The Hermit on the Hill: A small town

grump and sunshine romance (Catalpa

Creek Book 6) Katharine Sadler
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The Hermit on the Hill

Katharine Sadler
 Copyright © 2022 Katharine Sadler

All rights reserved

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real
persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in

any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise,
without express written permission of the publisher.

Cover design by: Cover Your Dreams Designs

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018675309
Printed in the United States of America
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 CHAPTER ONE

Jenna

I stared at the screaming two-year-old in my arms with no idea

what to do to help her calm down. How was I going to be a good
mother to the baby growing inside me if I couldn't figure out how to
calm this poor toddler?
"Shh, Aidy," I said. "It's okay. The scary fairy is gone."
Aidy, face alarmingly red, screamed louder, her little body shaking
and her heart racing so hard I could feel it against my arm. There
was no getting through to her. What had the parenting books said?
Why couldn't I remember a darn thing?
I bounced her while I thought. Hadn't the books said something
about distraction being a way to calm a kid? Or was it a way to stop
them from doing something dangerous? Didn't matter. It was worth
a try.
I looked around the side yard of my mother's inn for a toy or a
pretty flower. Even a bug might be enough to calm her, but I
couldn't find anything, so I just kept bouncing. If my hearing
survived this, it would be a miracle.
When I'd volunteered to help my sister May, a professional
photographer, with her photo shoot for a local, Uber-pricey summer
day camp, I'd envisioned an idyllic morning with fresh-faced toddlers
all dressed adorably for their photos.
And that's what it had been until my niece Kayla, dressed as a
fairy, had stepped into the yard and walked toward the children, her
wings flapping gently behind her. She'd looked beautiful and
ephemeral, and every one of the five toddlers had stopped what
they were doing to stare at her in awe.
And then Aidy had screamed like she'd just seen a serial killer with
a bloody knife. That had snapped the other toddlers out of their
reverie and a little boy and girl, who looked enough alike that they
had to be related, had started fighting about who should get to hug
the fairy first. The two other little boys had taken off at a sprint for
the fields that surrounded the inn.
I'd scooped up Aidy, and the camp counselor, who couldn't be
older than nineteen, had raced after the two little boys who'd run
off. May had enlisted the help of the fighting toddlers and Kayla to
get a 'big surprise' from inside the inn. And I'd been alone with a
screaming toddler.
"I've got ice cream," May shouted as she walked over to us, two
toddlers and our mother by her side. May's hair had come loose
from her neat bun in chunks that fell around her face, but that was
the only sign that she wasn't cool, collected, and certain that
everything would be fine.
The little girl in my arms went utterly silent. Finally. A distraction
for the win.
"And I've got glitter," Mom said, the tub in her arms almost as big
as she was. She was dressed for a day spent running the inn, in
slacks and a light pink blouse, her white hair cropped close to her
head in a pixie cut that suited her fine-boned face. "How would you
all like to be fairies and wood elves for your pictures?"
The two toddlers sat at the picnic table where May and Mom
dropped everything, already arguing about who would get to pick
the glitter and who would get their ice cream first. Those kids were
going to grow up to be trial lawyers or MMA fighters when they grew
up.
"I keam?" Aidy said in a whisper of a voice.
"Yes." I gave her my biggest smile. "Want to get those tears dried
up and get some yummy ice cream?"
She nodded, all seriousness, not even the hint of a smile on her
face.
I started toward the picnic table, hoping May had tissues for Aidy
because her tears had led to copious amounts of snot dripping down
the lower half of her face.
"I not want to be a fairy," she said, her voice sweet and soft.
 "How about an elf then? Elves have more magic than fairies,
anyway." Honestly, it depended on the source of the lore and the
value one placed on certain powers, but that was probably more
information than a two-year-old needed.
"Weally?"
"Elves are elftastic. And not scary at all."
Finally, Aidy smiled, her brown eyes bright. I set her on the bench
seat and stepped around the picnic table to help May, but Aidy let
out an ear-piercing shriek and reached for me.
May laughed. "Save our hearing and stay with Aidy, please, Jenna.
I've got this."
So I picked up Aidy and sat, her warm body settling onto my lap.
She sighed and stuck her thumb in her mouth, her head falling back
against my chest. My heart spasmed and tears sprang to my eyes.
Damn pregnancy hormones.
The counselor, harried and red-faced, returned to the clearing, a
toddler on each hip. "Today was not the day for my assistant to call
in sick," she muttered as she got the two kids seated at the picnic
table.
She eyed the over-sized bowl of ice cream and sprinkles May set
in front of one of the two fighting kids. "Are you sure sugar is the
way to go?"
"Told you I'd be first," one of the future lawyers said with
unrestrained glee.
The other future lawyer yanked the bowl away so hard that it
tilted and swung, covering me and Aidy in ice cream and sprinkles.
Aidy laughed like it was the funniest thing that had ever happened
to her. She shifted in my lap and rubbed the ice cream and sprinkles
around on my face, even rubbing her hands in my hair, like she was
deep conditioning it with ice cream. She giggled so cheerfully I didn't
have the heart to ask her to stop.
Well, I didn't until she tried to stick her ice cream covered fingers
up my nose. At that point, I gently steered her attention toward the
bowl in front of her.
"Here," May said, handing me a handful of paper towels. "Want
me to hold her while you get cleaned up?"
 "Thanks, but nothing short of a full shower is going to solve this
problem. If I hand her off to you, you'll be covered in ice cream,
too."
She narrowed her eyes.
I gave her my most cheerful smile. "Really. I'm fine to stick it out
until you get the shots you need."
"Thank you so much, Jenna." Her shoulders sagged and the stress
of the day showed in her frown. "I owe you big time."
"You don't owe me anything. Except maybe a bowl of ice cream."
"That I can do."
She fixed me an enormous bowl of ice cream covered in sprinkles.
I only got a few bites of it before the kids started in on the glitter
and paint to make their fairy wings and elf hats. I wouldn't leave
May, Mom, and the harried camp counselor alone for that project. It
required one-on-one guidance.
An hour later, May had gotten several adorable shots of the kids.
They looked so sweet and innocent while they sat for their pictures
that no one would ever guess they'd been a chaotic mess an hour
earlier.
"Thank you again," May said, after the kids and their counselor
had left. "I know I need to hire someone, but I only need extra help
when I have big groups like this."
"Seriously, it's no problem. I have the summer off." More than the
summer off, possibly. My stomach dropped at the thought and I
smiled wider. "I had fun today."
May laughed. "Nothing ever gets to you, does it?"
"It's been an adventure of the sweet and frozen kind that I'll never
forget."
"Well, thanks again. I will pay you."
And I could use the money, but I couldn't tell May that without
telling her I didn't have a job, which would require explaining why
I'd moved to Catalpa Creek with no job prospects, which would
require telling May about the baby. I wasn't ready for any of that.
"You don't pay family," I said. "Isn't that why Mom always said she
had so many kids? Free labor."
 "I heard that," Mom called from where she sat at the picnic table
recovering from the chaotic crafting with toddlers. "And she's right.
We don't pay family."
"Okay." May winked like she had no intention of not paying me.
"Want to come over to my place for dinner? George's making black
bean burgers."
"Sure." My phone vibrated in my pocket and I pulled it out,
surprised to see Carrie's name on the screen. I liked my brother
Cody's wife, but I didn't know her well and, though we'd exchanged
numbers, this was the first time she'd called me.
"Hello?"
"Hi, Jenna?" In the background, a child wailed. "Hold on. Sorry."
A moment later, there was the sound of a door closing. "Jenna,
you still there?"
"I'm here."
"Sorry. The kids started fighting as soon as I put the phone to my
ear."
"Do you want to call me back?"
"No. Simon will mediate, and this won't take a minute. I just
thought you should know that Cody, Noah, and George are
gathering supplies for some mission to avenge your honor. I think
they're going to Sam Oakley's place."
My blood froze, and I glared at May. "Do you have any idea how
much time I have to beat them there?"
"Um, I'm not sure you want to get between this crew and Sam.
They mentioned glitter and chicken feathers and maple syrup."
I groaned. "What is wrong with them?"
"They love you," Carrie said. "They had to run to the store for
more maple syrup and Cody can't walk into any store in town
without talking to the manager about carrying more of his wine or
about how the customers like the wine. I'd say you have about an
hour."
An hour. I looked down at my white shirt covered in sprinkles and
paint and reached up to touch my hair, which was glued to my head
with ice cream. This was so not how I wanted to see Sam. I'd had a
plan and an outfit all picked out. I might have been procrastinating
on that plan, but I'd needed to do more research about how children
coped with parents who lived separately and how they handled a
father who chose not to be in their life. I'd just needed a little more
time.
Now, I was going to have to wing it. And I hated winging it. Ha.
Winging it. Chicken feathers. I smiled, even though my heart was
trying to pound its way out of my chest.
"I'll try to stop them before they hurt anyone."
"Be careful, Jenna. Call and let me know you survived without
being covered in glitter or chicken feathers."
"I will."
Glaring at May, I hung up. "I have to save Sam from a prank
attack being carried out by your boyfriend and our brothers."
May paled. "Ah, crap. I told George not to tell anyone, Jenna. I'm
sorry."
May's boyfriend, George, had been with her when I'd asked about
a photo of Sam's bare ass she'd taken and hung in the local art
gallery. The fact I'd recognized Sam by his naked ass had clearly
raised suspicions about how I knew the man.
"It's fine. It's impossible to keep secrets in this family." Especially
when my family believed someone had wronged me. The whole
avenging my honor thing was sexist as hell, but their hearts were in
the right place.
Phone in hand, I scrolled to Cody's number. "I'll call and try to talk
them down."
In the distance, thunder rumbled. I hoped the skies opened up
and washed off some of the ice cream and glitter. Better to look like
a drowned rat than a hot mess. "Hopefully, I can beat them to
Sam's."
"Are you sure that's a good idea?" May looked nervously up at the
darkening sky. "I heard he shoots first and doesn't care about your
reason for trespassing on his property."
Goosebumps rose on my skin, and my stomach flipped. I hated
confrontation, and no one had ever pointed a gun at me, but I
needed to talk to Sam before my family pranked him. What he said
would determine whether I let my brothers carry out their prank.
 Forcing down my fear, I smiled wide. "He won't shoot me. I'll be
fine."
I took off for my car, phone to my ear, before she could ask
anymore questions.

***

My hands shook as I drove up the long dirt driveway to Sam's

house. I had no idea what I was going to say to him. I should have
planned for this instead of procrastinating by reading parenting
books.
The driveway rose over a steep incline and widened at the top.
Nestled in the trees, was an enormous, three-story, farmhouse-style
home with a wrap-around porch. The porch swing rocked in the
increasingly strong wind. A storm was coming.
Which matched my mood. My stomach swirled with nerves, my
mind chugged a million miles a minute with all the things I needed
to say to Samuel Oakley, and my heart pounded out of my chest at
the very thought of sharing air with the man again.
I parked behind a beat-up pickup and stared at the house for
several long moments. Everyone in town referred to Sam as a
grumpy recluse, a hateful hermit, and I'd imagined him living in a
small log cabin or a dilapidated shack. Since he'd seduced me at an
academic conference so he could steal my research and my
academic credentials, I'd believed he must lack resources.
The fact he lived in such a large, clearly well-maintained home
suggested he'd stolen from me because it was convenient or
because he was hiding something. He'd played me. It's not like I
hadn't figured that out when he snuck out of my hotel room while I
slept, but I'd hoped… I'd hoped maybe he'd felt something real for
me.
Nope. Not going there. I'd been the naïve woman too busy trying
to impress the hot guy to I see what a snake he was. That was
reality.
I got out of the car, slammed the door, and marched up the front
steps, my smile wide to hide my nerves and my anger. Anger was
never a good way to begin a conversation. It put the other person
on the defensive because they were offended. Ha. Defensive.
Offensive. My smile became a touch more genuine as I laughed at
my internal joke.
I knocked, but there was no answer. I rang the doorbell. Still no
answer. I walked around the porch and peered in windows, trying to
glean some more information about this man who'd seduced me,
stolen from me, and left me while I slept. The father of my unborn
child.
The house was well built, with high-end board and batten siding in
a soft white color, and the floorboards and ceiling of the porch were
dark gray. From what I could make out by peering in the windows,
the interior was tidy, the hardwood floors gleaming. The furniture
was rustic, but looked new, and there were natural wood ceiling
beams. There was nothing cold or industrial about the place. It
looked cozy and inviting.
I leaned in closer and saw… Was that a knife on the inside sill of
the window? And white salt sat in a pile next to the knife. Those
were objects often used in Appalachian culture to ward off spirits. As
a professor of history and an expert in folklore and the occult, I was
familiar with such things, but how did Sam know about them? And
why was he warding himself from spirits?
My interest piqued, I hurried back to the front door and knocked
again. When there was no answer, I reached out and twisted the
doorknob just to test it.
The door swung open like the house wanted me there.
Colorful wildflowers sat on the table in a unique clay vase. It
looked like… I stepped inside for a closer look.
A face was carved into the clay. An unusual, whimsical face with
several missing teeth.
Folk art.
I ran a finger over the surface. Hard to tell if it was newly made or
an older piece. My specialty was the stories, the oral traditions of
folklore, and my work didn't focus solely on the folklore of
Appalachia or the South. I studied folklore from all over the world
and looked for similarities and differences that taught us more about
culture and the people who told those stories, believed in the magic
and the creatures, and used the charms.
As I moved to study the vase from all sides, a flash of red caught
my eye from the room just beyond it.
"Hello?" I called, my voice echoing through the large house.
No one answered.
I peeked into the room. A red ribbon had been tied to a branch
that stuck out of another vase, this one large enough to rest on the
floor. It was filled with more branches, all of them tied with red
ribbons as well. I hadn't heard of a charm used in such a way, but
red ribbon was commonly used to ward off spirits. It would seem
Sam was being haunted or believed he was.
I stepped into the room. Bookshelves crammed with books lined
one wall. Three shelves held photos and various items set up like
they were on display. An old pipe, a small flower vase, a pocket
watch, a turquoise necklace. They looked like shrines to lost loved
ones, but I could be wrong.
I'd seen so many indications that Sam was a practitioner of folk
rituals that I might see them where they didn't exist.
A large, light wood desk took up the corner of the room opposite
the bookshelves. Whoever sat there would have a beautiful view of
the forest and the mountains. It would be perfect for sunset
watching. In the center of the room sat a leather couch and two
leather chairs with a coffee table at the center of the circle.
Did Sam have guests? Did he have friends? I couldn't reconcile the
Sam I'd met at the university conference with the hateful hermit
everyone talked about in town.
On the wall behind the desk was a dry erase board with the
names of charms, followed by their ingredients, written in blue and
black marker.
I moved forward, forgetting where I was. I just wanted to know
what those charms were and why the ingredients seemed so very
odd. Before I got to the board, I caught sight of an ancient-looking,
leather-bound book on the desk.
I shouldn't touch it. It looked really old and my fingers could
damage the pages inside. Gently, so very gently, I lifted the cover
with one fingertip and gasped at what I saw inside.
The handwriting was lovely, looping and flowing so that the writer
was drawing me in before my mind had registered the meaning of
the first word. It took me only a moment to be pulled into the story
as well.
The author told a tale about a difficult birth, the first she'd
attended without her mother by her side to guide her. It was as
much a medical report as it was a journal entry and the author had
taken precise notes of every action and the results.
The baby hadn't survived, but no one had blamed the author of
the journal, because she'd saved the mother's life.
I lifted the book to open it a bit wider, lost in the tale, and my
elbow bumped a pile of books on the desk.
They hit the hardwood with a loud crash and I froze. I shouldn't
be in there. Sam had to be somewhere nearby. Unless he had a
second vehicle, he could walk in at any second and see me.
I glanced down at the book in my hands. At the end of her notes
about the delivery, the author had listed the ingredients of the
poultices and charms she'd used. I'd just look at them real quick,
and then I'd get out of Sam's house.
First, I put the leather-bound journal down and picked up the
books I'd dropped on the floor. Bent, I gathered all six of them,
heavy, thick hardbacks, in my arms. When I moved to stand, I
banged the back of my head on the sharp corner of the desk.
"Ow." I dropped the books and slapped a hand over the back of
my head as I stood. Stars danced around the room and my head
throbbed where I'd jabbed it. I pulled my hand away, but there was
no blood.
I'd probably be okay. Until my head stopped spinning and the pain
subsided, I'd rest. Journal in hand, I sank into the nearest chair.
It was incredibly comfortable for a leather armchair. I leaned my
head back. I'd rest for a moment, read a bit more of the journal, and
then I would absolutely get the heck out of Sam Oakley's house.
 CHAPTER TWO
Sam

I shut off the water and reached for a towel, but froze when a
crash sounded from downstairs. I listened hard and heard it again.
"Fucking bobcat," I muttered, already moving.
It had better be the bobcat who'd been hanging around the
house, because if my grandmother had gotten inside to cause more
mischief after all the charms I'd put up to block her, I might have to
sell.
I loved the old woman, but her ghost was exhausting. I'd barely
gotten any sleep the past week, all because I'd taken a few days off
from hunting for her damn treasure to do the work that paid my
bills.
On my way through the bedroom, I grabbed my rifle from the gun
safe, loaded it, and raced downstairs, totally naked.
At the bottom of the stairs, seeing nothing out of place, I listened
for any sign of where my furry tormentor might be. My heart was
pounding almost too loud for me to hear anything, but after a few
moments, I made out the ruffle of papers from the front of the
house.
I raced for the front rooms and found a woman in my office and
sitting in my favorite chair. Thunder rolled, lightning flashed, and a
heavy rain pounded on the roof over my head while I dripped onto
my hardwood floors and stared.
Paint streaked her cheek, glitter covered her clothes, and there
was something that looked like vomit in her hair, but I'd recognize
her narrow face, sharp chin, and full lips anywhere.
She looked up at me and her cheeks flushed a pink the color of
rose petals in spring. My heart stopped just as it had the first time
I'd seen her.
 She smiled like she was happy to see me, but it didn't reach her
big, emerald eyes. They told the truth about her fear and anger,
even when her ubiquitous smile lied. I may have only spent one
night with her, but I'd learned that much. The only time I hadn't
seen the woman smile was when I was making her come.
And far too many of her smiles that night, given to colleagues and
scholars from other universities, even some she gave to me, had
been forced and fake. Like she was playing a part. They'd drawn me
in, making me wonder what made her truly happy, until I'd grown to
hate those fake smiles as the barriers they were to getting to know
the real woman. I'd stripped her bare, but I'd gotten no closer to
knowing what made her tick.
The memory of the way she'd looked in that hotel room bed,
heavy lidded and cheeks flushed, made me go hard. Her gaze
dropped to that part of my body as though she sensed that, too. As
though she saw me in a way no one else ever had before.
I didn't bother trying to cover myself. She already knew the affect
she had on my body.
"What the fuck are you doing?" I roared.
She flinched, and I fought the urge to apologize. What the hell
kind of spell had this woman placed on me? I never apologized for
anything.
She straightened her shoulders and stood. "Why do you have a
gun? Get break-ins here often?"
"I thought you were a bobcat."
She smirked, immune to my nudity, while I couldn't take my eyes
off her full lips.
"My name's not Bob. And I'm not a cat." She jutted her elbow out
like she was about to launch into a dos-si-do and guffawed. Damn,
she was even more adorable than I'd remembered. "You, on the
other hand, are not named Jake, and you did steal from me."
"So you let yourself in and vandalized my home?"
To my utter shock, she laughed. Her laugh was a huge rolling
explosion of a sound that competed with the thunder outside. "I'd
hardly call bumping into a pile of books vandalizing your home. It's
not a crime to be clumsy. Theft, however, is illegal."
 "Is that why you're here?" I gave her the scariest version of my
hateful glare. "I sent back everything I took from you." If I'd been
thinking more clearly, I might have pretended to have no idea what
she was talking about. My recluse lifestyle had thrown me off my
people game.
She rolled her eyes. "You sent it back two months later. Not to
mention you're still using my credentials. I want to know why you
stole my research. What did you want with it?"
I huffed and crossed my arms over my chest. Time to go on the
offensive. "Seems like a flimsy story to me. More likely, you're here
to pick up where we left off."
She looked me over from head to toe and was that… Disdain in
her gaze? What the hell? She hadn't looked at me that way when I'd
been naked in her hotel room.
She tapped her chin. "Where did we leave off? Honestly, I can't
remember." She shook her head. "I hate to say it, but nothing about
that night was terribly memorable for me."
My jaw tightened, and I narrowed my eyes. "Not the impression I
got when you were screaming my name while I made you come for
the fourth time."
"Did I scream your name, Sam? Or did I scream the fake name
you gave me?" She dropped her gaze to my bare cock and winced.
"I hope this doesn't hurt your feelings, but your name wasn't the
only thing fake that night."
"Like hell. I blew your fucking mind." She'd sure as fuck blown
mine.
The fire in her eyes lit something in me that made it nearly
impossible to stand my ground. She was gorgeous all the time, but
that defiance in her eyes, even while her hands trembled… Damn, it
undid me.
She licked her lips and my cock went rock hard and straining for
her like she was the only woman it ever wanted to be inside.
"Been with a lot of women, Sam? Enough that you've become an
expert on who's faking and who's not?"
Damn, was she… I tilted my head and studied her. "You're
jealous." I recovered quickly. I had no time for this woman or her
impossible to resist seduction. "You do remember we only had one
night together and no talk about being exclusive?" I put all the
hatred I felt for myself into my expression. "Hopefully, you haven't
been pining for me."
I tapped my thumb against my bare thigh. "Pining for me so hard
you tracked me down here, even without my real name. How did
you do that? Did you hire a private investigator?" I sure hoped not. I
didn't want her knowing anything about me.
Her cheeks flamed red, the bright color creeping down her lovely
neck. "My family lives in Catalpa Creek and…" She wove her fingers
together. "I saw you when I was visiting."
I stepped closer against my better judgment. "A plausible story,
but I don't buy it. If you'd been near me, if your eyes had been on
me, I'd have felt it. There's no way I wouldn't have seen you, too."
Light flared in her big eyes, and she bit her bottom lip. "That can't
be true, because I saw you."
I stalked toward her, and her back went ramrod straight. A grin
lifted my lips, and a predatory instinct rose in me. I didn't know how
she'd found me, didn't know why she wouldn't just come out and tell
me the truth, but she wouldn't be blushing like a fire truck if she'd
just happened to see me around town. "You don't want to admit all
the sleepless nights you spent trying to track me down? Don't want
to tell me you were so desperate to find me, to get another taste of
me, that you spent your hard-earned money to hire the kind of
private investigator who could—"
"Oh, please." She rolled her eyes. "The conference where we met
is less than two miles from your house. It's hardly rocket science to
figure out you live around here."
"You're lying."
"You don't know that." But she didn't meet my eyes and her
cheeks were only getting redder. "You don't know me well enough to
possibly be able to tell if I'm being dishonest."
I chuckled, having way too much fun. "I know how you taste
when you come, professor. I know you don't try to hide your body
when you're spread out before me. And I know you always look me
in the eyes when you're talking to me, unless—"
 "I saw your ass," she shouted, then slapped a hand over her
mouth and closed her eyes tight like she thought she could
disappear if she wished hard enough.
I stopped, stunned and thoroughly confused. "You saw more than
my ass, baby. What does that have to do with how you found me?"
She opened her pretty eyes. "My sister is May Reynolds. Your ass
is on display at the art gallery in town."
Everything clicked into place and the pride, the damn cocky
arrogance that filled me, was like an electric charge. "You
remembered my ass so well you recognized it from a photo? The
night wasn't memorable, huh?"
She squinched her eyes shut again, but didn't cover her mouth.
"You have moles. In the shape of a constellation."
That gave me pause. "Really?" I twisted to see what the hell she
was talking about, but I couldn't see any damn moles. Shit. Not
what was important now. By the time I'd turned back to her, she
was her normal color, all embarrassment gone from her expression.
"It stuck with me because it was so weird," she said. "Terrible sex
and a constellation on your ass. Really all I remember."
I could no longer tell if she was lying, and I didn't like it. Didn't
like this calm, unruffled version of her. She was hiding from me.
I tried to see past her facade, but she moved to my desk, and
picked up one thing after another, snooping, maybe looking for a
way to change the subject.
She ran a finger over my grandmother's journal. "This is amazing.
I—"
"Don't touch that." My voice was calmer than I felt. If I'd learned
anything about Jenna Reynolds during our one evening together, it
was that she had unbounded curiosity. If she found out what I was
doing, I'd never get rid of her.
Her smile slipped, and I hated myself for doing that to her. Damn
it. This woman's fake smiles grated on my nerves like nails on a
chalkboard, but her real smiles… Well, I felt shitty for destroying one
of them.
She stepped away from my desk. "I was careful with it. If there's a
chance I could see it or you could make me copies… It would be
really helpful for my research."
"That's my grandmother's journal. Not an object for your
research."
Thunder crashed hard enough to shake the house, lightning lit up
the side yard, and a loud crack rent the air. I was across the room
with my naked body wrapped around Jenna before I'd remembered
to breathe. Every hair on my body stood on end and my skin tingled
as though I'd been struck.
"I'm okay," Jenna said, her voice reedy thin.
Damn it, she was trembling like a leaf. Scared to death by the
hellish storm.
"I've got you. Lightning never strikes the same place twice."
"That can't be true." She gripped my arms and rubbed her thumbs
over my biceps. "There's no scientific reason lightning couldn't strike
in the same place twice. I mean, statistically it would…"
Her breath warmed my cheek as she spoke, and I couldn't stop
staring at her lips. She blinked up at me as though she'd forgotten
what she'd been saying.
"You're a meteorologist, now?" I asked.
Her mouth flattened into a straight line. "Are you trying to seduce
me again?"
I stared. Confused. Slowly, I disentangled myself from her,
swallowing hard. "I was just saving you from getting hit by
lightning."
"Because you've already gotten everything from me you wanted,
right? Or is there something else you want to steal from me? Or
maybe you're horny and I'm convenient."
"What the hell—?"
"Because I'm here to tell you, Samuel Oakley, you fooled me once.
I fell for your charm and your sweet words and the way you looked
at me like you never wanted to stop, but I've got your number now.
Literally. I have your number and your address and if you think I'm
going to be stupid and naïve and fall for your tricks again, you've got
another think coming. You've got a lot of other thinks coming,
because I am done being made a fool of."
"A fool? Jenna, what the actual fuck are you—?"
 She popped her hands onto her hips. "You know what? It was a
mistake to come here." She walked around me to get to the front
hallway. "Stop using my credentials or I'll take legal action."
"What kind of legal action can you take? I can't imagine there are
lawyers who go after people for using someone else's credentials in
academic research databases."
Jenna didn't answer. She didn't even turn back. She'd frozen at the
door. I strode to her and looked over her shoulder to see that
lightning had hit the oak in the front yard and half of it had fallen on
Jenna's car. Thankfully, it had totally missed my truck.
"Crap, crap, crap," she muttered.
I caught a whiff of something and moved in closer to sniff. "Do
you have ice cream in your hair?"
She swung her head around to glare at me, tears in her eyes, and
my heart cracked.
Shit.
I really was an asshole.
"That's what you have to say? My car is destroyed, and I… This
ruins everything."
"It's not as bad as it looks. You're lucky you only got half the
tree."
Her eyes narrowed, her glare hardening.
"Are you an auto mechanic now?"
"Now?" I splayed one hand on my chest and tapped my thumb
against my breast bone. The rain had let up a bit, but it would be
smart to move her car into my barn. "No. But I worked in a body
shop all through high school and college. You'll definitely need to
spend some money on the hood and you'll need some new parts,
but it won't be a total loss. You could probably drive it home."
She stared like I'd just told her I was an alien who wanted to take
her back to my lab and put her on a giant hamster wheel.
"Seriously. I'll help you out with it. In the meantime, why don't
you sit and relax? I'll get dressed and make you some tea."
"Tea?" Somehow, her big eyes got bigger.
"Evil seducers and hateful hermits like hot drinks on cold rainy
days, too."
 The sound of an engine stopped that weird feeling on my face.
Had I been about to smile?
I spun around and saw an SUV pull up my drive just as the rain
picked up again and pounded down.
"Oh, crap." Jenna was out the front door and running before I
could stop her.
Four huge-ass men stepped out of the SUV. I beat Jenna to the
bottom of the porch steps, and got between her and the men.
"What the fuck on your doing on my property?" Where the hell
had I left my rifle? All sense went out of my head when Jenna was
around.
"They're my—" Jenna started.
"Why the fuck are you naked with my sister?" One man asked,
stalking forward, his hands fisted.
I put my fists up in front of my face and dropped into a fighting
stance. Or at least what I assumed was a fighting stance based on
movies I'd watched. The few fights I'd been in had been rough and
fast.
"This is my house, asshole. I'll do whatever the fuck I want with
—" I stopped, the man's words sinking in. "Jenna is your sister?"
"And she's my girlfriend's sister," George Gregory said, stepping up
next to Jenna's brother. Cody, I think. Cody Reynolds. Shit. Why
hadn't I put that together before? "So answer the fucking question."
Jenna jumped in front of me, her hair plastered to her head,
sprinkles sliding down her face. "I broke into his house while he was
taking a shower. That's the only reason he's naked. And he's the
kind of guy who would sue us all over one of your dumb pranks."
Cody crossed his arms over his chest. "Our pranks are awesome."
"Do you walk around naked all the time?" The tall, lean man
asked, using his hand to shield his view of my junk.
I stuck a hand on my hip and jutted my pelvis forward a couple
times, cock swinging. "You mean the opportunity to see this
wouldn't be a reason to visit?"
The lean man, I think his name was Noah, slapped his hand over
his eyes, his neck and cheeks flaming red. "For the love of decency,
put some clothes on, man."
 "There are a lot of pranks we could play on a man who's naked all
the time." George rubbed his chin like he was deep in thought.
"The maple syrup won't come out of his pubes easy," Cody said. "I
say we still do it."
Jenna stepped out from in front of me and looked me up and
down. "What the hell, I'd tell the judge my story, and he'd laugh
your lawsuit out of court." She might have been smiling, but her
glare could cut through steel. She walked over to stand with her
brothers.
I didn't know what any of them were talking about, and I didn't
care. "This is my property, and all of you are trespassing. You've got
ten seconds to leave before I go back inside for my rifle."
"Your hospitality leaves a lot to be desired." Jenna shook her head
like I'd disappointed her, but she smiled at Cody, George, and Noah.
"It's okay. He's not worth wasting perfectly good maple syrup. Can I
get a ride home?"
She gestured at her car and the men stalked over to it, glaring at
me and chatting about the damage like we weren't standing in a
downpour.
"Is this what you want?" I asked Jenna, leaning in close so she
could hear me over the rain. "You want to leave with those
Neanderthals?"
Her smile was the fakest one I'd seen from her, yet. I wanted to
shake her until she showed me how she really felt. "I'll send
someone with a chainsaw to cut the tree and someone else with a
tow truck for the car."
"I don't want strangers on my property. I'll take care of it."
She pursed her lips. "It's my car. I'll handle it."
"My tree. My problem. I'll get your car back to you."
Her smile became less fake, and the relief in her eyes made me
want to hug her. Her brothers returned and got back in the SUV.
Jenna followed them, her white shirt now plastered to her body.
When she reached for the door handle, I got a good look at her
body in profile and saw the bump. A distinct, rounded bump that
hadn't been there when I'd seen her naked five months earlier. Next
to the small protuberance of her belly was a tiny blue hand print.
 CHAPTER THREE
Sam

I watched until the SUV disappeared down my driveway and out

of sight before I stomped back into the house and slammed the
front door.
Once again, I was dripping on my hardwood floors and I was
pissed. Pissed with no good reason for it. Jenna was out of my life.
I'd stop using her credentials, and she'd have no reason to break
into my house again.
The image of her baby bump and that small hand flashed in my
mind and my chest went so tight I had to press a hand to it. Damn
it, she wasn't pregnant. And if she was, it was none of my business.
It couldn't be mine. I'd used a condom… I'd definitely used a
condom the second time, but the first time… I'd been so desperate
for her I hadn't been able to see straight, much less think.
In the five months since we'd had our night together, I hadn't
forgotten a moment of it. I told myself it was because the hours of
boring conference prior to meeting her had made everything about
her stand out more brightly in contrast. But that was a lie. Her
emerald eyes had glinted in the moonlight as she'd explored my
body like a biologist examining a new species she'd found on the
Amazon. She'd studied me like she'd seen no one like me before, like
I was the most special human she'd ever encountered.
And she'd been a quick study, learning exactly how to touch me,
how to arch into me, figuring out exactly what I loved in bed. For a
night she'd been all I could see or smell or taste and I still woke
most nights, dick rock hard, her eyes flashing in my memory, the
sound of my name falling off her tongue as she'd fallen apart for me.
For me, damn it.
And she called me the seducer.
 Did her brothers know she was pregnant? Was that why they'd
driven over here?
Someone who hadn't memorized every inch of her body might
think she'd just put on a couple pounds or eaten a heavy meal. I
rubbed my chest. She wouldn't have told them before she told me,
would she?
"None of my business," I declared to my empty house.
A loud bang made me jump and sent my heart racing. I searched
the house and found the culprit in the den. The paddle my great-
grandfather had carved in such intricate detail no longer hung on the
wall but lay on the floor.
"Damn it, Nana. It's likely not my baby. If she even is pregnant." I
swear I could hear Nana's voice chiding me for treating any lady so
rudely. She'd have paddled me for that kind of behavior when I was
a kid.
"Why are you still haunting me?" I grumbled as I crossed the
room. "Your stupid charms aren't working for shit to keep you out."
I picked up the paddle only to see cherry blossoms on the floor
under it. Cherry blossoms in the middle of July. Cherry blossoms
which were an ingredient in my grandmother's most sought after
and requested love potion.
"She's not meant to be mine," I said. "And I'm not looking to tie
myself down to anybody until I make things right with this town."
I scooped up the cherry blossoms and hung the paddle back on
the wall, pausing for a moment to admire my grandfather's
craftsmanship.
It was gorgeous work. An oak tree carved into the wood, with
details throughout - a squirrel on a branch, a butterfly swooping
toward the top branches, and if you looked closely, familiar faces in
the trunk. Faces of family. I stroked a finger over the smooth
carving.
I should probably hate the damn paddle for all the pain it had
caused me. Of course, I'd deserved every whooping I'd received
from it. My Nana had been a just woman, and I'd been a
troublesome kid. In any case, I could never hate a piece of art
created by the hands of family.
 I carried the cherry blossoms out of the room. "Should've never
built on the site of Nana's house. Her damn ghost'll haunt me until
I'm too old to enjoy the company of a woman without her
watching." I stomped. "Hear that, Nana? You want grandbabies, you
best stop haunting me. I'm not fucking anyone when you might be
watching."
Behind me, the paddle hit the floor again.
I ignored it, carried the blossoms to my office, and placed them on
the shelf in front of the framed photo of my Nana.
"No idea where you found cherry blossoms this time of year." I
pressed two fingers to my lips and then to her picture. "I love you,
Nana, but you need to trust me. I'm a grown man who knows the
difference between right and wrong. I'll find your treasure and I'll
make sure the whole town pays for what they did to you. But I need
sleep, and I need privacy. Can't you give me a break?"
Wind gusted the front door open with a loud bang. I sighed and
dropped my chin to my chest. "What more do you want from me,
Nana?"
I shut the door and headed for the second floor to finally put
some fucking clothes on.
Fluffy waited behind the baby gate at the top of the stairs. She
peered out at me, her bunny chest thumping something fierce, her
brown fur standing on end.
"The storm scare you, girl?"
As I opened the gate, she hopped out of the way. I dropped to the
floor next to her and petted her velvety fur until her heart calmed.
She laid her big Flemish Giant bunny head on my knee and it took
up most of my lap.
"I'll bring you back some treats from town. How about that?" I
asked as I stood.
Fluffy hopped around my feet and followed me to my room. I
dressed quickly and was halfway back down the stairs when
someone knocked.
Not sure if I wanted it to be Jenna, I froze. I definitely didn't want
it to be her brothers back with maple syrup and feathers.
"I know you're in there," Marcus yelled through the door.
 I let out a sigh that might have been relief or disappointment. I
wasn't in the mood to be introspective.
I trotted down the stairs and flung the front door open to my
business partner and best friend. He had on his typical work day
attire of jeans and a button-down - business casual for a small town
like Catalpa Creek. He'd been growing out his dark hair and had
developed a decent-sized afro, far different from the way I'd always
known him to keep it, buzzed close to his head. The new look suited
him.
"'Lo." I gestured him inside. "What's today's shit show?"
"Hey, boss," Marcus said. "I'm doing well. Thanks for asking."
"Keep trying to make a gentleman out of me, Marcus. It lets me
know you care."
"What happened?"
I'd known the man since my college days, but it was more than
just years of friendship that allowed him to read me so well. Marcus
was empathic as fuck, and the only person on the planet I trusted
implicitly. He was also a damn bull shark when he got a hint of a
problem, one of the many reasons he was the perfect person to
manage our properties.
"Any chance we can skip this part? I've got a busy day ahead."
"Nope. Your problems are my problems."
"That only applies to the business. Your dating life was of no
interest to me until you started sleeping with the manager of one of
our properties."
"His name is Damian, asshole. And he's my boyfriend. Don't
pretend you don't care after you shed tears of sympathy when
Randall dumped me."
"There was something in my eye. And that guy was a complete
asshole. Who dumps someone via postcard?"
"Tell me what happened," Marcus said. "I've got shit to do, too,
you know."
I led the way into the kitchen and handed him one of the
Kombucha drinks I kept on hand just for him.
We settled in at the kitchen island. "That conference I went to last
spring?"
 "So you could figure out some way to get into those academic
databases to continue your wild goose chase?"
I ignored his snark. "There's more to that story than I might have
mentioned."
"You don't say," he said, all sarcasm. "Let me guess, it involved a
woman. I told you, living like a monk leads to nothing but blue balls
and bad choices."
Damn, I hated it when he was right. "She showed up at my house
today. She walked right in while I was in the shower like she owned
the place. And she didn't even bother to apologize."
"She isn't the one you stole the credentials from, is she?"
I said nothing. I was a jackass and Marcus knew it, but this was
low, even for me.
"You slept with her before you stole her credentials?" He snorted.
"I don't even know why I'm surprised. Blue balls and bad choices.
How'd she find you?"
I scrubbed a hand over my face. "There might be a photograph at
the gallery of my ass."
Marcus nearly spit out his Kombucha. He swallowed with obvious
effort, before laughing for a good two minutes. "That's you? Shit,
that's priceless."
"What are you doing?"
"Texting Damian. He's going to love this."
I grabbed his phone. "Can we focus on my problem for a minute?"
Now that he'd gotten me to 'fess up, I wanted his opinion on this
mess more than I'd ever admit.
He took his phone back, but put it face down on the counter.
"What did she want?"
"Didn't really get a chance to find out. Her brothers showed up,
ready to beat me up. Beat me up or do some shit to me involving
maple syrup and feathers."
Marcus snorted. "Please tell me they did it and took pictures."
"No. She stopped them, and then she left with them." I paused. I
didn't have to tell Marcus anything. The baby might not even be
mine. Jenna might have just had an enormous meal. But if… "I think
she might be pregnant and I think it might be mine. We might have
to pivot a bit with our plans to buy out the brewery. I don't want
more of my money tied up until I know for sure what her deal is."
I despised the pity in Marcus' eyes. "I'm so fucking sorry, man.
This is the last thing you ever wanted."
Marcus knew me better than anyone, which meant he knew I'd
had a rough childhood and had always sworn I wouldn't have
children until I had a stable home to bring them into. That had been
something I'd desperately wanted, a wife and a bunch of kids, a
happy home.
"Yeah, well, it is what it is. We'll figure it out and we'll make it
work."
"Keep me updated, but I'll alert the lawyers."
"Thanks, man. Now, what's your bad news?"
"It's not all bad news. Damian and I'd like to have you over Friday
night. We'll grill. His parents are in town and his sister will be there.
She's really sweet, man."
"Fine. I'll keep her company so she doesn't feel like a fifth wheel,
but don't try to set us up or give her any ideas, understand?"
"Beat you to that one, man." He smirked and looked down his
nose at me. "I don't want my future sister-in-law dating some guy
with baby mama drama."
"Thanks for that."
"You're welcome. Now, the bad news. Lila can't make rent this
month."
I groaned. "Damn it, this isn't on us, Marcus. We told her she
needed to hire someone who learned how to cut hair after 1980 or
get the training to do the modern styles herself."
"She got training, but it somehow made her skills worse. She also
hired her granddaughter, who has watched lots of online videos, but
has never actually been to cosmetology school."
"We've already floated her for two months. If she can't turn her
business around, we have to kick her out."
"I'm not evicting an eighty-five-year-old woman, Sammy. I'm just
not doing it."
I cleared my throat and pressed my fingers into my eyes. "This
has never been about helping anyone. We can't cover rent for all the
Another random document with
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throughout the school year, not because he disliked him or wanted to
be troublesome, but because the teacher could not perceive that
Cleaver had a mania for approbation which needed to be guided into
better channels.

CONSTRUCTIVE TREATMENT

The pupil who does evil for approbation will do good for the same
cause, if approbation for good can be secured. In this case, Mr.
Fraser might have turned Cleaver’s talent for making cartoons and
doggerel into less personal use, utilizing the admiration of his
classmates as a spur to accomplishment. If he had asked Cleaver, for
instance, to illustrate some event in current history with an original
cartoon, to accompany a talk to be given in opening exercises, even
Cleaver’s vanity would have been satisfied at the flattery of having his
talent taken so seriously. At the same time the narrow personal
nature of Cleaver’s interests would have been broadened by a
knowledge of affairs outside his immediate world.

COMMENTS

Wise teachers do not allow the rudeness, crudeness and

childishness of their pupils to disturb their serenity. They know that
good manners and consideration are the result of training, and with
“a fine disregard of personalities” they set about giving this training.
The great art in such cases is to substitute a good activity for the bad
one which has heretofore gained the approbation sought.

ILLUSTRATION 1 (RURAL SCHOOL)

Mary Costello had fiery red hair, which Red Hair

swirled around her freckled face in a way
that would have delighted Titian, but which her pupils in District 27
found only surpassingly funny. She unburdened herself one night to
her mother, who was just a generation more Irish than herself.
 “That Thad Burrows thinks he’s so funny,” she stormed. “Today he
said to me, ‘Say, Miss Costello, do you wear a hat in winter?’ and I
said of course I did, and why shouldn’t I? And he said he should
think it would have to be lined with asbestos. Then they all bellowed,
and if he ever mentions it again I’ll lambast him for it,” and Mary’s
eyes snapped with indignation.
“There now, Mary, don’t be after letting a fool kid upset ye so,” her
wise old mother advised. “That Thad Burrows is a bright boy, and if
it was someone else’s thatch he said it about ye’d be laughing with
him altogether. I’ll bet that if you’ll win the heart of him, he’ll lick
anyone that dares to think of a white horse when you’re around.”
Mary pondered this advise and took it. She showed no resentment
toward Thaddeus, but rather sought ways of being especially kind to
him. She discovered that he was eager to earn money, and helped
him find work in town on Saturdays; she lent him books and
deferred to his opinion in matters of stove-tending and mouse-
catching. He came to connect his leadership with the teacher, who
found so many little ways of giving him the prominence his soul
craved. The red hair ceased to be a joke, and by the term’s end the
prophecy of Mary’s mother had come to pass.

ILLUSTRATION 2 (SIXTH GRADE)

Raymond Smith had just taken up boxing. He was accustomed to

hang around a gang of street idlers and would-be sports and when
any of the number ventured to put on the gloves he was fully alive to
every move they made.
Not having funds to purchase a pair of gloves he began
pummelling smaller boys, getting some little skill in certain
movements imitated from his larger associates. There was a great
deal of bluff and bluster in his actions and not a small amount of
teasing.
Ellen Moore, teacher, knew boy nature Shaking Fist
fairly well. She was strict in conduct but
rarely was caught firing her guns at a mere decoy. Raymond broke
over bounds in a harmless fashion in that as she was passing his desk
one afternoon, he doubled up his fist and shoved it in her direction—
an excellent opportunity for rigid discipline. But this is what
happened:
“My, what a large, solid fist you have,” she said in a quiet voice,
quickly moving on to her next duty.
The hand fell. The boy had no clear motive and yet was in a mood
where belligerency would be easily aroused and deeply relished.
No reference was again made to this incident by either, although
Miss Moore took occasion in a few other matters to draw the lines
closely on Raymond that he might clearly sense the limitations that
school life laid upon him.

CASE 90 (THIRD AND FOURTH GRADES)

(3) Practical jokes—a more serious kind Toy Mouse

of teasing. Imogene and Charles Rogers
were two orphans, living with elderly relatives who wanted to bring
them up wisely, but did not know how. They were full to overflowing
of animal spirits, bubbling with fun, restlessly eager to fill every
moment with good times. Miss Spires, their teacher, was somewhat
short-sighted, and that is why, when a little mechanical mouse ran
from the second row of chairs right up to her feet, she thought it a
live one and jumped and screamed.
Imogene and Charles, who had bought the mouse at the ten-cent
store, were delighted past all bounds, and all the children laughed.
Miss Spires thought she had been insulted, and without much
ceremony put the two children behind the piano. They were not at all
resentful, for here they had a good chance to plan more mischief, and
made a conspiracy to secure a repetition of the entertaining panic of
the morning by putting two of their pet rabbits into Miss Spires’ desk
at noon. This great joke worked as well as the first—even better. Miss
Spires sent the “dreadful children” to the principal for correction,
with a message which made the principal look at the young
scapegraces gravely. But she was a wise principal. She said:
“What did Miss Spires do when you made the mouse run up to her
feet?”
“She just screeched!” gurgled Imogene in reminiscent delight.
 “She jumped as high as my head!” Charles had a good imagination.
“Did she screech when you put the rabbits into her desk?”
“She hopped all around like a chicken, and asked who did that.”
“What did you say?”
“I said we did, and she didn’t think it a good joke, but she said we
were bad children and sent us to you.”
“Do you think you are bad? What is it, to be bad?”
“Swearing.”
“Biffing people that ain’t as big as you are.”
“And telling lies. That’s ’specially bad.”
“Yes, that’s all true. But do you know, good things are sometimes
bad, when they are put in the wrong places, and done at the wrong
times.” The principal had a long talk with the children, in which she
discovered that their attitude toward control was very good, but that
their ideas of appropriateness were very primitive. This was because
their elders had tried to repress them instead of guiding them, and
being made of irrepressible stuff they had simply overrun
boundaries.
“Why don’t you try to guide those play instincts that are so strong
in Imogene and Charles?” she asked Miss Spires later. Miss Spires’
reply shows just why she failed as a teacher:
“It’s not my business to study their ‘instincts.’ I’m here to teach
them to read and write and cipher.”

CONSTRUCTIVE TREATMENT

Laugh with the children at your own silliness. At their age it would
have seemed as funny to you as it now does to them.
Pick up the mouse, examine it with interest, and say, “He is a
funny little fellow, isn’t he! (Approval.) But he hasn’t very good
manners to interrupt us so in school time. Let’s put him up here on
the teacher’s desk, where he can learn to be more polite.” (Suggestion
—that the act was rude.)
“Charles, you may read next. Imogene, see if he reads just right.”
(Substitution.)
COMMENTS

A teacher who is so infantile as to scream at a tiny, frightened

mouse, even though it were a live one, should not blame the pupils
for indulging in less marked exhibitions of arrest of development.
Teachers meet pupils sanely on the play question when they
sympathize with their desire to play, but see clearly why and how
these impulses must be controlled for the child’s future good. Play is
a good servant but a poor master; no human being is more pitiful
than the amusement drunkard. Play in its right place is a wonderful
renovator of health and spirits; play in the wrong place stunts
character and makes for selfishness and littleness. The ideal teacher
wants his pupils to play, helps them to realize the great values that lie
in play, but shows them clearly that play must be indulged in at right
times and places, and rigidly excluded from work hours, except
where it can be made to help on the work. In short, he leads his
pupils as they grow older to play with reason and to plan play
intelligently, rather than blindly to follow impulses.

ILLUSTRATION (HIGH SCHOOL)

In a certain large high school the teachers Play in Study

had had much trouble with the students in Hour
the assembly room. A spirit of uncontrolled play seemed to take
possession of the room a few minutes after the hour had begun.
Instead of settling down to work, the boys and girls wrote notes,
played little tricks on each other, whispered and made endless
meaningless trips to dictionary and bookcase. They seemed to think
the hour was given to them for social purposes.
Many teachers had failed to remedy this condition, before Miss
Stansbury was relieved of two classes that she might take hold of the
assembly room.
“Do you give me permission to do whatever I think is wise?” she
asked the harassed principal.
“Go ahead,” said he. So she did.
 She had been in the room about five minutes, and was busily
marking papers, when a hard lemon came rolling up the aisle toward
her desk. She went to it, picked it up, and saw that two boys, the only
two who could have thrown it up that aisle, were looking at her under
lowered lids. Very quietly, so as not to be overheard except by those
hard by, she asked who had thrown the lemon, and the doer
acknowledged at once—lying was not a fault in this school.
“You don’t seem to know what a study period is for. You may take
your books and go home, and study your lessons there. I shall call up
your mother on the telephone and tell her why you are coming
home.”
“But I have a class this next hour, and I live clear across the city!”
exclaimed the student, in dismay. “I can’t go home!”
“But you can’t stay here, since you don’t know how to use a
common study hall. Please go at once, and I’ll report to your teacher
why you are gone. I have work to do, and can’t spend my time
policing the room.”
The puzzled boy rose slowly and left the room. Miss Stansbury
went to the high school office, called up his mother, and told her that
her son would be home shortly, as he had been playing in the
assembly room and would therefore have to do his studying at home
that day.
“But he can’t study at home. We live a mile and a half across the
city. What was he doing? Was it anything dreadful?”
“Not at all. He merely rolled a lemon up the aisle, a very innocent
performance at any other time—but this happened to be study hour.”
“Well, you may be very sure he won’t do it again!” and the
indignant mother hung up her receiver with a snap.
When Miss Stansbury reached the assembly room again she saw a
group standing around a boy near the center of the room. They were
giggling and peering over his shoulder at something on the desk—
which, when she reached them, Miss Stansbury discovered to be the
last copy of Life.
“Don’t go to your seats yet. I want to talk to you a moment, and I
don’t want to disturb those who are studying by talking very loud.
You six people also seem not to have learned what a study hour is for.
Play and fun and Life belong to other times and places. I shall write
your names on slips, and send them to the teachers of your various
classes, so that if you are absent or tardy they may know why. And
now you six may take whatever study books you need and go home.
You can not stay here unless you study, for this is a study period. I
shall call up your homes and tell your parents why you are coming
home.”
“Will you give us an excuse for absence from physics next hour?”
one boy asked.
“Why, no. You have excuses only for necessary absences.”
“But then we’ll get a zero for the recitation!”
“Yes, I suppose so. But a high school boy is supposed to know
enough to study during study hours.” Miss Stansbury was smiling
and implacable.
The six passed out, grumbling and almost rebellious. Miss
Stansbury went again to the telephone, and told five mothers (the
sixth one being out) why their children were coming home.
“Why don’t you make him study?” said one mother.
“I am doing so,” was the reply.
When she returned to the assembly room all was quiet. Not one of
the students who were left cared to play, or write notes, or roll
lemons. Here was a teacher who meant business. Miss Stansbury did
not reform the students altogether, for they often slid back into their
old habits when the younger and weaker teachers had charge of the
room. But when she was in charge, there was quiet and industry, and
no attempt at ill-timed fun.
By the time they have reached the high school, pupils know what is
expected of them during school hours in a general way; but they also
know that teachers vary greatly in their standards. Some tolerate
play during work time, some do not. Those who will tolerate it
usually have to. Miss Stansbury simply and quietly defined her stand,
which was one of absolute adherence to a work-while-you-work
program. Neither did she fall into the error of a certain high school
teacher who dallied around a note writer, neither asking what he was
doing nor demanding that he work. She reasoned that if a study
period is for study, there is no sense in having it spoiled by
interpolated fun. She did not scold, she did not lecture, she did not
entreat, she did not moralize; she just eliminated the disturbers, and
after two examples of her method everyone understood her and did
as she demanded. She assumed differentiation between working and
play hours. If she had used this method with untrained, little
children in the lower grades it would have been a stupid and harmful
mistake, for such children have not yet learned to control their play
impulses. High school students know how; they will do it if held up
to a standard of action.

CASE 91 (HIGH SCHOOL)

The sophomore class in a high school decided to do something to

call public attention to the valor and general high qualities to be
found in its members. As students their record was good. As to
conduct no member had suffered any extreme penalties, although
the superintendent’s son had often skirted the boundaries of the
unendurable.
 The class played the following pranks: Buildings
during the night the school bell was Disfigured
rendered useless by removal of the rope and clapper; a donkey was
taken up the steps into the assembly room and left there until
morning; class emblems were painted in class colors in a score of
forbidden places.
This second offense aroused the ire of the superintendent. In a few
days the class was called to meet him and another member of the
faculty. Mr. Webster, the superintendent, at once asked the following
questions:
“I would like to know what members of this class took part in the
disfigurement of the buildings and grounds.” His manner was not
offensive, yet his firmness was very evident and a degree of anxiety
was betrayed in his voice.
No answer was given. The superintendent then questioned each
member of the class as follows: “Were you on the school grounds the
night of the 14th? Did you assist in disfiguring the property? Do you
know who did the work?” All but two members of the class declared
they were under obligations not to give any answers that would
reveal who was guilty; the two others answered these questions
truthfully; but as they knew no pertinent facts about the incident,
nothing was gained.
The superintendent’s next step was to say: “Do you know any
reason why the members of this class, except these two, should not
be suspended until the desired information is given?” A few protests
were heard, but they all affirmed the right of a pupil to maintain
silence when asked to incriminate a fellow pupil. The superintendent
then announced the suspension to take effect at once.
At the end of two weeks a compromise was brought about and a
majority of the class returned to school. The rebellious members had
declared they would not open negotiations with the superintendent.
He had declared that they must inform him who were guilty of the
offenses. Both of these demands were laid aside. The superintendent
was known to have changed his decision and the offenders were
publicly taunted with backing down on the boast.
Some of these boys never re-entered the school; others found their
places soon, in another high school. The memory of the incident is a
sad one for all concerned.

CONSTRUCTIVE TREATMENT

Release the donkey from his “embarrassing situation,” but leave

other details of the mischief for a day or two. Some inkling of who
the perpetrators are will probably leak out in that time.
Meanwhile, have the damages appraised by the school board.
Next have a private talk with the president and other officers of the
class, stating to them the amount of the damages, the fact that you
will present the bill to the class and that you will then turn it over to
them for collection; also that you will expect their hearty coöperation
in seeing that all damages are repaired and paid for.
Finally, address the class as a whole. Say to the class, “I appreciate
the funny side of your pranks the other evening, but there are some
damages that some one has to pay. Two or three members of the
board, in whom all of us have confidence, have appraised them at ten
dollars. You have made a good record as a class. I shall expect you to
live up to your reputation by doing the fair and square thing in this
instance also. That means that you will authorize your president or
some other member of the class to see that damages are repaired and
expenses paid. You had lots of fun, but if the fun is ‘worth the
candle,’ why, now, the only manly course to pursue is to ‘pay for the
candle.’
“I think it will not be necessary for me to speak of this episode
again. I leave the matter in your hands. I will ask your class president
to report to me when the work is completed.”

COMMENTS

The superintendent lost ground with the school in assuming a

belligerent attitude, in trying to force a confession, and in punishing
innocent pupils because they were unwilling to incriminate their
classmates. The weakness of his position is shown in the fact that in
the end he was obliged to compromise.
ILLUSTRATION (HIGH SCHOOL)

The room was full of pupils. A Carbon

representative of one of the numerous book Bisulphide
companies was present. Everything was moving smoothly and in
order, when suddenly the room began to fill with the disagreeable
odor of carbon bisulphide. It grew worse and worse. Pupils were
holding their noses to keep out the smell, and some were covering
their mouths to keep in the laughter.
The situation was trying for the teacher. He was embarrassed by
the presence of the visitor, under such odoriferous circumstances.
What was to be done? It would be useless to hold a public inquiry. It
was a time both for thought and tact. Finally the teacher evolved his
plan.
Going on with the work, just as if nothing had happened, the
teacher conducted the remaining recitations of the day, as usual.
Meantime he kept his eyes open. The odor gradually grew less
offensive and most of the pupils quietly resumed their customary
work.
The vigilance of the schoolmaster was finally rewarded. One of the
boys seemed to be enjoying the situation to a greater degree than the
rest. He was unable to entirely conceal his enjoyment and this was
the teacher’s clue. He kept his eye innocently on this boy.
Just as school was about to close for the day, the teacher said:
“Frank, I’d like to see you a few moments after dismissal.”
Frank remained. His countenance paled slightly and he no longer
had difficulty in suppressing his enjoyment.
“Frank,” began the principal, “where did that preparation that
made such a disagreeable odor here this afternoon come from?”
Frank looked guilty.
“I didn’t have it here in the room,” he replied.
“Yes, Frank, but that’s not answering my question,” responded the
inquisitor severely.
“Well, I had some bisulphide down on the playground, but I didn’t
bring it into the school-room,” Frank finally admitted.
“What did you do with it?”
 “I gave it to Harry.”
“What did he do with it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Very well, you are excused for the present, till we can see Harry.”
The next night Frank and Harry were both asked to remain. The
superintendent was present. Two pale boys appeared before the
teachers.
“Harry, what did you do with the bottle of bisulphide you got from
Frank yesterday?” inquired the superintendent.
“I kept it down on the playground awhile and then threw it here in
the wastebasket,” was Harry’s candid response.
“Didn’t you know what was in the bottle?” resumed the teacher.
“No, sir, I didn’t.”
“Didn’t Frank tell you?”
“No, sir, he didn’t.”
“Is that right, Frank?”
“I guess that’s right,” said Frank seriously.
Evidently Harry was innocent for the most part. After sound
admonition by the superintendent the boys were dismissed. Frank
was very careful thereafter and Harry was always an exemplary
pupil. No further disturbances of this nature occurred during the
year.
A little tact and patience on the part of the teacher will often be
highly rewarded in the school-room.
(4) Teaching children how to play rightly. All playgrounds, while
in use, should be supervised by one or more responsible teachers.

CASE 92 (SEVENTH GRADE)

A big snow had fallen, but the weather had soon turned warmer
and the snow had softened just enough to make snowballing good.
“You may snowball all you want to as long Snowball Contest
as you keep above the row of trees,” said the
superintendent to the boys.
 A fierce battle was going on within the prescribed bounds. The
contest increased in fury and finally one side was driven back.
“Remember the limits!” cautioned one of the pupils.
Most of the boys either forgot to stop or kept running in the
excitement of the game, and rushed far beyond the limits. Then
several more were crowded beyond the limits, and unfairly engaged
in the contest from their new position.
“You’d better quit now or get over with the rest all of you!” shouted
the head of the schools.
Charles stopped for a short time, but in a few moments threw
again from outside of the limits.
“Charles, you go upstairs at once!” were the decisive words of the
superintendent, hurled at the offending boy in a way not to be
mistaken.
Charles mounted the stairs without delay and entered the office.
The superintendent soon appeared.
“What did you mean by throwing after I cautioned you, Charles?”
asked he sternly.
“Well—I don’t know. I got lost in the game and didn’t notice what
you said, I guess.”
“Well, what do you think, now?”
“I think we should obey the regulation.”
“Will it be necessary to speak to you more than once the next
time?”
“No, it won’t!” said Charles decisively.
“Then you may go.”
Charles left the office, glad to get off as easily as he did. Thereafter
the superintendent watched this boy, but Charles was careful to obey
whatever the teacher told him if the superintendent was within
reach.

CONSTRUCTIVE TREATMENT

Some one must attend these children when at play on the school
grounds. Organize the game, mark the boundaries carefully and
coach the children just as in athletics. Have a comrade to attend
them when they are running bases. Call the group together before the
game opens; explain the chief points in the rules. Show what comes
of neglecting the rules—confusion and several other bad things.
Prove that just as much pleasure can be had by following some sort
of system as if one goes at play in a helter-skelter fashion.

COMMENTS

All children must be taught how to play despite the fact that they
have an insatiable appetite to engage in it. Scattering hints will often
suffice and save not only injuries but open infractions of school
regulations.
Self-control is acquired only gradually, hence the orderly play that
is so delightful for pupils in the teens is preceded by a period of
learning.
Most first grade children are afraid to snowball, but in the second
grade boys begin to want to do brave things and in consequence can
do some damage by snowballing. Snowballing should not be
considered an offense. Every teacher knows how he has enjoyed the
sport. It is only the carelessness that may creep into the play that
may cause a window to be broken or some child to be hurt in the
eyes, ears, or about the face or body. It is really necessary that a
teacher should teach the pupils how to snowball, when there is snow
on the ground. She should go with them and enjoy the sport.

ILLUSTRATION (SECOND GRADE)

“One, two, three,” and all the boys and Limitations in

girls passed out of the room, Miss Play
O’Gorman following. “Remember now, Phil, no hard snowballs, as I
told you in the school-room.” “Now wait until we get out of reach of
the windows before you begin.” “Are we divided up evenly, just the
same number on both sides? Let’s count and see. Yes, just fifteen on
each side.” “Now, ready, everybody.”
 Miss O’Gorman let her ball fly along with the others, as she was to
play a few minutes on each side. She kept a keen eye for illegal
conduct and spurred all of them on in the fine fun.
This had been prearranged with parents’ consent to occur just at
the close of school so that the children could go home and dry up
their clothes at once if it became necessary.
By the end of twenty minutes one side gave away and yielded the
honors to the others and the game ended. On her way home Miss
O’Gorman remarked:
“I like to have the snow come because then I can snowball, but
children, I never make hard balls or throw at a building. I never
throw at anyone’s head. It would make me feel very sad to hurt
someone or break a window.”
Directing the sport of snowballing is far better and wiser than
prohibiting it. The discreet teacher will not even try to suppress it,
but will use every occasion to get into the snow with the boys and
girls and have fun and frolic.

CASE 93 (SIXTH GRADE)

“Come on, Mr. Frank, first batter!” Quarrelsome

“Pitcher!” “Catcher!” “First base!” Soon Play
every position was filled as the boys and the teacher of the eighth
grade streamed out of the schoolhouse.
“Come on, Mr. Frank, play with us.”
“No, not today, boys. I have something else to do now, I can’t.”
This was the third and last time for the season that the boys of
Mount Holly School urged this young man to enter into his privilege
in play. He stood off and for a few moments closely observed the
outcome. The game started after some parleying, but was soon
interrupted by dissension.
“He’s out.” “You’re out.” “Throw him out.” “I won’t do it,” and
scores of chopped-off utterances filled the air. Ten minutes were lost
in hot argument out of which no one gained the least value. Big boys
squeezed smaller ones out of their turn and these, lacking any
opportunity for play, stood about occupied with gloomy thoughts.
 “They don’t get on well together—I wonder what the matter is with
these fellows,” Mr. Frank remarked.

CONSTRUCTIVE TREATMENT

Accept the invitation to play. As a player, take only a player’s part.

No pedagogical authority need be used; but as a private person
exercise a control that will give tone to the whole performance. See
that something like justice is done to all and that the foolish delays
are eliminated.

COMMENTS

Boys little by little acquire a sense of order and often become

deeply offended at the unruly procedure of their comrades. They
welcome the presence of an older hand that steadies affairs and
prevents one or two reckless boys or girls from spoiling the fun of all
the rest.
An occasional participation may be all that is needed to institute a
noticeable improvement. Such aid should be given heartily as it is
due to the children in every school.

ILLUSTRATION (FIFTH GRADE)

How a child looks upon this matter is Boy’s Letter

seen in the following extract taken from a
boy’s letter:

“We’re having a bully time at school. At recess time teacher plays

with us and after school, too, sometimes.
“We play baseball, and he says we can have a match game if we
practice hard. I’m second baseman. Teacher made the boys let in the
little fellows if they can keep up.
 “I hain’t going to miss school nary a day if I can help it. Play’s lots
of fun. We don’t play much in school because we have work to do.
“Hope you’re all well.

Sam.”

CASE 94 (SEVENTH AND EIGHTH GRADES)

The Cloverdale Grammar School gave much attention to athletics

and especially tried to encourage the baseball team which had been
organized from the seventh and eighth grades. Mr. Tilden, the
principal, was sincere in his desire that his pupils should engage in
the sport, but having given his verbal encouragement and assistance,
it did not occur to him that his personal presence on the playground
was in any degree necessary to the welfare of the school. He
interpolated but on restriction into the fun: “In order to safeguard
our school buildings,” he said to the boys, “I am going to make one
ruling, namely, that you must not send the balls toward the school
building. Any boy who does that, accidentally or otherwise, must
drop out of the game.”
All went well for a few days. The less aggressive among the boys
adhered to the rule strictly. But one day one of the leading boys,
Reginald Coleman, happened to hit the stone foundation of the
school building. In this particular instance the stone foundation was
surmounted by brick walls up to about one-third or one-half the
height of the building, then finished off for the remainder of the
distance with wood.
Reginald argued with much boyish eloquence that “the foundation
was not a part of the building, no possible harm would result from
hitting it with the ball, hence it could not be that Mr. Tilden intended
to include that in his prohibition.”
So much in earnest was Reginald in pleading his case that the
other boys were soon won to his way of thinking, and he was allowed
to continue in the game.
For the next few days Reginald’s modification of Mr. Tilden’s rule
was the law of the playground. Then came another issue. Carl Story
lost his balance slightly just as he raised his bat to strike, the result
being that the ball glanced sidewise, striking the brick wall of the
school building. It was now Carl’s turn to present a plea for leniency
in the application of the law.
“Aw, ’tain’t fair to throw that out! It don’t do no more harm to hit
the brick than it does ter hit the stone. That brick’s a part of the
foundation. Didn’t you fellers say the other day that we could hit the
foundation? It’s all foundation up to the top of brick.”
Now Carl happened to be playing in the same nine as Reginald,
and Reginald naturally espoused his cause.
“That’s right, kids,” he joined in, “Carl didn’t hit the building; he
only hit the brick foundation. Let him play on! We don’t want to lose
this game. Go on, Carl”—and Carl finished the game notwithstanding
the protests of the opposing nine.
Thus the modifications of the rules went on from day to day,
always in favor of the larger and stronger and more aggressive boys
and always to the disadvantage of the younger and smaller ones of
the opposite side.

CONSTRUCTIVE TREATMENT

Be on the ground when a new game is launched. Study the

possibilities for unfair playing (silently, of course), and make every
effort to establish rules that will be just to all.
Do not stop at this point, however. Play with the children
frequently enough to learn at first hand whether strict rules of honor
are being observed or whether the leaders are taking unfair
advantage wherever opportunity offers.
Say to Reginald and Carl, “If one of the boys on the other side had
made that play would you have wished to count it?”
If the boys can not be converted to a desire for strictly honest play,
then see to it that the ringleader gets no advantage from his
trickiness. Say, “We’ll have to throw out this whole game because it
wasn’t played quite fairly. Tomorrow we’ll have another game to take
the place of this one.”
COMMENTS

Boys are not unlike adults in that they are quick to make rulings
favorable to themselves or their party and unfavorable to others. The
surest way to make men honest is to make dishonesty unprofitable. A
state inspector of weights and measures, remarking recently upon
the fact that a certain town in Michigan had “fewer cases of short
weights and measures than any other town visited,” accounted for
the fact by saying, “It is an inland town with a settled population. The
grocers depend year after year upon the same group of persons for
customers. Under such conditions any habitual shortage would
certainly be discovered and in the end would work harm to the
business. Hence all the grocers are honest there. It doesn’t pay to be
dishonest.”
The “paying” side of honesty may not seem a very high motive to
hold before children; but with the habit of honesty once formed, the
altruistic ideal will be much surer of lodgment when the children are
old enough to appreciate it. On the other hand the high ideal without
the habit is simply another expression for hypocrisy.
Much is said today regarding play as a means of training for the
higher duties of life. It may indeed be so, but on the other hand play
may be the most effective training possible for trickery, selfishness,
and every anti-social instinct. The remedy is supervision of play and
participation in it by leaders who know how to suppress the evil
impulses which there find opportunity for expression, while
stimulating the good. Such a leader will study individually the pupils
under his supervision and be quick to adapt his regulations to
changes, not only in place and time, but also to the personnel of his
group.

ILLUSTRATION (EIGHTH GRADE)

From scraps of conversations floating in Modify Rules

through the open window near which Mr.
Tilden was accustomed to sit correcting papers, as well as from
sundry complaints coming to him from the defeated “nine,” Mr.
Tilden got an inkling after a while that all was not as it should be on
the ball ground.
“I’ll come down and play with you after school this afternoon,” he
replied one day to a seventh grade boy, who had come in to tell him
that he wanted to give up his place in the baseball nine.
“We can’t win no games, Mr. Tilden,” said he, “coz the other team
ain’t square. They kid us all the time.”
Mr. Tilden, true to his word, joined hands in the game, purposely
taking a place in the losing team. Next to the ball ground was a tennis
court. Between the two fields was a high wire fence. Presently over
the fence went a ball, sent thither by a batter of the opposing nine. Of
course there was vexatious delay while one of the boys went to hunt
it up and bring it back. Before the game had proceeded very far
another ball flew over the high wire fence, and later another.
“Oho! I believe I can see through that game,” thought Mr. Tilden.
“The boys on the other team are heckling these boys, wasting their
time and strength and confusing them more or less by sending the
balls over the fence in order to place these fellows at a disadvantage.
That needs a bit of attention.”
The game over, he called all the boys to him. “Well, boys, we had a
fine game and I’m glad I came in if my side did get beaten. But
there’s just one rule I’d like to change a little. Some of you fellows
need to practice striking so as to hit squarer than you did today. It’s a
great nuisance to have the balls go over that fence. We’ll have it the
rule hereafter that whoever can’t do better than send his ball over
there will choose someone else to take his place while he drops out
for the remainder of the game. Probably he needs to rest his arms a
little. Anyhow we can’t have the fun spoiled just for a few boys who
haven’t practiced enough.”
This arrangement solved the immediate problem, but Mr. Tilden
found that new ones successively presented themselves as one side or
the other worked out new devices for outwitting the opposite side.
He did not make the mistake again, however, of leaving the boys to
themselves entirely, but kept in touch with the players and
readjusted the rules as occasion required.

CASE 95 (HIGH SCHOOL)