one o'clock
Eternal , infernal books ! The sun was printing over the floor the shadow skeleton of the juniper-tree by the westerly window . That always told me it was one o'clock . And one o'clock meant books again -- three long hours of wrangling with dull wits , of fencing with sharper ones ; three long hours of a-b-abs , of two-times-twos and three-times-threes ; hours of spelling and of parsing , hours of bounding and describing . With it all , woven through it , now swelling , now dying away , now broken by a shrill cry of pain or anger , was the ceaseless buzzing of the school . There was no rest for the eye , even . The walls were white , their glare was baneful , and through the chalk-dust mist the rustling field of young heads suggested anything but peace and repose to one of my calling .