The English Prof. and the Little Scriveners:
A
Short Story of Complete Fancy
Once upon a time, through no fault of his own, there was a very overwhelmed and underpaid English teacher. The rate of payment did not often oppress him for it was a part of his chosen occupation. His perpetual floundering within work, however, was another matter. This state in which he found himself came not because he lacked industry for--as his family attested--he regularly brought work home with him and through the evening seemed always to be trying to snatch any moment made available in an attempt to keep up with his responsibilities. While sitting by his son as the boy took a bath he graded papers, while "watching" the baby in the nursery he reviewed lecture notes, when cleaning the dishes he listened to recordings of the books he was covering, and when before the family computer screen he compiled power point presentations.
One may ask why he needed to bring work home at all. Were there not enough hours in a workday to achieve what was required of him by his employers? Sadly the answer was no. The day would have been filled enough with class preparation and presentation, but beyond this there were also various committee meetings to attend, department and divisional activities, faculty discussions, as well as a host of student encounters both face to face as well as email and voice mail contacts. So, in spite of his efforts, all was in vain, and as the weeks went by he found himself deeper and deeper in student work which needed to be evaluated, graded, and recorded.
One evening, after the children were in bed, he began to lay out his work on the dining room table. Covering every space with journals, exercises and papers, he suddenly fell into a shuddering fit of coughs and wheezes.
"Dear Husband, you're ill," said his good wife.
"I fear you speak aright my love"
"You should go to bed and get some rest."
"Ah, would that I could, my sweet, but I must attempt to get through these papers."
"How many have you graded thus?"
"Alas! Only about fifteen; there are thirty in this class, thirty in the next as well as thirty in the third. There are also about twenty short stories which must be evaluated. And beyond this, I also must record these journals and exams.
"But why must this all be done tonight?"
"Because at the end of this week the students will be filling out their evaluation of me, and I dare not give them these back on the same day for their anger will inflame their pens, and yet if I hand not their work back before the week is out, they will fill in the little black holes in their forms describing my performance as that of a "sluggard" and "slacker. Young people have little knowledge of the time needed to evaluate a single composition."
"About as much as those who created classes of thirty and assigned thee three of them."
"Perhaps."
"Woe to us, husband! Why hast thou put this off to the last minute?!"
"Wife, you yourself know that I have not put things off; in fact you have assailed my ears periodically about not spending enough time with our precious little ones."
At which point the poor professor fell into another harsh fit of coughs so that his wife, who was a woman of good heart, repented her harsh words.
"Husband, you must for now go to bed. Leave off this work now, and instead we both shall rise up early before the sun and perhaps make some way through this material. But for now let us both get some rest."
Her words were too full of wisdom to be dismissed, and so the poor professor and his dear wife made their way to bed, hoping that morning would offer them something anew.
Illness and exhaustion make potent
allies to Hypnos, and the poor professor slept soundly through the
night. The moon was full that night and the weather was warm for the season was
close to the vernal equinox. Suddenly upon the beams of the moon, which shown
through a window and upon the over-stacked dining room table, came sliding
little men. They were dressed in old fashioned white shirts which needed sleeve
shorteners, and dark pants held up by suspenders.
Nearly all were bespectacled and upon the head of each was an old fashioned
glare visor. One especially white bearded old gent surveyed the material on the
table and then in an authoritative if high voice allocated responsibilities to
each of his underlings. From the rest, no words were spoken but soon the air
was filled with the soft scratching sound of numerous little quill pens. The
scriveners worked steadily through the night and only upon the moment when
According to their original plan the professor and his wife rose early to ascertain what could be completed. Yet imagine their astonishment when coming down the stairs they found, neatly piled according to the classes, every work graded.
"What is this?" asked the professor, and picking up the top paper found it edited and evaluated. Attached to each student's assignment was a sheet of explanation written in beautiful yet legible hand, a script such as he had only seen in legal documents of the last century. And with it was a duplicate, obviously meant for the student while he kept the original for his own records. The professor sat in astonishment.
"Wife, what is the meaning of this? Did you. . .?" But his question faltered for he knew his beloved's handwriting, and this was not it.
"Nay, my beloved, I have been with you all the night. But tell me, are they done correctly?" The professor randomly examined several papers and found them accurately edited and evaluated. Although there were a number of cases in which he might on his own been a little less rigid, the reasons given for the grade were exhaustively supported and undoubtedly correct. Curious he booted up his computer and found what he expected.
"All is precisely correct. But, my love, what should I do? The grading is done and is even recorded here in my record program as well as in this hard copy grade book on the table."
"What should you do? What should you do? Of the two of us, you have the Ph.D. and you are asking me this? Husband, gather up the work, prepare it for the classes and thank what powers there be that have helped you this night. As long as you have not made some rash deal with the evil one. . ." At this she looked at him with one eyebrow raised, but he shook his head violently. "Well then, as I was saying, as long as thou hast not made a deal with the evil one and there is no awful payment that can be demanded, then you would be the worst of fools to leave such a boon behind!" It has been said that a wise man shows it most when he says "you're right" to his wiser wife, and that is exactly what our English professor did.
From then on, the semester moved smoothly, as did the one after that and the one after that. On the appointed due days the professor came home with his pile of papers, laid them out on the table (having spent the evening reading for his classes the next day as well as playing with his children and conversing with his wife) and upon rising would find them sorted, edited and graded. It was a great benefit to him. With the extra time he now finished several scholarly papers, a few of which found publication, and better still the creative side of him which for a long time had laid stifled, burst forth so that after a year's passage he was not only a professor and published scholar, but his own art had also gained a level of critical respect. Friends and colleagues assaulted him with praise and inquiries on how he managed it all.
"Elves or little men," he said--for so he had come to believe--and quietly sipped his tea. Inevitably there was a moment of stunned silence and then uproarious laughter--except from the feminist critic who would loudly lament over why elves should always be assumed to be "of the male gender."
It was not until the end of his school's probationary period that a hiccup again developed in our professor's life. As the time for the next academic review approached, the administration became convinced that one way to appear especially ready for such a review was by doing a whole series of reviews themselves. Furthermore, the higher-ups, following usual patterns in "administrato-think," decided that the best way to deal with the lagging faculty enthusiasm was to expand the parameters of the test used, add more questions, and make them even more personal. Furthermore, beyond the evaluation of each professor, there also developed an idea (among those in charge) that each program and class would become better if evaluated regularly as well. Soon the appropriate forms and procedures were stuffed into the mailboxes of faculty members who were, presumably, desperately searching for some new thing to do.
Many groaned, but while our professor sympathized he merely shrugged his shoulders and added those forms to the piles he regularly laid out onto his dining room table. However, the next morning when he and his wife came down the stairs, they heard, as they never had before, the unmistakable sound of running small feet and horse whispers. Upon entering the dinning room, they found nothing but a few papers fluttering in the air toward the ground. Yet the whole room had the feel of having been just emptied. Furthermore, while all the work was completed, there were also signs of great haste. Here and there a smudge or a scratched line where once the penmanship had been flawless. And in once place an ink stain was found from which a track of small shoe prints could be followed into a corner.
"Husband," said his good wife, "I fear that there may be something amiss among our secret benefactors. This is not at all up to their usual standards."
"True and unless I misapprehend I suspect that they suffer from what I suffered. But Wife, consider, we have prospered because of their hard work and yet we do not even know what our benefactors look like. Let us, when the next due date comes, hide ourselves and see to whom we owe so much. Perhaps we may see some way to offer long overdue aide."
And so it was. On the next evening which followed a due date the once poor professor and his wife hi themselves within the coat closet in the hall near the dining room. Once again when the grandfather clock--recently purchased from the royalties of a novel--struck the dead of night, the dining room was suddenly filled with an entire clerical staff of little scriveners.
"Well, lets see what he's got
tonight," said the white bearded leader. "Ah, an
expository theme on the nature of education. Fairly routine, thank
Heaven!" Thimbleknuckle and Inkweed
you two take that. Hmm, also a new set of journals for the novel class, pray
help us they are no longer reading Tom Jones. I have seen enough laments
about the length of old novels to last me for this semester. Quillfeather
that's yours. Now . .what's this? A divisional survey of student response with appropriate flow
charts? What the. . .? Does anyone know what a
flow chart is? Are we supposed to find a river and see how it moves? You two, Typeribben and Dittomaster,
you're the youngest. What is this?" The old man waved the request form
before the two large noses of the only dark haired members of his diminutive
staff. But both only shrugged their shoulders. "We must discover this at
once. Never have we scriveners left a task undone, and
I do not wish it to occur on my shift!" Quickly five of the little men
were assigned the task to define and create a "flow chart."
Fortunately they found dictionaries, and rulers and one oriental looking fellow
dug up an abacus from a sack. So they made do. Still, loosing these five
graders from the editing task, made the work of the others all greater and as
the morning approached the busy air of the dining room became more and more
tense. As
"Oh, husband! What wonders we have seen this night!"
"Truly the world is wider than I have imagined, and yet dear Wife my heart is heavy."
"Why so?"
"Did you not see? Did you not mark how our benefactors do all that they do with tools not more technically advanced than that dating from the first part of this century?"
"Ah yes, I did note that."
"And here they are attempting to assist me to compose data which requires a far more advanced technology."
"Well, dear Husband, what shall we do?"
"It will cost us my love, but it seems only fair."
"What?"
"We shall purchase several computers with Pentium II processors along with clerical software, power point Microsoft Word as well as several color printers! What say you?"
"It is well Husband for we owe them so much, and our wealth and prosperity would not exist without their labor."
And so the professor and his wife did just that. They purchased (with a trade in option) a series of interconnected computer work stations. And when the next evening of the next due date came, they set up the systems on the table, booted them up, and laid the thick soft and hard ware manuals, tied up in red ribbons, by each green be-ribboned monitor. Then again they hid themselves.
Again
the clock struck twelve, and once again the room was filled with the little 
scriveners.
They chitter-chattered about ink and grades until
they found themselves upon the table facing, open mouthed, an array of glowing
screens. Cautiously the old leader
approached the screens filled with the dancing patterns of screen savers, but
as he did so his foot accidentally struck a mouse which caused the screen
nearest him to immediately clear, revealing a letter left for them by the
professor.
My Dear Friends;
How can I express my debt to you and your
work? For the last couple of years you
have constantly supported me in my labors, shown me by example levels of
excellence, and have given me time to pursue my own fields of study and
art. Not only myself
but my wife and family have benefited.
Forgive us for our intrusion but the other night we kept vigil and
observed the difficulties you now face.
And sow we present these modern tools to help. I have no doubt of your ability to use them
to their highest potential. Thank you
again
Yours
A Sincerely Thankful Professor
The same letter appeared on each screen so that the whole group found themselves staring up. Typeribben and Dittomaster were the first to spring upon the manuals, but soon all were poring over the volumes as they attempted to comprehend the function and potential for each tool. No work had been left so the whole time was one large holiday, like Christmas, as each took turns trying out a function that he had managed to read up on. And as they worked they sang:
Done are the days of our anachronisms.
Gone are our pens and wells of ink.
Cyber web sites are now our new havens
True men of the age, we now hyperlink.
They sang and danced and danced and sang and when the dawn finally warned them of the sun, they quickly packed up their gifts and with remarkable agility jumped from the table carrying their presents with them. But before all were gone one printer buzzed out a message which was left behind
Dear Sir;
We thank you for you generous gifts and will
put them to use as soon as we understand them.
However, we regret to note that this must terminate our relationship
since you have made yourself known to us and part of our contract demands we be
mysterious. Furthermore it would
probably have been impossible to serve you with the efficiency you have come to
expect since it will take us several years to finally master this new
technology. Power Point is all well and
good but when shall we be able to read primary text again? Ah well, such is progress.
Cordially Yours
Albus Parchmentweaver
Head Scrivener
Upon reading this, the Professor and his wife sighed for they realized they would not see their little friends again. However, the professor was never overwhelmed or poor again for since he had become published and published often, he was able to go on part time honored faculty status, traveled and lectured about creative writing, and taught only small classes in upper divisional literature. And he, his wife, and his family were content. However, he was always embarrassed when younger faculty came and asked for his advice.
As for the little
scriveners? They're probably still trying to decipher the "helpful"
computer manuals for they have never been seen again--certainly not in
