Whenever there was trouble at recess, and some one pushed or some one
else had their gathers torn out, or, in actual war, names were called,
and "mean thing" and "tattle-tale" brought sobbing little maids to the
teacher's arms, or when loss and disaster in the way of missing blocks
of rubber, broken slate pencils, or ink-stained reader covers sent
floods of tears down small faces, this teacher always came to the rescue
and soothed and patted and invariably wound up with these exact words,
"There, there, don't let us say anything more about it, and then we'll
all be quite happy." I am sure we all thought that it was the eleventh
commandment, "Not to say anything more about it."

Now every one of us suffered more or less from our encounters with the
multiplication table. Of course _fives_ and _tens_ were at a
premium--even very stupid little girls could get through them, and
_twos_ were not so bad, but the rest of the tables were tear-washed
daily. _Sevens_ were, however, my own especial nightmare--even to this
day my fingers instinctively begin to move when I multiply any figure by
seven. Standing in class on the platform, the _sevens_ one day fell to
me. Being charged to put my hands before me, that I should not by chance
forget and count by their aid, I staggered and reeled through the table
so far as seven times seven, when, moistening my lips, I hoarsely
whispered, "Forty-nine," and the shock of finding the answer correct
destroyed me utterly. Seven times eight was anything they liked in
figures, and so I recklessly cried out, "Oh, sixty-two, I guess," and
burst into tears. Recess came, and I would not move from my desk; and
then the teacher dried my tears on her own cool, sweet handkerchief, and
was comforting me as best she could, when suddenly I stole her thunder
by pressing my damp cheek to hers and saying eagerly, "Don't let us say
anything more about the _sevens_, Miss Sands, and then we'll all be
quite happy."