am goin to do beter. I will alius luv yu.

‘Yur dere pupal,

“J- H.”

There, dare to say I am not attractive enough to inspire the divine passion!

April 10 — A whole budget of home letters tonight. One from Mother and the Professor full of news about home affairs, the repainting of the house, Mother’s room done over, the garden they are planting, and the flock of new Rhode Island Reds. One from Inez full of clothes and views and lovely times and, incidentally, Henley. But the most exciting of all from Lisbeth, who writes to announce her engagement to her music teacher, who isn’t a long-haired Italian or a German with a bay window, as she says she; knew I would at once imagine, but a real one-hundred-percent American, with a first-class family and world’s of ambition.

It was a real treat to get news of them all at once ; but since supper while I have been sitting up here alone in my room reading the letters all over again I must confess I’ve felt more forlorn and Ugly Ducklingish than ever.

Everyone seems so full of happy plans and none of them seem to include me — at any rate my dropping out would not change them one whit.

How nice it would be to be first with somebody! Ugly Ducklings don’t change into Swans, I’ve found that out! They just keep on being Ugly Ducklings to the end of the chapter, and nobody cares! I fancy I see people going off and forgetting all about Inez or Lisbeth! But perhaps I had best be satisfied with what comes my way, not always be trying to stretch my ugly wings and follow the larks!

April 17 — Big preparations for closing exercises in the school. Inez writes she is sending me a dress — the very latest — to dazzle the natives with (her own words) before I turn my back on them forever.

She evidently takes it for granted that my little attempt at teaching is over. I’m not so sure — ‘I shall teach till my literary wings are strong enough for a flight into that enchanted region and then if I’m successful — who knows, I may be “the clever, distinguished Miss Wallace” long after Inez and Lisbeth are humdrum married ladies with prosy, unromantic husbands!

Signed,

Old Sour Grapes.

(To be continued)