I was very happy
at school; but oh! the utter wretchedness of the last day of the
holidays.
One began to be apprehensive on the Monday. Foolish visitors
would say sometimes on the Monday, "When are you going back to
school?" and make one long to kick them for their tactlessness.
As well might they have said to a condemned criminal, "When are
you going to be hanged?" or, "What kind of--er--knot do you think
they'll use?" Througout Monday and Tuesday we played the usual
games, amused ourselves in the usual way, but with heavy hearts.
In the excitement of the moment we would forget and be happy, and
then suddenly would come the thought, "We're going back on
Wednesday."
And on Tuesday evening we would bring a moment's comfort to
ourselves by imagining that we were not going back on the morrow.
Our favourite dream was that the school was burnt down early on
Wednesday morning, and that a telegram arrived at breakfast
apologizing for the occurrence, and pointing out that it would be
several months before even temporary accommodation could be
erected. No Vandal destroyed historic buildings so light-
heartedly as we. And on Tuesday night we prayed that, if the
lightnings of Heaven failed us, at least a pestilence should be
sent in aid. Somehow, SOMEHOW, let the school be uninhabitable!
But the telegram never came. We woke on Wednesday morning as
wakes the murderer on his last day.
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