Monday came, and the new schoolmaster was in his chair at the upper end of the schoolhouse, on the raised platform.  The rustics looked at his handsome face, thoughtful, peaceful, pleasant, cheerful, but sharply cut round the lips and proudly lighted about the eyes.  The ringleader of the mischief-makers, the young butcher who has before figured in this narrative, looked at him stealthily, whenever he got a chance to study him unobserved; for the truth was, he felt uncomfortable, whenever he found the large, dark eyes fixed on his own little, sharp, deep-set, gray ones.  But he managed to study him pretty well,—­first his face, then his neck and shoulders, the set of his arms, the narrowing at the loins, the make of his legs, and the way he moved.  In short, he examined him as he would have examined a steer, to see what he could do and how he would cut up.  If he could only have gone to him and felt of his muscles, he would have been entirely satisfied.  He was not a very wise youth, but he did know well enough, that, though big arms and legs are very good things, there is something besides size that goes to make a man; and he had heard stories of a fighting-man, called “The Spider,” from his attenuated proportions, who was yet a terrible hitter in the ring, and had whipped many a big-limbed fellow, in and out of the roped arena.

Nothing could be smoother than the way in which everything went on for the first day or two.  The new master was so kind and courteous, he seemed to take everything in such a natural, easy way, that there was no chance to pick a quarrel with him.  He in the mean time thought it best to watch the boys and young men for a day or two with as little show of authority as possible.  It was easy enough to see that he would have occasion for it before long.

The schoolhouse was a grim, old, red, one-story building, perched on a bare rock at the top of a hill,—­partly because this was a conspicuous site for the temple of learning, and partly because land is cheap where there is no chance even for rye or buckwheat, and the very sheep find nothing to nibble.  About the little porch were carved initials and dates, at various heights, from the stature of nine to that of eighteen.  Inside were old unpainted desks,—­unpainted, but browned with the umber of human contact,—­and hacked by innumerable jack-knives.  It was long since the walls had been whitewashed, as might be conjectured by the various traces left upon them, wherever idle hands or sleepy heads could reach them.  A curious appearance was noticeable on various higher parts of the wall:  namely, a wart-like eruption, as one would be tempted to call it, being in reality a crop of the soft missiles before mentioned, which, adhering in considerable numbers, and hardening after the usual fashion of papier-mache, formed at last permanent ornaments of the edifice.