Reward is its own virtue.The wages of sin is alimony.Money makes the mayor go.A penny saved spoils the broth.Of two evils, choose the prettier.There's no fool like an old maid.Make love while the moon shines.Where there's a won't there's a way.Nonsense makes the heart grow fonder.A word to the wise is a dangerous thing.A living gale is better than a dead calm.A fool and his money corrupt good manners.A word in the hand is worth two in the ear.A man is known by the love-letters he keeps.A guilty conscience is the mother of invention.Whosoever thy hands find to do, do with thy might.It's a wise child who knows less than his own father.Never put off till to-morrow what you can wear to-night.He who loves and runs away, may live to love another day.
Reward is its own virtue.The wages of sin is alimony.Money makes the mayor go.A penny saved spoils the broth.Of two evils, choose the prettier.There's no fool like an old maid.Make love while the moon shines.Where there's a won't there's a way.Nonsense makes the heart grow fonder.A word to the wise is a dangerous thing.A living gale is better than a dead calm.A fool and his money corrupt good manners.A word in the hand is worth two in the ear.A man is known by the love-letters he keeps.A guilty conscience is the mother of invention.Whosoever thy hands find to do, do with thy might.It's a wise child who knows less than his own father.Never put off till to-morrow what you can wear to-night.He who loves and runs away, may live to love another day.
I believe that I have found, if not original sin, at least vegetable total depravity in my garden; and it was there before I went into it. It is the bunch-, or joint-, or snake-grass,—whatever it is called. As I do not know the names of all the weeds and plants, I have to do as Adam did in his garden,—name things as I find them. This grass has a slender, beautiful stalk: and when you cut it down, or pull up a long root of it, you fancy it is got rid of; but in a day or two it will come up in the same spot in half a dozen vigorous blades. Cutting down and pulling up is what it thrives on. Extermination rather helps it. If you follow a slender white root, it will be found to run under the ground until it meets another slender white root; and you will soon unearth a network of them, with a knot somewhere, sending out dozens of sharp-pointed, healthy shoots, every joint prepared to be an independent life and plant. The only way to deal with it is to take one part hoe and two parts fingers, and carefully dig it out, not leaving a joint anywhere. It will take a little time, say all summer, to dig out thoroughly a small patch; but if you once dig it out, and keep it out, you will have no further trouble.
I have said it was total depravity. Here it is. If you attempt to pull up and root out sin in you, which shows on the surface,—if it does not show, you do not care for it,—you may have noticed how it runs into an interior network of sins, and an ever-sprouting branch of these roots somewhere; and that you can not pull out one withoutmaking a general internal disturbance, and rooting up your whole being. I suppose it is less trouble to quietly cut them off at the top—say once a week, on Sunday, when you put on your religious clothes and face,—so that no one will see them, and not try to eradicate the network within.
Remark.—This moral vegetable figure is at the service of any clergyman who will have the manliness to come forward and help me at a day's hoeing on my potatoes. None but the orthodox need apply.
I, however, believe in the intellectual, if not the moral, qualities of vegetables, and especially weeds. There was a worthless vine that (or who) started up about midway between a grape-trellis and a row of bean-poles, some three feet from each, but a little nearer the trellis. When it came out of the ground, it looked around to see what it should do. The trellis was already occupied. The bean-pole was empty. There was evidently a little the best chance of light, air, and sole proprietorship on the pole. And the vine started for the pole, and began to climb it with determination. Here was as distinct an act of choice, of reason, as a boy exercises when he goes into a forest, and, looking about, decides which tree he will climb. And, besides, how did the vine know enough to travel in exactly the right direction, three feet, to find what it wanted? This is intellect. The weeds, on the other hand, have hateful moral qualities. To cut down a weed is, therefore, to do a moral action. I feel as if I were destroying a sin. My hoe becomes an instrument of retributive justice. I am an apostle of nature. This view of the matter lends a dignity to the art of hoeing which nothing else does, and lifts it into the region of ethics. Hoeing becomes, not a pastime, but a duty. And you get to regard it so, as the days and the weeds lengthen.
Observation.—Nevertheless, what a man needs in gardening is a cast-iron back, with a hinge in it. The hoe is an ingenious instrument, calculated to call out a great deal of strength at a great disadvantage.
The striped bug has come, the saddest of the year. He is a moral double-ender, iron-clad at that. He is unpleasant in two ways. He burrows in the ground so that you can not find him, and he flies away so that you can not catch him. He is rather handsome, as bugs go, but utterly dastardly, in that he gnaws the stem of the plant close to the ground, and ruins it without any apparent advantage to himself. I find him on the hills of cucumbers (perhaps it will be a cholera-year, and we shall not want any), the squashes (small loss), and the melons (which never ripen). The best way to deal with the striped bug is to sit down by the hills, and patiently watch for him. If you are spry, you can annoy him. This, however, takes time. It takes all day and part of the night. For he flieth in the darkness, and wasteth at noonday. If you get up before the dew is off the plants,—it goes off very early,—you can sprinkle soot on the plant (soot is my panacea: if I can get the disease of a plant reduced to the necessity of soot, I am all right); and soot is unpleasant to the bug. But the best thing to do is set a toad to catch the bugs. The toad at once establishes the most intimate relations with the bug. It is a pleasure to see such unity among the lower animals. The difficulty is to make the toad stay and watch the hill. If you know your toad, it is all right. If you do not, you must build a tight fence round the plants, which the toad can not jump over. This, however, introduces a new element. I find that I have a zoölogical garden. It is an unexpected result of my little enterprise, which never aspired to the completeness of the Paris "Jardin des Plantes."
But Buddie got no farther. The sound of music came to her ears, and she stopped to listen. The music was faint and sweet, with the sighful quality of an Æolian harp. Now it seemed near, now far.
"What can it be?" said Buddie.
"Wait here and I'll find out," said Snowfeathers. He darted away and returned before you could count fifty.
"A traveling musician," he reported. "Come along. It's only a little way."
Back he flew, with Buddie scrambling after. A few yards brought her to a little open place, and here was the queerest sight she had yet seen in this queer wood.
On a bank of reindeer moss, at the foot of a great white birch, a mouse-colored donkey sat playing a lute. Over his head, hanging from a bit of bark, was the sign:
WHILE YOU WAITOLD SAWS RESET
WHILE YOU WAITOLD SAWS RESET
WHILE YOU WAITOLD SAWS RESET
After the many strange things that Buddie had come upon in Queerwood, nothing could surprise her very much. Besides, as she never before had seen a donkey, or a lute, or the combination of donkey and lute, it did not strike her as especially remarkable that the musician should be holding his instrument upside down, and sweeping the strings with one of his long ears, whichhe was able to wave without moving his head a jot. And this it was that gave to the music its soft and furry-purry quality.
The Donkey greeted Buddie with a careless nod, and remarked, as if anticipating a comment he had heard many times:
"Oh, yes; I play everythingby ear."
"Please keep on playing," said Buddie, taking a seat on another clump of reindeer moss.
"I intended to," said the Donkey; and the random chords changed to a crooning melody which wonderfully pleased Buddie, whose opportunities to hear music were sadly few. As for the White Blackbird, he tucked his little head under his wing and went fast asleep.
"Well, what do you think of it?" asked the Donkey, putting down the lute.
"Very nice, sir," answered Buddie, enthusiastically; though she added to herself: The idea of saying sir to an animal! "Would you please tell me your name?" she requested.
The Donkey pawed open a saddle-bag, drew forth with his teeth a card, and presented it to Buddie, who spelled out the following:
PROFESSOR BRAYTENORE BARITONALETEACHER OF SINGING ALL METHODSCONCERTS AND RECITALS
PROFESSOR BRAYTENORE BARITONALETEACHER OF SINGING ALL METHODSCONCERTS AND RECITALS
PROFESSOR BRAYTENORE BARITONALETEACHER OF SINGING ALL METHODSCONCERTS AND RECITALS
While Buddie was reading this the Donkey again picked up his instrument and thrummed the strings.
"Did you ever see a donkey play a lute?" said he. "That's an old saw," he added.
"I never saw a donkey before," said Buddie.
"You haven't traveled much," said the other. "The world is full of them."
"This is the farthest I've ever been from home," confessed Buddie, feeling very insignificant indeed.
"And how far may that be?"
Buddie couldn't tell exactly.
"But it can't be a great way," she said. "I live in the log house by the lake."
"Pooh!" said the Donkey. "That's no distance at all." Buddie shrank another inch or two. "I'm a great traveler myself. All donkeys travel that can. If a donkey travels, you know, hemaycome home a horse; and to become a horse is, of course, the ambition of every donkey!"
"Is it?" was all Buddie could think of to remark. What could she say that would interest a globe-trotter?
"Perhaps you have an old saw you'd like reset," suggested the Donkey, still thrumming the lute-strings.
Buddie thought a moment.
"There's an old saw hanging up in our woodshed," she began, but got no farther.
"Hee-haw! hee-haw!" laughed the Donkey. "Thistles and cactus, but that's rich!" And he hee-hawed until the tears ran down his nose. Poor Buddie, who knew she was being laughed at but didn't know why, began to feel very much like crying and wished she might run away.
"Excuse these tears," the Donkey said at last, recovering his family gravity. "Didn't you ever hear the saying, A burnt child dreads the fire?"
Buddie nodded, and plucked up her spirits.
"Well, that's an old saw. And you must have heard that other very old saw, No use crying over spilt milk."
Another nod from Buddie.
"Here's my setting of that," said the Donkey; and after a few introductory chords, he sang:
"'Oh, why do you cry, my pretty little maid,With a Boo-hoo-hoo and a Heigho?''I've spilled my milk, kind sir,' she said,And the Cat said, 'Me-oh! my-oh!''No use to cry, my pretty little maid,With a Boo-hoo-hoo and a Heigho.''But what shall I do, kind sir?' she said,And the Cat said, 'Me-oh! my-oh!''Why, dry your eyes, my pretty little maid,With a Boo-hoo-hoo and a Heigho.''Oh, thank you, thank you, sir,' she said,And the Cat said, 'Me-oh! my-oh!'"
"'Oh, why do you cry, my pretty little maid,With a Boo-hoo-hoo and a Heigho?''I've spilled my milk, kind sir,' she said,And the Cat said, 'Me-oh! my-oh!'
'No use to cry, my pretty little maid,With a Boo-hoo-hoo and a Heigho.''But what shall I do, kind sir?' she said,And the Cat said, 'Me-oh! my-oh!'
'Why, dry your eyes, my pretty little maid,With a Boo-hoo-hoo and a Heigho.''Oh, thank you, thank you, sir,' she said,And the Cat said, 'Me-oh! my-oh!'"
"How do you like my voice?" asked the Donkey, in a tone that said very plainly: "If you don't like it you're no judge of singing."
Buddie did not at once reply. A professional critic would have said, and enjoyed saying, that the voice was of the hit-or-miss variety; that it was pitched too high (all donkeys make that mistake); that it was harsh, rasping and unsympathetic, and that altogether the performance was "not convincing."
Now, Little One, although Buddie was not a professional critic, and neither knew how to wound nor enjoyed wounding, evenshefound the Donkey's voice harsh; but she did not wish to hurt his feelings—for donkeyshavefeelings, in spite of a popular opinion to the contrary. And, after all, it was pretty good singing for a donkey. Critics should not, as they sometimes do, apply to donkeys the standards by which nightingales are judged. So Buddie was able to say, truthfully and kindly:
"I think you do very well; very well, indeed."
It was a small tribute, but the Donkey was so blinded by conceit that he accepted it as the greatest compliment.
"Ioughtto sing well," he said. "I've studied methodsenough. The more methods you try, you know, the more of a donkey you are."
"Oh, yes," murmured Buddie, not understanding in the least.
"Yes," went on the Donkey; "I've taken the Donkesi Method, the Sobraylia Method, the Thistlefixu Method—"
"I'm afraid I don't quite know what you mean by 'methods,'" ventured Buddie.
The Donkey regarded her with a pitying smile.
"A method," he explained, "is a way of singing 'Ah!' For example, in the Thistlefixu Method, which I am at present using, I fill my mouth full of thistles, stand on one leg, take in a breath three yards long, and sing 'Ah!' The only trouble with this method is that the thistles tickle your throat and make you cough, and you have to spray the vocal cords twice a day, which is considerable trouble, especially when traveling, asIalways am."
"I should think itwouldbe," said Buddie. "Won't you sing something else?"
"I'm a little hoarse," apologized the singer.
"That's what you want to be, isn't it?" said Buddie, misunderstanding him.
"Hee-haw!" laughed the Donkey. "Is that a joke? I mean mythroatis hoarse."
"And the rest of you is donkey!" cried Buddie, who could see a point as quickly as any one of her age.
"There's something to that," said the other, thoughtfully. "Now, if thehoarsenessshould spread—"
"And you becamehorseall over—"
"Why, then—"
"Why, then—"
"Think of another old saw," said the Donkey, picking up his lute.
"No; I don't believe I can remember any more old saws," said Buddie, after racking her small brain for a minute or two.
"Pooh!" said the Donkey. "They're as common as, Pass the butter, or, Some more tea, please. Ever hear, Fair words butter no parsnips?"
Buddie shook her head.
"The wolf does something every day that keeps him from church on Sunday—?"
Again Buddy shook her head.
"It is hard to shave an egg—?"
Still another shake.
"A miss is as good as a mile? You can not drive a windmill with a pair of bellows? Help the lame dog over the stile? A hand-saw is a good thing, but not to shave with? Nothing venture, nothing have? Well, you haven't heard much, for a fact," said the Donkey, contemptuously, as Buddie shook her head after each proverb. "I'll try a few more; there's no end to them. Ever hear, When the sky falls we shall all catch larks? Too many cooks spoil the broth?"
"I've heardthat," said Buddie, eagerly.
"It's a wonder," returned the Donkey. "Well, I have a very nice setting of that." And he sang:
"Some said, 'Stir it fast,'Some said, 'Slow';Some said, 'Skim it off,'Some said, 'No';Some said, 'Pepper,'Some said, 'Salt';—All gave good advice,All found fault.Poor little Tommy Trottett!Couldn't eat it when he got it."
"Some said, 'Stir it fast,'Some said, 'Slow';Some said, 'Skim it off,'Some said, 'No';Some said, 'Pepper,'Some said, 'Salt';—All gave good advice,All found fault.
Poor little Tommy Trottett!Couldn't eat it when he got it."
"I like that," said Buddie. "Oh, and I've just thoughtof another old ax—I mean saw, if itisone—Don't count your chickens before they are hatched. Do you sing that?"
"One of my best," replied the Donkey. And again he sang:
"'Thirteen eggs,' said Sammy Patch,'Are thirteen chickens when they hatch.'The hen gave a cluck, but said no more;For the hen had heard such things before.The eggs fall out from tilted pailAnd leave behind a yellow trail;But Sammy,—counting, as he goes,Upon his fingers,—never knows.Oh, Sammy Patch, your 'rithmeticWon't hatch a solitary chick."
"'Thirteen eggs,' said Sammy Patch,'Are thirteen chickens when they hatch.'The hen gave a cluck, but said no more;For the hen had heard such things before.
The eggs fall out from tilted pailAnd leave behind a yellow trail;But Sammy,—counting, as he goes,Upon his fingers,—never knows.
Oh, Sammy Patch, your 'rithmeticWon't hatch a solitary chick."
"I like that the best," said Buddie, who knew what it was to tip over a pail of eggs, and felt as sorry for Sammy Patch as if he really existed.
"It's one of my best," said the Donkey. "I don't call it my very best. Personally I prefer, Look before you leap. You've heard that old saw, I dare say."
"No; but that doesn't matter. I shall like it just as well," replied Buddie.
"Thatdoesn't follow, butthisdoes," said the Donkey, and once more he sang:
"A foolish Frog, one summer day,While splashing round in careless way,Observed a manWith large tin can,And manner most suspicious.'I think I know,' remarked the Frog,'A safer place than on this log;For when a manComes with a canHis object is malicious.'Thus far the foolish Frog was wise;But had he better used his eyes,He would have seen,Close by, a leanOld Pike—his nose just showing.Kersplash! The Pike made just one bite....The moral I need scarce recite:Before you leapJust take a peepTo see where you are going."
"A foolish Frog, one summer day,While splashing round in careless way,Observed a manWith large tin can,And manner most suspicious.'I think I know,' remarked the Frog,'A safer place than on this log;For when a manComes with a canHis object is malicious.'
Thus far the foolish Frog was wise;But had he better used his eyes,He would have seen,Close by, a leanOld Pike—his nose just showing.Kersplash! The Pike made just one bite....The moral I need scarce recite:Before you leapJust take a peepTo see where you are going."
Buddie, however, clung to her former opinion. "I likeSammy Patchthe best," said she.
"That," rejoined the singer, "is a matter of taste, as the donkey said to the horse who preferred hay to thistles. Usually the public likes best the very piece the composer himself cares least about. So wherever I go I hear, 'Oh, Professor, do sing us that beautiful song about Sammy Patch.' And I can't poke my head inside the Thistle Club but some donkey bawls out, 'Here's Bray! Now we'll have a song. Sing usSammy Patch, old fellow.' Really, I've sung that song so many times I'm tired of the sound of it."
"It must be nice to be such a favorite," said Buddie.
"Suppose we go up to the Corner and see what's stirring," suggested the Donkey, with a yawn.
"Oh, areyougoing up to the Corner, too?" cried Buddie. "I am to meet the Rabbit there at two o'clock. I hope it isn't late."
The Donkey glanced skyward.
"It isn't noon yet," said he.
"How do you tell time?" inquired Buddie.
"By the way it flies. Time flies, you know. You can tell a great many birds that way, too." As he spoke the Donkey put his lute into one of his bags and took down his sign.
"You can ride if you wish," he offered graciously.
"Thank you," said Buddie. And leaving the WhiteBlackbird asleep on his perch,—for, as Buddie said, he was having such a lovely nap it would be a pity to wake him,—they set off through the wood.
It was bad traveling for a short distance, but presently they came out on an old log-road; and along this the Donkey ambled at an easy pace. On both sides grew wild flowers in wonderful abundance, but, as Buddie noticed, they were all of one kind—Enchanter's Nightshade.
Buddie had also noticed, when she climbed to her comfortable seat, a peculiar marking on the Donkey's broad back. It was bronze in color, and in shape like a cross.
"Perhaps it's a strawberry mark," she thought, "and he may not want to talk about it." But curiosity got the better of her.
"Oh, that?" said the Donkey, carelessly, in reply to a question. "That's a Victoria Cross. I served three months with the British army in South Africa, and was decorated for gallantry in leading a charge of the ambulance corps. I shall have to ask you not to hang things on my neck. It's all I can do to hold up my head."
"Oh, excuse me," said Buddie, untying the sign,Old Saws Reset While You Wait.
"Hang it round your own neck," said the Donkey, and Buddie did so.
"I often wonder," she said, "whether a horse doesn't sometimes get tired holding his head out at the end of his neck. And as for a giraffe, I don't see how he stands it."
"Well, a giraffe's neck runs out at a more convenient angle," said the Donkey. "Still, itistiresome without a check-rein. You hear a great deal about a check-rein being a cruel invention, but, on the contrary, it's a great blessing. Now, a nose-bag is a positive outrage, and the more oats it contains the more of an imposition it is. People have the queerest ideas!"
Our Board of Trustees, it will be remembered, had been directed by the Legislature to procure, as the ordinance called it, "Teachers for the commencement of the State College at Woodville." That business, by the Board, was committed to Dr. Sylvan and Robert Carlton—the most learned gentleman of the body, and of—the New Purchase. Our honorable Board will be more specially introduced hereafter; at present we shall bring forward certain rejected candidates, that, like rejected prize essays, they may be published, andthushave their revenge.
None can tell us how plenty good things are till he looks for them; and hence, to the great surprise of the Committee, there seemed to be a sudden growth and a large crop of persons even in and around Woodville, either already qualified for the "Professorships," as we named them in our publication, or whocould"qualify" by the time of election. As to the "chair" named also in our publications, one very worthy and disinterested schoolmaster offered, as a great collateral inducement for his being elected, "to find his own chair!"—a vast saving to the State, if the same chair I saw in Mr. Whackum's school-room. For his chair there was one with a hickory bottom; and doubtless he would have filled it, and evenlapped over its edges, with equal dignity in the recitation room of Big College.
The Committee had, at an early day, given an invitation to the Rev. Charles Clarence, A.M., of New Jersey, and his answer had been affirmative; yet for political reasons we had been obliged to invite competitors, ormakethem, and we found and created "a right smart sprinkle."
Hopes of success were built on many things—for instance, on poverty; a plea being entered that something ought to be done for the poor fellow—on one's having taught a common school all his born days, who now deserved to rise a peg—on political, or religious, or fanatical partizan qualifications—and on pure patriotic principles, such as a person's having been "born in a canebrake and rocked in a sugar trough." On the other hand, a fat, dull-headed, and modest Englishman asked for a place, because he had been born in Liverpool! and had seen the world beyond the woods and waters, too! And another fussy, talkative, pragmatical little gentleman rested his pretensions on his ability to draw and paint maps!—not projecting them in roundabout scientific processes, but in that speedy and elegant style in which young ladiescopymaps at first chop boarding-schools! Nay, so transcendent seemed Mr. Merchator's claims, when hisshoworsamplemaps were exhibited to us, that some in our Board, and nearly everybody out of it, were confident he would do for Professor of Mathematics and even Principal.
But of all our unsuccessful candidates, we shall introduce by name only two—Mr. James Jimmy, A.S.S., and Mr. Solomon Rapid, A. to Z.
Mr. Jimmy, who aspired to the mathematical chair, was master of a small school of all sexes, near Woodville. At the first, he was kindly, yet honestly told, his knowledgewas too limited and inaccurate; yet, notwithstanding this, and some almost rude repulses afterward, he persisted in his application and his hopes. To give evidence of competency, he once told me he was arranging a new spelling-book, the publication of which would make him known as a literary man, and be an unspeakable advantage to "the rising generation." And this naturally brought on the following colloquy about the work:
"Ah! indeed! Mr. Jimmy?"
"Yes, indeed, Mr. Carlton."
"On what new principle do you go, sir?"
"Why, sir, on the principles of nature and common sense. I allow school-books for schools are all too powerful obstruse and hard-like to be understood without exemplifying illustrations."
"Yes, but Mr. Jimmy, how is a child's spelling-book to be made any plainer?"
"Why, sir, by clear explifications of the words in one column, by exemplifying illustrations in the other."
"I do not understand you, Mr. Jimmy, give me a specimen—"
"Sir?"
"An example—"
"To be sure—here's a spes-a-example; you see, for instance, I put in the spelling-column, C-r-e-a-m,cream, and here in the explification column, I put the exemplifying illustration—Unctious part of milk!"
We had asked, at our first interview, if our candidate was an algebraist, and his reply wasnegative; but, "he allowed he could 'qualify' by the time of election, as he was powerful good at figures, and had cyphered clean through every arithmetic he had ever seen, the rule of promiscuous questions and all!" Hence, some weeks after, as I was passing his door, on my way to a squirrel hunt,with a party of friends, Mr. Jimmy, hurrying out with a slate in his hand, begged me to stop a moment, and thus addressed me:
"Well, Mr. Carlton, this algebra is a most powerful thing—ain't it?"
"Indeed it is, Mr. Jimmy—have you been looking into it?"
"Looking into it! I have been all through this here fust part; and by election time, I allow I'll be ready for examination."
"Indeed!"
"Yes, sir! but it is such a pretty thing! Only to think of cyphering by letters! Why, sir, the sums come out, and bring the answers exactly like figures. Jist stop a minute—look here:astands for 6, andbstands for 8, andcstands for 4, anddstands for figure 10; now if I say a plus b minus c equals d, it is all the same as if I said, 6 is 6 and 8 makes 14, and 4 subtracted, leaves 10! Why, sir, I done a whole slate full of letters and signs; and afterward, when I tried by figures, they every one of them came out right and brung the answer! I mean to cypher by letters altogether."
"Mr. Jimmy, my company is nearly out of sight—if you can get along this way through simple and quadratic equations by our meeting, your chance will not be so bad—good morning, sir."
But our man of "letters" quit cyphering the new way, and returned to plain figures long before reaching equations; and so he could not become our professor. Yet anxious to do us all the good in his power, after our college opened, he waited on me, a leading trustee, with a proposal to board our students, and authorized me to publish—"as how Mr. James Jimmy will take strange students—students not belonging to Woodville—to board, atone dollar a week, and find everything, washing included, and will black theirshoesthree times a week toboot, and—give them their dog-wood and cherry-bitters every morning into the bargain!"
The most extraordinary candidate, however, was Mr. Solomon Rapid. He was now somewhat advanced into the shaving age, and was ready to assume offices the most opposite in character; although justice compels us to say Mr. Rapid was as fit for one thing as another. Deeming it waste of time to prepare for any station till he was certain of obtaining it, he wisely demanded the place first, and then set to work to become qualified for its duties, being, I suspect, the very man, or some relation of his, who is recorded as not knowing whether he could read Greek, as he had never tried. And, besides, Mr. Solomon Rapid contended that all offices, from president down to fence-viewer, were open to every white American citizen; and that every republican had a blood-bought right to seek any that struck his fancy; and if the profits were less, or the duties more onerous than had been anticipated, that a man ought to resign and try another.
Naturally, therefore, Mr. Rapid thought he would like to sit in our chair of languages, or have some employment in the State college; and hence he called for that purpose on Dr. Sylvan, who, knowing the candidate's character, maliciously sent him to me. Accordingly, the young gentleman presented himself, and without ceremony, instantly made known his business thus:
"I heerd, sir, you wanted somebody to teach the State school, and I'm come to let you know I'm willing to take the place."
"Yes, sir, we are going to elect a professor of languages who is to be the principal and a professor—"
"Well, I don't care which I take, but I'm willing to bethe principal. I can teach sifring, reading, writing, joggerfee, surveying, grammur, spelling, definition, parsin—"
"Are you a linguist?"
"Sir?"
"You, of course, understand the dead languages?"
"Well, can't say I ever seed much of them, though I have heerd tell of them; but I can soon larn them—they ain't more than a few of them I allow?"
"Oh! my dear sir, it is not possible—we—can't—"
"Well, I never seed what I couldn't larn about as smart as anybody—"
"Mr. Rapid, I do not mean to question your abilities; but if you are now wholly unacquainted with the dead languages, it is impossible for you or any other talented man to learn them under four or five years."
"Pshoo! foo! I'll bet I larn one in three weeks! Try me, sir,—let's have the furst one furst—how many are there?"
"Mr. Rapid, it is utterly impossible; but if you insist, I will loan you a Latin book—"
"That's your sort, let's have it, that's all I want, fair play."
Accordingly, I handed him a copy of Historiæ Sacræ, with which he soon went away, saying, he "didn't allow it would take long to git through Latin, if 'twas only sich a thin patch of a book as that."
In a few weeks, to my no small surprise, Mr. Solomon Rapid again presented himself; and drawing forth the book began with a triumphant expression of countenance:
"Well, sir, I have done the Latin."
"Done the Latin!"
"Yes, I can read it as fast as English."
"Read it as fast as English!!"
"Yes, as fast as English—and I didn't find it hard at all."
"May I try you on a page?"
"Try away, try away; that's what I've come for."
"Please read here then, Mr. Rapid;" and in order to give him a fair chance, I pointed to the first lines of the first chapter, viz.: "In principio Deus creavit cœlum et terram intra sex dies; primo die fecit lucem," etc.
"That, sir?" and then he read thus, "In prinspo duse creevit kalelum et terrum intra sex dyes—primmo dye fe-fe-sit looseum," etc.
"That will do, Mr. Rapid—"
"Ah! ha! I told you so."
"Yes, yes—but translate."
"Translate!" (eyebrows elevating.)
"Yes, translate, render it."
"Render it!! how's that?" (forehead more wrinkled.)
"Why, yes, render it into English—give me the meaning of it."
"Meaning!!" (staring full in my face, his eyes like saucers, and forehead wrinkled with the furrows of eighty)—"Meaning!! I didn't know ithadany meaning. I thought it was aDeadlanguage!!"
Well, reader, I am glad you arenotlaughing at Mr. Rapid; for how should anythingdeadspeak out so as to be understood? And indeed, does not his definition suit the vexed feelings of some young gentlemen attempting to read Latin without any interlinear translation? and who inwardly, cursing both book and teacher, blast their souls "if they can make any sense out of it." The ancients may yet speak in their own languages to a few; but to most who boast the honor of their acquaintance, they are certainly dead in the sense of Solomon Rapid.
Little Orphant Annie's come to our house to stay,An' wash the cups and saucers up, an' brush the crumbs away,An' shoo the chickens off the porch, an' dust the hearth, an' sweep,An' make the fire, an' bake the bread, an' earn her board-an'-keep;An' all us other childern, when the supper things is done,We set around the kitchen fire an' has the mostest funA-list'nin' to the witch-tales 'at Annie tells about,An' the Gobble-uns 'at gits youEf youDon'tWatchOut!Onc't there was a little boy wouldn't say his pray'rs—An' when he went to bed at night, away up stairs,His mammy heerd him holler, an' his daddy heerd him bawl,An' when they turn't the kivvers down, he wasn't there at all!An' they seeked him in the rafter-room, an' cubby-hole, an' press,An' seeked him up the chimbly-flue, an' ever'wheres, I guess;But all they ever found was thist his pants an' roundabout!An' the Gobble-uns'll git youEf youDon'tWatchOut!An' one time a little girl 'ud allus laugh an' grin,An' make fun of ever' one, an' all her blood-an'-kin;An' onc't when they was "company," an' ole folks was there,She mocked 'em an' shocked 'em, an' said she didn't care!An' thist as she kicked her heels, an' turn't to run an' hide,They was two great big Black Things a-standin' by her side,An' they snatched her through the ceilin' 'fore she knowed what she's about!An' the Gobble-uns'll git youEf youDon'tWatchOut!An' little Orphant Annie says, when the blaze is blue,An' the lampwick sputters, an' the wind goes woo-oo!An' you hear the crickets quit, an' the moon is gray,An' the lightnin'-bugs in dew is all squenched away,—You better mind yer parents, and yer teachers fond and dear,An' churish them 'at loves you, an' dry the orphant's tear,An' he'p the pore an' needy ones 'at clusters all about,Er the Gobble-uns'll git youEf youDon'tWatchOut!
Little Orphant Annie's come to our house to stay,An' wash the cups and saucers up, an' brush the crumbs away,An' shoo the chickens off the porch, an' dust the hearth, an' sweep,An' make the fire, an' bake the bread, an' earn her board-an'-keep;An' all us other childern, when the supper things is done,We set around the kitchen fire an' has the mostest funA-list'nin' to the witch-tales 'at Annie tells about,An' the Gobble-uns 'at gits youEf youDon'tWatchOut!
Onc't there was a little boy wouldn't say his pray'rs—An' when he went to bed at night, away up stairs,His mammy heerd him holler, an' his daddy heerd him bawl,An' when they turn't the kivvers down, he wasn't there at all!An' they seeked him in the rafter-room, an' cubby-hole, an' press,An' seeked him up the chimbly-flue, an' ever'wheres, I guess;But all they ever found was thist his pants an' roundabout!An' the Gobble-uns'll git youEf youDon'tWatchOut!
An' one time a little girl 'ud allus laugh an' grin,An' make fun of ever' one, an' all her blood-an'-kin;An' onc't when they was "company," an' ole folks was there,She mocked 'em an' shocked 'em, an' said she didn't care!An' thist as she kicked her heels, an' turn't to run an' hide,They was two great big Black Things a-standin' by her side,An' they snatched her through the ceilin' 'fore she knowed what she's about!An' the Gobble-uns'll git youEf youDon'tWatchOut!
An' little Orphant Annie says, when the blaze is blue,An' the lampwick sputters, an' the wind goes woo-oo!An' you hear the crickets quit, an' the moon is gray,An' the lightnin'-bugs in dew is all squenched away,—You better mind yer parents, and yer teachers fond and dear,An' churish them 'at loves you, an' dry the orphant's tear,An' he'p the pore an' needy ones 'at clusters all about,Er the Gobble-uns'll git youEf youDon'tWatchOut!
Hans Breitmann gife a barty,Dey had biano-blayin;I felled in lofe mit a Merican frau,Her name vas Madilda Yane.She hat haar as prown ash a pretzel,Her eyes vas himmel-plue,Und ven dey looket indo mine,Dey shplit mine heart in two.Hans Breitmann gife a barty,I vent dere you'll pe pound.I valtzet mit Madilda YaneUnd vent shpinnen round und round.De pootiest Fraeulein in de House,She vayed 'pout dwo hoondred pound,Und efery dime she gife a shoompShe make de vindows sound.Hans Breitmann gife a barty,I dells you it cost him dear.Dey rolled in more ash sefen kecksOf foost-rate Lager Beer.Und venefer dey knocks de shpicket inDe Deutschers gifes a cheer.I dinks dat so vine a barty,Nefer coom to a het dis year.Hans Breitmann gife a barty;Dere all vas Souse und Brouse,Ven de sooper comed in, de gompanyDid make demselfs to house;Dey ate das Brot and Gensy broost,De Bratwurst and Braten fine,Und vash der Abendessen downMit four parrels of Neckarwein.Hans Breitmann gife a barty;We all cot troonk ash bigs.I poot mine mout to a parrel of bierUnd emptied it oop mit a schwigs.Und denn I gissed Madilda YaneUnd she shlog me on de kop,Und de gompany fited mit daple-lecksDill de coonshtable made oos shtop.Hans Breitmann gife a barty—Where ish dat barty now!Where ish de lofely golden cloudDat float on de moundain's prow?Where ish de himmelstrablende Stern—De shtar of de shpirit's light?All goned afay mit de Lager Beer—Afay in de ewigkeit!
Hans Breitmann gife a barty,Dey had biano-blayin;I felled in lofe mit a Merican frau,Her name vas Madilda Yane.She hat haar as prown ash a pretzel,Her eyes vas himmel-plue,Und ven dey looket indo mine,Dey shplit mine heart in two.
Hans Breitmann gife a barty,I vent dere you'll pe pound.I valtzet mit Madilda YaneUnd vent shpinnen round und round.De pootiest Fraeulein in de House,She vayed 'pout dwo hoondred pound,Und efery dime she gife a shoompShe make de vindows sound.
Hans Breitmann gife a barty,I dells you it cost him dear.Dey rolled in more ash sefen kecksOf foost-rate Lager Beer.Und venefer dey knocks de shpicket inDe Deutschers gifes a cheer.I dinks dat so vine a barty,Nefer coom to a het dis year.
Hans Breitmann gife a barty;Dere all vas Souse und Brouse,Ven de sooper comed in, de gompanyDid make demselfs to house;Dey ate das Brot and Gensy broost,De Bratwurst and Braten fine,Und vash der Abendessen downMit four parrels of Neckarwein.
Hans Breitmann gife a barty;We all cot troonk ash bigs.I poot mine mout to a parrel of bierUnd emptied it oop mit a schwigs.Und denn I gissed Madilda YaneUnd she shlog me on de kop,Und de gompany fited mit daple-lecksDill de coonshtable made oos shtop.
Hans Breitmann gife a barty—Where ish dat barty now!Where ish de lofely golden cloudDat float on de moundain's prow?Where ish de himmelstrablende Stern—De shtar of de shpirit's light?All goned afay mit de Lager Beer—Afay in de ewigkeit!
When Rollo was five years young, his father said to him one evening:
"Rollo, put away your roller skates and bicycle, carry that rowing machine out into the hall, and come to me. It is time for you to learn to read."
Then Rollo's father opened the book which he had sent home on a truck and talked to the little boy about it. It was Bancroft's History of the United States, half complete in twenty-three volumes. Rollo's father explained to Rollo and Mary his system of education, with special reference to Rollo's learning to read. His plan was that Mary should teach Rollo fifteen hours a day for ten years, and by that time Rollo would be half through the beginning of the first volume, and would like it very much indeed.
Rollo was delighted at the prospect. He cried aloud:
"Oh, papa! thank you very much. When I read this book clear through, all the way to the end of the last volume, may I have another little book to read?"
"No," replied his father, "that may not be; because you will never get to the last volume of this one. For as fast as you read one volume, the author of this history, or his heirs, executors, administrators, or assigns, will write another as an appendix. So even though you should live to be a very old man, like the boy preacher, this history will always be twenty-three volumes ahead of you.Now, Mary and Rollo, this will be a hard task (pronounced tawsk) for both of you, and Mary must remember that Rollo is a very little boy, and must be very patient and gentle."
The next morning after the one preceding it, Mary began the first lesson. In the beginning she was so gentle and patient that her mother went away and cried, because she feared her dear little daughter was becoming too good for this sinful world, and might soon spread her wings and fly away and be an angel.
But in the space of a short time, the novelty of the expedition wore off, and Mary resumed running her temper—which was of the old-fashioned, low-pressure kind, just forward of the fire-box—on its old schedule. When she pointed to "A" for the seventh time, and Rollo said "W," she tore the page out by the roots, hit her little brother such a whack over the head with the big book that it set his birthday back six weeks, slapped him twice, and was just going to bite him, when her mother came in. Mary told her that Rollo had fallen down stairs and torn his book and raised that dreadful lump on his head. This time Mary's mother restrained her emotion, and Mary cried. But it was not because she feared her mother was pining away. Oh, no; it was her mother's rugged health and virile strength that grieved Mary, as long as the seance lasted, which was during the entire performance.
That evening Rollo's father taught Rollo his lesson and made Mary sit by and observe his methods, because, he said, that would be normal instruction for her. He said:
"Mary, you must learn to control your temper and curb your impatience if you want to wear low-neck dresses, and teach school. You must be sweet and patient, or you will never succeed as a teacher. Now, Rollo, what is this letter?"
"I dunno," said Rollo, resolutely.
"That is A," said his father, sweetly.
"Huh," replied Rollo, "I knowed that."
"Then why did you not say so?" replied his father, so sweetly that Jonas, the hired boy, sitting in the corner, licked his chops.
Rollo's father went on with the lesson:
"What is this, Rollo?"
"I dunno," said Rollo, hesitatingly.
"Sure?" asked his father. "You do not know what it is?"
"Nuck," said Rollo.
"It is A," said his father.
"A what?" asked Rollo.
"A nothing," replied his father, "it is just A. Now, what is it?"
"Just A," said Rollo.
"Do not be flip, my son," said Mr. Holliday, "but attend to your lesson. What letter is this?"
"I dunno," said Rollo.
"Don't fib to me," said his father, gently, "you said a minute ago that you knew. That is N."
"Yes, sir," replied Rollo, meekly. Rollo, although he was a little boy, was no slouch, if he did wear bibs; he knew where he lived without looking at the door-plate. When it came time to be meek, there was no boy this side of the planet Mars who could be meeker, on shorter notice. So he said, "Yes, sir," with that subdued and well pleased alacrity of a boy who has just been asked to guess the answer to the conundrum, "Will you have another piece of pie?"
"Well," said his father, rather suddenly, "what is it?"
"M," said Rollo, confidently.
"N!" yelled his father, in three-line Gothic.
"N," echoed Rollo, in lower case nonpareil.
"B-a-n," said his father, "what does that spell?"
"Cat?" suggested Rollo, a trifle uncertainly.
"Cat?" snapped his father, with a sarcastic inflection, "b-a-n, cat! Where were you raised? Ban! B-a-n—Ban! Say it! Say it, or I'll get at you with a skate-strap!"
"B-a-m, band," said Rollo, who was beginning to wish that he had a rain-check and could come back and see the remaining innings some other day.
"Ba-a-a-an!" shouted his father, "B-a-n, Ban, Ban, Ban! Now say Ban!"
"Ban," said Rollo, with a little gasp.
"That's right," his father said, in an encouraging tone; "you will learn to read one of these years if you give your mind to it. All he needs, you see, Mary, is a teacher who doesn't lose patience with him the first time he makes a mistake. Now, Rollo, how do you spell, B-a-n—Ban?"
Rollo started out timidly on c-a—then changed to d-o,—and finally compromised on h-e-n.
Mr. Holiday made a pass at him with Volume I, but Rollo saw it coming and got out of the way.
"B-a-n!" his father shouted, "B-a-n, Ban! Ban! Ban! Ban! Ban! Now go on, if you think you know how to spell that! What comes next? Oh, you're enough to tire the patience of Job! I've a good mind to make you learn by the Pollard system, and begin where you leave off! Go ahead, why don't you? Whatta you waiting for? Read on! What comes next? Why, croft, of course; anybody ought to know that—c-r-o-f-t, croft, Bancroft! What does that apostrophe mean? I mean, what does that punctuation mark between t and s stand for? You don't know? Take that, then! (whack). What comes after Bancroft? Spell it! Spell it, I tell you, and don't be all night about it! Can't, eh? Well, read it then; if you can'tspell it, read it. H-i-s-t-o-r-y-ry, history; Bancroft's History of the United States! Now what does that spell? I mean, spell that! Spell it! Oh, go away! Go to bed! Stupid, stupid child," he added as the little boy went weeping out of the room, "he'll never learn anything so long as he lives. I declare he has tired me all out, and I used to teach school in Trivoli township, too. Taught one whole winter in district number three when Nick Worthington was county superintendent, and had my salary—look here, Mary, what do you find in that English grammar to giggle about? You go to bed, too, and listen to me—if Rollo can't read that whole book clear through without making a mistake to-morrow night, you'll wish you had been born without a back, that's all."
The following morning, when Rollo's father drove away to business, he paused a moment as Rollo stood at the gate for a final good-by kiss—for Rollo's daily good-byes began at the door and lasted as long as his father was in sight—Mr. Holliday said:
"Some day, Rollo, you will thank me for teaching you to read."
"Yes, sir," replied Rollo, respectfully, and then added, "but not this day."
Rollo's head, though it had here and there transient bumps consequent upon foot-ball practice, was not naturally or permanently hilly. On the contrary, it was quite level.