They had said good day to Ma and hurried away.
“Oh, Ma!” Laura gasped. “Do you think I can pass?”
“I believe you can, Laura,” Ma said. “Do not be excited nor frightened. There is no occasion to be. Just pretend that it is a school examination and you will be all right.”
It was only a moment before Carrie exclaimed, “That’s him now—”
“‘This is he,’” Ma said almost sharply.
“That’s he coming— It don’t sound right, Ma—”
“‘Doesn’t sound right,’” said Ma.
“Right straight across from Fuller’s Hardware!” cried Carrie.
The knock came at the door. Ma opened it. A large man, with a pleasant face and friendly manner, told her that he was Williams, the county superintendent. “So you’re the young lady that wants a certificate!” he said to Laura. “There’s not much need to give you an examination. I heard you last night. You answered all the questions. But I see your slate and pencil on the table, so we might as well go over some of it.”
They sat together at the table. Laura worked examples in arithmetic, she spelled, she answered questions in geography. She read Marc Antony’s oration on the death of Caesar. She felt quite at home with Mr. Williams while she diagrammed sentences on her slate and rapidly parsed them.
Scaling yonder peak, I saw an eagle
Wheeling near its brow.
“‘I’ is the personal pronoun, first person singular, here used as the subject of the verb ‘saw,’ past tense of the transitive verb ‘to see.’ ‘Saw’ takes as its object the common generic noun, ‘eagle,’ modified by the singular article, ‘an.’
“‘Scaling yonder peak’ is a participial phrase, adjunct of the pronoun, ‘I’,’ hence adjectival. ‘Wheeling’ is the present participle of the intransitive verb, ‘to wheel,’ here used as adjunct to the noun, ‘eagle,’ hence adjectival. ‘Near its brow’ is a prepositional phrase, adjunct of the present participle of the verb ‘to wheel,’ hence adverbial.”
After only a few such sentences, Mr. Williams was satisfied. “There is no need to examine you in history,” he said. “I heard your review of history last night. I will cut your grades a little for I must not give you more than a third grade certificate until next year. May I have the use of pen and ink?” he asked Ma.
“They are here at the desk,” Ma showed him.
He sat at Pa’s desk and spread a blank certificate on it. For moments there was no sound but the faint scratch of his sleeve on the paper as he wrote. He wiped the pen-point on the wiper, corked the ink bottle again, and stood up.
“There you are, Miss Ingalls,” he said. “Brewster asked me to tell you that the school opens next Monday. He will come for you Saturday or Sunday, depending on the looks of the weather. You know it is twelve miles south of town?”
“Yes, sir. Mr. Brewster said so,” Laura replied.
“Well, I wish you good luck,” he said cordially.
“Thank you, sir,” Laura answered.
When he had said good day to Ma and gone, they read the certificate.
Laura still stood in the middle of the room, holding that certificate, when Pa came in.
“What is it, Laura?” he asked. “You look as if you expect that paper to bite you.”
“Pa,” Laura said, “I am a schoolteacher.”
“What!” said Pa. “Caroline, what is this?”
“Read it.” Laura gave him the certificate and sat down. “And he didn’t ask me how old I am.”
When Pa had read the certificate and Ma had told him about the school, he said, “I’ll be jiggered.” He sat down and slowly read the certificate again.
“That’s fine,” he said. “That’s pretty fine for a fifteen-year-old.” He meant to speak heartily but his voice had a hollow sound, for now Laura was going away.
She could not think what it would be to teach school twelve miles away from home, alone among strangers. The less she thought of it the better, for she must go, and she must meet whatever happened as it came.