Read Online Little Amish Matchmaker by Linda Byler - Free Book Online
Authors: Linda Byler
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and all, that Isaac admitted to Michael he didn’t know girls could draw freehand like that.
Hannah drew two horses that looked like camels and were about the same color. Isaac told Teacher Catherine they couldn’t have those horses on there, and she said they could not hurt Hannah’s feelings, the horses had to stay. Maybe he could draw blankets on them.
Isaac did, then, and the horses looked like camels with horse blankets, but when he colored them a bright shade of red, it looked Christmasy, decorative and colorful enough. Hannah was insulted anyway, sniffing and parading around like a cat that fell in the water trough, saying the horse blankets ruined her horses, so Isaac told her to cover them up with snow.
That really got her going.
Chapter Eight
T EN DAYS THEY HAD.
Teacher Catherine really cracked down on the procrastinators. There was no putting off what could be done today. Those that did not listen and learn their parts would have to give them to someone else.
That got the ball rolling.
No more copies were allowed. The plays had to be memorized, the parts said at the right time with the proper expression, and loudly enough. Teacher Catherine stood against the wall at the back of the classroom, a formidable figure, her lips set in a grim line of determination. The pupils sat up and took notice. She praised, cajoled, stopped the quiet ones and made them do it over, always goading them on.
The only pupil that seemed hopeless was Ruthie. She desperately wanted to speak. She had a lovely poem, but so far, had been totally unable to finish it. She picked her face, cleared her throat, reached behind her back to pin and re-pin her apron, stalled for time, but nothing worked.
Isaac talked to Mam one evening, the best time of the day to approach her when she had just gotten out of the shower. She smelled of lotion and talcum powder. She wore her homemade, blue flannel bathrobe, buttoned down the front with leftover pants buttons, a dichly , that triangular piece of fabric she wore to cover her head at night so that when she woke in the middle of the night, she would have her head covered so she could pray for her family, starting with the first and going all the way to Isaac. Her gray hair was wavy after she washed it, loose and wavy, even when it was bound by the ever-present dichly , making her appear more girlish, safer, somehow.
“Mam, what do you think of trying to help someone overcome stuttering?”
Mam looked up from the Blackboard Bulletin she was reading.
“Why?”
“You know Ruthie? Lloyd’s Ruthie?”
Mam nodded.
“She just can’t say her poem this year.” He described in vivid detail Ruthie’s nervousness, her unwillingness to talk to her mother.
Mam shook her head.
“Well, Isaac, I don’t want you to think this is looking down on someone, but Ruthie probably doesn’t have much of a home life. Her mother and, well … she has reason to be nervous.”
“So what could we do? Is it true that you can help someone stop stuttering, stammering, whatever you want to call it, by speaking slowly?”
“I’ve heard of it.”
“How could we do it?”
“Why don’t you start a support group? Sort of a system where all her friends work with her? Ask Teacher Catherine to help you.”
Isaac thought that sounded just wonderful. He pitied Ruthie and told Mam so.
Mam said she was glad Isaac had a soft heart. It spoke well for his character.
Isaac usually fell asleep soon after his head touched his pillow, having to get up at 5:00, the way he did.
Tonight, however, was different. He was thinking.
Ruthie could just give up her poem. But he knew for himself, he would be ashamed to be without that solo piece of poetry, everyone expecting it the way they did.
She was about as decent as any girl could be. For one thing, she could draw stuff other than hearts and flowers. She had drawn most of the figures skating on the pond, some of them looking real. And she liked dogs. She had an English
Hannah drew two horses that looked like camels and were about the same color. Isaac told Teacher Catherine they couldn’t have those horses on there, and she said they could not hurt Hannah’s feelings, the horses had to stay. Maybe he could draw blankets on them.
Isaac did, then, and the horses looked like camels with horse blankets, but when he colored them a bright shade of red, it looked Christmasy, decorative and colorful enough. Hannah was insulted anyway, sniffing and parading around like a cat that fell in the water trough, saying the horse blankets ruined her horses, so Isaac told her to cover them up with snow.
That really got her going.
Chapter Eight
T EN DAYS THEY HAD.
Teacher Catherine really cracked down on the procrastinators. There was no putting off what could be done today. Those that did not listen and learn their parts would have to give them to someone else.
That got the ball rolling.
No more copies were allowed. The plays had to be memorized, the parts said at the right time with the proper expression, and loudly enough. Teacher Catherine stood against the wall at the back of the classroom, a formidable figure, her lips set in a grim line of determination. The pupils sat up and took notice. She praised, cajoled, stopped the quiet ones and made them do it over, always goading them on.
The only pupil that seemed hopeless was Ruthie. She desperately wanted to speak. She had a lovely poem, but so far, had been totally unable to finish it. She picked her face, cleared her throat, reached behind her back to pin and re-pin her apron, stalled for time, but nothing worked.
Isaac talked to Mam one evening, the best time of the day to approach her when she had just gotten out of the shower. She smelled of lotion and talcum powder. She wore her homemade, blue flannel bathrobe, buttoned down the front with leftover pants buttons, a dichly , that triangular piece of fabric she wore to cover her head at night so that when she woke in the middle of the night, she would have her head covered so she could pray for her family, starting with the first and going all the way to Isaac. Her gray hair was wavy after she washed it, loose and wavy, even when it was bound by the ever-present dichly , making her appear more girlish, safer, somehow.
“Mam, what do you think of trying to help someone overcome stuttering?”
Mam looked up from the Blackboard Bulletin she was reading.
“Why?”
“You know Ruthie? Lloyd’s Ruthie?”
Mam nodded.
“She just can’t say her poem this year.” He described in vivid detail Ruthie’s nervousness, her unwillingness to talk to her mother.
Mam shook her head.
“Well, Isaac, I don’t want you to think this is looking down on someone, but Ruthie probably doesn’t have much of a home life. Her mother and, well … she has reason to be nervous.”
“So what could we do? Is it true that you can help someone stop stuttering, stammering, whatever you want to call it, by speaking slowly?”
“I’ve heard of it.”
“How could we do it?”
“Why don’t you start a support group? Sort of a system where all her friends work with her? Ask Teacher Catherine to help you.”
Isaac thought that sounded just wonderful. He pitied Ruthie and told Mam so.
Mam said she was glad Isaac had a soft heart. It spoke well for his character.
Isaac usually fell asleep soon after his head touched his pillow, having to get up at 5:00, the way he did.
Tonight, however, was different. He was thinking.
Ruthie could just give up her poem. But he knew for himself, he would be ashamed to be without that solo piece of poetry, everyone expecting it the way they did.
She was about as decent as any girl could be. For one thing, she could draw stuff other than hearts and flowers. She had drawn most of the figures skating on the pond, some of them looking real. And she liked dogs. She had an English
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