Where the Trail Ends: American Tapestries by Melanie Dobson

could he—at least until McLoughlin returned. Then he could convince the governor that the children should go to Ottawa or Quebec to continue their education.
    The children shouted to each other in a variety of languages, but instead of trying to quiet them, he turned around and began to write the British Oath of Allegiance on the blackboard.
    I do swear that I will be faithful and bear true allegiance to Her Majesty Queen Victoria, her heirs and successors, according to law. So help me God.
    The room grew quiet as he wrote, and he straightened his shoulders. He may not have gone to a traditional school when he was a child, but he had certainly spent enough time in the classrooms atCambridge. The children would respect him if he pretended that he knew what he was doing.
    Something hit the back of his neck, and he jumped, the chalk in his hand trailing a line across the oath. He swiveled on his heels, scrutinizing the children in front of him. They were all looking at their desks, some of their heads bobbing with what appeared to be laughter.
    Would it be more effective to address their behavior or ignore it?
    One of the older boys lifted his hand.
    Alex nodded at him. “Do you have a question?”
    The boy stared at the blackboard. “I’m having trouble reading your scrawl.”
    Alex turned around and looked at his neatly written words. It all read perfectly clear to him. He turned back around. “What happens to be the problem with these words?”
    The boy smirked. “They are in English.”
    Snickers filtered across the room, and he heard whispering in Cree and French. Sighing, he turned back to the board and erased his words with the sheepskin eraser. Perhaps he should start with something simpler so they could learn the mechanics of English. He could start at the very beginning: Genesis 1:1.
    As he began to write the words from Scripture, he heard the loud hum of the baling press start up outside the window, preparing to compact the dozens of pelts their Indian friends had brought for trade. The sound overpowered the noise of the whispers behind him.
    After he wrote out the words from Genesis, he turned back again to the students. Strange. He thought there had been more children in the room before. Perhaps he’d been distracted.
    He reached for the register, but before he looked down, a young girl raised her hand.
    “What is it?” he asked rather loudly, over the sound of the baling press.
    She grinned. “Don’t ya think we need something a little longer if we’re gonna learn good English?”
    He glanced back at the simple verse on the board. Perhaps she was right. The verse was short, and they desperately needed to learn the Queen’s English.
    He erased the first verse in Genesis and studied the board again. Then he began to write, in much smaller letters, the verses he had memorized from Psalm 23. Perhaps that would be easier to learn than the oath.
    His confidence began to swell as he transcribed the verse. He may not aspire to be a teacher, but he could do this. Even though there were certainly a handful of unruly children among them, some, like this little girl, were anxious to learn. Perhaps he could make some progress in their education before McLoughlin returned.
    Minutes passed as he focused on writing clearly, so the children could read his work. With a bit of flourish, he dotted the last period and whirled around to address his students.
    His jaw dropped.
    A dozen empty desks stared back at him. The noise of the baling press drowning out their footsteps, they’d all sneaked out of the room.
    “Something a little longer...”
    While he was busy writing, they’d played him for a fool.
    He leaned back against his desk and glanced out the window at the horde of children racing away from the schoolhouse.
    Sighing, he placed the eraser on his desk. Didn’t these children know what a gift they were being offered? With a solid education, they could read and write and calculate numbers. They could succeed in