Cressyby Bret HarteCHAPTER I.As the master of the Indian Spring school emerged from the pinewoods into the little clearing before the schoolhouse, he stoppedwhistling, put his hat less jauntily on his head, threw away somewild flowers he had gathered on his way, and otherwise assumed thesevere demeanor of his profession and his mature agewhich was atleast twenty. Not that he usually felt this an assumption; it wasa firm conviction of his serious nature that he impressed others,as he did himself, with the blended austerity and ennui of deep andexhausted experience....
