that matter, countin’ the home school.
You see, Sonny he’s purty ticklish to handle, an’ a person has to
know thess how to tackle him. Even wife an’ me, thet’s been knowin’
him f’om the beginnin’, not only knowin’ his traits, but how he
_come_ by ’em,—though some is hard to trace to their so’ces,—why,
sir, even we have to study sometimes to keep in with him, an’ of
co’se a teacher—why, it’s thess hit an’ miss whether he’ll take the
right tack with him or not; an’ sometimes one teacher’ll strike it
one day, an’ another nex’ day; so by payin’ schoolin’ for him right
along in all three, why, of co’se, ef he don’t feel like goin’ to
one, why, he’ll go to another.
Once-t in a while he’ll git out with the whole of ’em, an’ that was
how wife come to open the home school for him. She was determined
his edjercation shouldn’t be interrupted ef she could help it. She
don’t encour’ge him much to go to her school, though, ’cause it
interrupts her in her housekeepin’ consider’ble, an’ she’s had extry
quilt-patchin’ on hand ever since he come. She’s patchin’ him a set
’ginst the time he’ll marry.
An’ then I reckon he frets her a good deal in school. Somehow, seems
like he thess picks up enough in the other schools to be able to
conterdic’ her ways o’ teachin’.
F’ instance, in addin’ up a colume o’ figgers, ef she comes to a
aught—which some calls ’em naughts—she’ll say, “Aught’s a aught,”
an’ Sonny ain’t been learned to say it that a-way; an’ so maybe when
she says, “Aught’s a aught,” he’ll say, “Who said it wasn’t?” an’
that puts her out in countin’.
He’s been learned to thess pass over aughts an’ not call their
names; and once-t or twice-t, when wife called ’em out that a-way,
why, he got so fretted he thess gethered up his things an’ went to
another school. But seem like she’s added aughts that a-way so long
she can’t think to add ’em no other way.
I notice nights after she’s kept school for Sonny all day she talks
consider’ble in her sleep, an’ she says, “Aught’s a aught” about ez
often ez she says anything else.
Oh, yas, sir; he’s had consider’ble fusses with his teachers, one
way an’ another, but they ever’ one declare they think a heap of
’im.
Sir? Oh, yas, sir; of co’se they all draw their reg’lar pay whether
he’s a day in school du’in’ the month or not. That’s right enough,
’cause you see they don’t know what day he’s li’ble to drop in on
’em, an’ it’s worth the money thess a-keepin’ their nerves strung
for ’im.
Well, yas, sir; ’t is toler’ble expensive, lookin’ at it one way,
but lookin’ at it another, it don’t cost no mo’ ’n what it would to
edjercate three child’en, which many poor families have to do—_an’
more_—which in our united mind Sonny’s worth ’em all.
Yas, sir; ’t is confusin’ to him in some ways, goin’ to all three
schools at once-t.
F’ instance, Miss Alviry Sawyer, which she’s a single-handed maiden
lady ’bout wife’s age, why, of co’se, she teaches accordin’ to the
old rules; an’ in learnin’ the child’en subtraction, f’ instance,
she’ll tell ’em, ef they run short to borry one f’om the nex’ lef’
han’ top figur’, an’ pay it back to the feller underneath him.
Well, this didn’t suit Sonny’s sense o’ jestice _no way_, borryin’
from one an’ payin’ back to somebody else; so he thess up an’ argued
about it—told her thet fellers thet borried nickels f’om one another
couldn’t pay back that a-way; an’ of co’se she told him they was
heap o’ difference ’twix’ money and ’rithmetic——which I wish’t they
was more in my experience; an’ so they had it hot and heavy for a
while, till at last she explained to him thet that way of doin’
subtraction _fetched the answer_, which, of co’se, ought to satisfy
any school-boy; an’ I reckon Sonny would soon ’a’ settled into that
way ’ceptin’ thet he got out o’ patience with that school in sev’al
ways, an’ he left an’ went out to Sandy Crik school, and it thess
happened that he struck a subtraction class there the day he got in,
an’ they was workin’ it the _other_ way—borry one from the top
figur’ an’ never pay it back at all, thess count it off (that’s the
way I’ve worked my lifelong subtraction, though wife does hers
payin’ back), an’ of co’se Sonny was ready to dispute this way, an’
he didn’t have no mo’ tac’ than to th’ow up Miss Alviry’s way to the
teacher, which of co’se he wouldn’t stand, particular ez Miss
Alviry’s got the biggest school. So they broke up in a row,
immejate, and Sonny went right along to Miss Kellog’s school down
here at the cross-roads.
She’s a sort o’ reformed teacher, I take it; an’ she gets at her
subtraction by a new route altogether—like ez ef the first feller
thet had any surplus went sort o’ security for them thet was short,
an’ passed the loan down the line. But I noticed he never got his
money back, for when they come to him, why, they docked him. I
reckon goin’ security is purty much the same in an out o’ books. She
passes the borryin’ along some way till it gits to headquarters, an’
writes a new row o’ figur’s over the heads o’ the others. Well, my
old brain got so addled watchin’ Sonny work it thet I didn’t seem to
know one figur’ f’om another ’fo’ he got thoo; but when I see the
answer come, why, I was satisfied. Ef a man can thess git his
answers right all his life, why nobody ain’t a-goin’ to pester him
about how he worked his figur’s.
I did try to get Sonny to stick to one school for each rule in
’rithmetic, an’ havin’ thess fo’ schools, why he could learn each o’
the fo’ rules by one settled plan. But he won’t promise nothin’.
He’ll quit for lessons one week, and maybe next week somethin’
else’ll decide him. (He’s quit ever’ one of ’em in turn when they
come to long division.) He went thoo a whole week o’ disagreeable
lessons once-t at one school ’cause he was watchin’ a bird-nest on
the way to that school. He was determined them young birds was to be
allowed to leave that nest without bein’ pestered, an’ they stayed
so long they purty nigh run him into long division ’fo’ they did
fly. Ef he’d ’a’ missed school one day he knowed two sneaky chaps
thet would ’a’ robbed that nest, either goin’ or comin’.
Of co’se Sonny goes to the exhibitions an’ picnics of all the
schools. Last summer we had a time of it when it come picnic season.
Two schools set the same day for theirs, which of co’se wasn’t no
ways fair to Sonny. He payin’ right along in all the schools, of
co’se he was entitled to all the picnics; so I put on my Sunday
clo’es, an’ I went down an’ had it fixed right. They all wanted
Sonny, too, come down to the truth, ’cause besides bein’ fond of
him, they knowed thet Sonny always fetched a big basket.
Trouble with Sonny is thet he don’t take nothin’ on nobody’s say-so,
don’t keer who it is. He even commenced to dispute Moses one Sunday
when wife was readin’ the Holy Scriptures to him, tell of co’se she
made him understand thet that wouldn’t do. Moses didn’t intend to
_be_ conterdicted.
An’ ez to secular lessons, he ain’t got no respec’ for ’em
whatsoever. F’ instance, when the teacher learned him thet the world
was round, why he up an’ told him _’t warn’t so_, less’n we was on
the inside an’ it was blue-lined, which of co’se teacher he insisted
thet we was _on the outside_, walkin’ over it, all feet todes the
center—a thing I’ve always thought myself was mo’ easy said than
proved.
Well, sir, Sonny didn’t hesitate to deny it, an’ of co’se teacher he
commenced by givin’ him a check—which is a bad mark—for
conterdictin’. An’ then Sonny he ’lowed thet he didn’t conterdic’ to
_be_ a-conterdictin’, but he _knowed_ ’t warn’t so. He had walked
the whole len’th o’ the road ’twix’ the farm an’ the school-house,
an’ they warn’t _no bulge in it_; an’ besides, he hadn’t never saw
over the edges of it.
An’ with that teacher he give him another check for speakin’ out o’
turn. An’ then Sonny, says he, “Ef a man was tall enough he could
see around the edges, couldn’t he?” “No,” says the teacher; “a man
couldn’t grow that tall,” says he; “he’d be deformed.”
An’ Sonny, why, he spoke up again, an’ says he, “But I’m thess
a-sayin’ _ef_,” says he. “An’ teacher,” says he, “we ain’t
a-studyin’ _efs_; we’re studyin’ geoger’phy.” And then Sonny they
say he kep’ still a minute, an’ then he says, says he, “Oh, maybe he
couldn’t see over the edges, teacher, ’cause ef he was tall enough
his head might reach up into the flo’ o’ heaven.” And with that
teacher he give him another check, an’ told him not to dare to mix
up geoger’phy an’ religion, which was a sackerlege to both studies;
an’ with that Sonny gethered up his books an’ set out to another
school.
I think myself it ’u’d be thess ez well ef Sonny wasn’t quite so
quick to conterdic’; but it’s thess his way of holdin’ his p’int.
Why, one day he faced one o’ the teachers down thet two an’ two
didn’t _haf_ to make _fo’_, wh’er or no.
This seemed to tickle the teacher mightily, an’ so he laughed an’
told him he was goin’ to give him rope enough to hang hisself now,
an’ then he dared him to show him any two an’ two thet didn’t make
fo’, and Sonny says, says he, “Heap o’ two an’ twos don’t make four,
’cause they’re kep’ sep’rate,” says he.
“An’ then,” says he, “I don’t want my two billy-goats harnessed up
with nobody else’s two billys to make fo’ billys.”
“But,” says the teacher, “suppose I _was_ to harness up yo’ two
goats with Tom Deems’s two, there’d be fo’ goats, I reckon, whether
you wanted ’em there or not.”
“No they wouldn’t,” says Sonny. “They wouldn’t be but two. ’T
wouldn’t take my team more ’n half a minute to butt the life out o’
Tom’s team.”
An’ with that little Tommy Deems, why, he commenced to cry, an’
’stid o’ punishin’ him for bein’ sech a cry-baby, what did the
teacher do but give Sonny another check, for castin’ slurs on
Tommy’s animals, an’ gettin’ Tommy’s feelin’s hurted! Which I ain’t
a-sayin’ it on account o’ Sonny bein’ my boy, but it seems to me was
a mighty unfair advantage.
No boy’s feelin’s ain’t got no right to be that tender—an’ a goat is
the last thing on earth thet could be injured by a word of mouth.
Sonny’s pets an’ beasts has made a heap o’ commotion in school one
way an’ another, somehow. Ef ’t ain’t his goats it’s somethin’ else.
Sir? Sonny’s pets? Oh, they’re all sorts. He ain’t no ways
partic’lar thess so a thing is po’ an’ miser’ble enough. That’s
about all he seems to require of anything.
He don’t never go to school hardly ’thout a garter-snake or two or a
lizard or a toad-frog somewheres about him. He’s got some o’ the
little girls at school that nervous thet if he thess shakes his
little sleeve at ’em they’ll squeal, not knowin’ what sort o’ live
critter’ll jump out of it.
Most of his pets is things he’s got by their bein’ hurted some way.
One of his toad-frogs is blind of a eye. Sonny rescued him from the
old red rooster one day after he had nearly pecked him to death, an’
he had him hoppin’ round the kitchen for about a week with one eye
bandaged up.
When a hurted critter gits good an’ strong he gen’ally turns it
loose ag’in; but ef it stays puny, why he reg’lar ’dopts it an’
names it Jones. That’s thess a little notion o’ his, namin’ his pets
the family name.
The most outlandish thing he ever ’dopted, to my mind, is that old
yaller cat. That was a miser’ble low-down stray cat thet hung round
the place a whole season, an’ Sonny used to vow he was goin’ to kill
it, ’cause it kep’ a-ketchin’ the birds.
Well, one day he happened to see him thess runnin’ off with a young
mockin’-bird in his mouth, an’ he took a brickbat an’ he let him
have it, an’ of co’se he dropped the bird an’ tumbled over—stunted.
The bird it got well, and Sonny turned him loose after a few days;
but that cat was hurted fatal. He couldn’t never no mo’ ’n drag
hisself around from that day to this; an’ I reckon ef Sonny was
called on to give up every pet he’s got, that cat would be ’bout the
last thing he’d surrender. He named him Tommy Jones, an’ he never
goes to school of a mornin’, rain or shine, till Tommy Jones is fed
f’om his own plate with somethin’ he’s left for him special.
Of co’se Sonny he’s got his faults, which anybody’ll tell you; but
th’ ain’t a dumb brute on the farm but’ll foller him around—an’
Dicey, why, she thinks they never was such another boy born into the
world—that is, not no human child.
An’ wife an’ me—
But of co’se he’s ours.
I don’t doubt thet he ain’t constructed thess exac’ly ez the
school-teachers would have him, ef they had their way. Sometimes I
have thought I’d like his disposition eased up a little, myself,
when he taken a stand ag’in my jedgment or wife’s.
Takin’ ’em all round, though, the teachers has been mighty patient
with him.
At one school the teacher did take him out behind the school-house
one day to whup him; an’ although teacher is a big strong man,
Sonny’s mighty wiry an’ quick, an’ some way he slipped his holt, an’
’fo’ teacher could ketch him ag’in he had clumb up the lightnin’-rod
on to the roof thess like a cat. An’ teacher he felt purty shore of
him then, ’cause he ’lowed they wasn’t no other way to git down
(which they wasn’t, the school bein’ a steep-sided buildin’), an’
he’d wait for him.
So teacher he set down close-t to the lightnin’-rod to wait. He
wouldn’t go back in school without him, cause he didn’t want the
child’en to know he’d got away. So down he set; but he hadn’t no mo’
’n took his seat sca’cely when he heerd the child’en in school
roa’in’ out loud, laughin’ fit to kill theirselves.
He ’lowed at first thet like ez not the monitor was cuttin’ up some
sort o’ didoes, the way monitors does gen’ally, so he waited
a-while; but it kep’ a-gittin’ worse, so d’rectly he got up, an’ he
went in to see what the excitement was about; an’ lo and beholt!
Sonny had slipped down the open chimbly right in amongst ’em—come
out a-grinnin’, with his face all sooted over, an’, says he, “Say,
fellers,” says he, “I run up the lightnin’-rod, an’ he’s a-waitin’
for me to come down.” An’ with that he went an’ gethered up his
books, deliberate, an’ fetched his hat, an’ picked up a nest o’
little chimbly-swallows he had dislodged in comin’ down (all this
here it happened thess las’ June), an’ he went out an’ harnessed up
his goat-wagon, an’ got in. An’ thess ez he driv’ out the
school-yard into the road the teacher come in, an’ he see how things
was.
Of co’se sech conduct ez that is worrisome, but I don’t see no, to
say, bad principle in it. Sonny ain’t got a bad habit on earth, not
a-one. They’ll ever’ one o’ the teachers tell you that. He ain’t
never been knowed to lie, an’ ez for improper language, why he
wouldn’t know how to select it. An’ ez to tattlin’ at home about
what goes on in school, why, he never has did it. The only way we
knowed about him comin’ down the school-house chimbly was wife went
to fetch his dinner to him, an’ she found it out.
She knowed he had went to that school in the mornin’, an’ when she
got there at twelve o’clock, why he wasn’t there, an’ of co’se she
questioned the teacher, an’ he thess told her thet Sonny had been
present at the mornin’ session, but thet he was now absent. An’ the
rest of it she picked out o’ the child’en.
Oh, no, sir; she don’t take his dinner to him reg’lar—only some days
when she happens to have somethin’ extry good, or maybe when she
’magines he didn’t eat hearty at breakfast. The school-child’en they
always likes to see her come, because she gen’ally takes a extry lot
o’ fried chicken thess for him to give away. He don’t keer much for
nothin’ but livers an’ gizzards, so we have to kill a good many to
get enough for him; an’ of co’se the fryin’ o’ the rest of it is
mighty little trouble.
Sonny is a bothersome child one way: he don’t never want to take his
dinner to school with him. Of co’se thess after eatin’ breakfas’ he
don’t feel hungry, an’ when wife does coax him to take it, he’ll
seem to git up a appetite walkin’ to school, an’ he’ll eat it up
’fo’ he gits there.
Sonny’s got a mighty noble disposition, though, take him all round.
Now, the day he slipped down that chimbly an’ run away he wasn’t a
bit flustered, an’ he didn’t play hookey the balance of the day
neither. He thess went down to the crik, an’ washed the soot off his
face, though they say he didn’t no more ’n smear it round, an’ then
he went down to Miss Phœbe’s school, an’ stayed there till it was
out. An’ she took him out to the well, an’ washed his face good for
him. But nex’ day he up an’ went back to Mr. Clark’s school—walked
in thess ez pleasant an’ kind, an’ taken his seat an’ said his
lessons—never th’owed it up to teacher at all. Now, some child’en,
after playin’ off on a teacher that a-way would a’ took advantage,
but he never. It was a fair fight, an’ Sonny whupped, an’ that’s all
there was to it; an’ he never put on no air about it.
Wife did threaten to go herself an’ make the teacher apologize for
gittin’ the little feller all sooted up an’ sp’ilin’ his clo’es; but
she thought it over, an’ she decided thet she wouldn’t disturb
things ez long ez they was peaceful. An’, after all, he didn’t
exac’ly send him down the chimbly nohow, though he provoked him to
it.
Ef Sonny had ’a’ fell an’ hurted hisself, though, in that chimbly,
I’d ’a’ helt that teacher responsible, shore.
Sonny says hisself thet the only thing he feels bad about in that
chimbly business is thet one o’ the little swallers’ wings was broke
by the fall. Sonny’s got him yet, an’ he’s li’ble to keep him, cause
he’ll never fly. Named him Swally Jones, an’ reg’lar ’dopted him
soon ez he see how his wing was.
Sonny’s the only child I ever see in my life thet could take young
chimbly-swallers after their fall an’ make ’em live. But he does it
reg’lar. They ain’t a week passes sca’cely but he fetches in some
hurted critter an’ works with it. Dicey says thet half the time
she’s afeered to step around her cookstove less’n she’ll step on
some critter thet’s crawled back to life where he’s put it under the
stove to hatch or thaw out, which she bein’ bare-feeted, I don’t
wonder at.
An’ he has did the same way at school purty much. It got so for
a-while at one school thet not a child in school could be hired to
put his hand in the wood-box, not knowin’ ef any piece o’ bark or
old wood in it would turn out to be a young alligator or toad-frog
thawin’ out. Teacher hisself picked up a chip, reckless, one day,
an’ it hopped up, and knocked off his spectacles. Of co’se it wasn’t
no chip. Hopper-toad frog an’ wood-bark chips, why, they favors
consider’ble—lay ’em same side up.
It was on account o’ her takin’ a interest in all his little beasts
an’ varmints thet he first took sech a notion to Miss Phœbe Kellog’s
school. Where any other teacher would scold about sech things ez
he’d fetch in, why, she’d encourage him to bring ’em to her; an’
she’d fix a place for ’em, an’ maybe git out some book tellin’ all
about ’em, an’ showin’ pictures of ’em.
She’s had squir’l-books, an’ bird-books, an’ books on nearly every
sort o’ wild critter you’d think too mean to _put_ into a book, at
that school, an’ give the child’en readin’-lessons on ’em an’
drawin’-lessons an’ clay-moldin’ lessons.
Why, Sonny has did his alligator so nach’l in clay thet you’d most
expec’ to see it creep away. An’ you’d think mo’ of alligators
forever afterward, too. An’ ez to readin’, he never did take no
interest in learnin’ how to read out ’n them school-readers, which
he declares don’t no more ’n git a person interested in one thing
befo’ they start on another, an’ maybe start _that_ in the middle.
The other teachers, they makes a heap o’ fun o’ Miss Phœbe’s way o’
school-teachin’, ’cause she lets the child’en ask all sorts of
outlandish questions, an’ make pictures in school hours, an’ she
don’t requi’ ’em to fold their arms in school, neither.
Maybe she is foolin’ their time away. I can’t say ez I exac’ly see
how she’s a workin’ it to edjercate ’em that a-way. I had to set
with my arms folded eight hours a day in school when I was a boy, to
learn the little I know, an’ wife she got her edjercation the same
way. An’ we went clean thoo f’om the _a-b abs_ an’ _e-b ebs_ clair
to the end o’ the blue-back speller.
An’ we learned to purnounce a heap mo’ words than either one of us
has ever needed to know, though there has been times, sech ez when
my wife’s mother took the phthisic an’ I had the asthma, thet I was
obligated to write to the doctor about it, thet I was thankful for
my experience in the blue-back speller. Them was our brag-words,
phthisic and asthma was. They’s a few other words I’ve always hoped
to have a chance to spell in the reg’lar co’se of life, sech ez
y-a-c-h-t, yacht, but I suppose, livin’ in a little inland town,
which a yacht is a boat, a person couldn’t be expected to need sech
a word—less’n he went travelin’.
I’ve often thought thet ef at the Jedgment the good Lord would only
examine me an’ all them thet went to school in my day, in the old
blue-back speller ’stid o’ tacklin’ us on the weak p’ints of our
pore mortal lives, why, we’d stand about ez good a chance o’ gettin’
to heaven ez anybody else. An’ maybe He will—who knows?
But ez for book-readin’, wife an’ me ain’t never felt called on to
read no book save an’ exceptin’ the Holy Scriptures—an’, of co’se,
the seed catalogues.
An’ here Sonny, not quite twelve year old, has read five books thoo,
an’ some of ’em twice-t an’ three times over. His _Robinson Crusoe_
shows mo’ wear ’n tear ’n what my Testament does, I’m ashamed to
say. I’ve done give Miss Phœbe free license to buy him any book she
wants him to have, an’ he’s got ’em all ’ranged in a row on the end
o’ the mantel-shelf.
Quick ez he’d git thoo readin’ a book, of co’se wife she’d be for
dustin’ it off and puttin’ up on the top closet shelf where a book
nach’ally belongs; but seem like Sonny he wants to keep ’em in
sight. So wife she’s worked a little lace shelf-cover to lay under
’em, an’ we’ve hung our framed marriage-c’tificate above ’em, an’
the corner looks right purty, come to see it fixed up.
Sir? Oh, no; we ain’t took him from none o’ the other schools yet.
He’s been goin’ to Miss Phœbe’s reg’lar now—all but the exhibition
an’ picnic days in the other schools—for nearly five months, not
countin’ off-an’-on days he went to her befo’ he settled down to it
stiddy.
He says he’s a-goin’ there reg’lar from this time on, an’ I b’lieve
he will; but wife an’ me we talked it over, an’ we decided we’d let
things stand, an’ keep his name down on all the books till sech a
time ez he come to long division with Miss Kellog.
An’ ef he stays thoo that, we’ll feel free to notify the other
schools thet he’s quit.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
HER FIRST HORSE SHOW
By DAVID GRAY
SHE folded the program carefully for preservation in her
memory-book, and devoured the scene with her eyes. It was hard to
believe, but unquestionably Angelica Stanton, in the flesh, was in
Madison Square Garden at the horse show. The great arena was
crowded; the band was playing, and a four-in-hand was swinging
around the tan-bark ring.
What had been her dream since she put away her dolls and the
flea-bitten pony was realized. The pony had been succeeded by Lady
Washington, and with Lady Washington opened the epoch when she began
to hunt with the grown-up people and to reflect upon the outside
world. From what she had gathered from the men in the hunting-field,
the outside world seemed to center in the great horse show, and most
of what was interesting and delightful in life took place there.
Besides the obvious profit of witnessing this institution, there had
arisen, later on, more serious considerations which led Angelica to
take an interest in it. Since the disappearance of Lady Washington
and the failure to trace her, Angelica’s hope was in the show.
One of the judges who had visited Jim had unwittingly laid the bases
of this hope. “All the best performers in America are exhibited
there,” he had said in the course of an interminable discussion upon
the great subject. And was not Lady Washington probably the best?
Clearly, therefore, soon or late Lady Washington would be found
winning blue ribbons at Madison Square Garden.
To this cheering conclusion the doubting Thomas within her replied
that so desirable a miracle could never be; and she cherished the
doubt, though rather to provoke contrary fate into refuting it than
because it embodied her convictions. She knew that some day Lady
Washington must come back.