MR. SHERWOOD. You are ungrateful, to vex and grieve a mother who loves
you so dearly. If you loved her as much, you would obey her if she only
held up her little finger; but it seems to me a cat-o'nine-tails
flourished before you might have a very good effect.
EDWARD. I am sorry that--
MR. S. Did you take your writing lesson to-day?
EDWARD. No, sir. I don't like writing lessons. They are a perfect
plague. They give me the cramp in my thumb, and kinks in my fingers.
MR. S. Essence of switch on the fingers is good for taking out kinks.
Has your dancing master been here?
EDWARD. Oh yes! I love him dearly, he is so funny! He tells me comical
stories, and can imitate everybody in the house. Andrew's lumbering,
poking walk, Jane's prinking ways, and even you, with your long dismal
face, your eyes staring at a book like a cat looking at a fish, and your
solemn walk, oh, it would make you die a-laughing! His lessons always
seem too short.
MR. S. What is that sticking out of your pocket?
EDWARD (_pulling it out and looking at it_). Oh! ha, ha! It's a portrait
I drew of you, as you look when I don't know my lessons.
[Illustration]
MR. S. Give it to me. (_He takes the caricature and looks at it, but
shows no anger._) So you prefer to spend your time in an unamiable,
contemptible occupation like this, to acquiring useful lessons.
EDWARD (_looking a little ashamed_). Well, I like to be amused. It was
only a little fun. It was not meant for you to see.
MR. S. Will you give me an account of your reading to-day?
EDWARD. I--I--have not been reading, sir.
MR. S. Not reading? Why?
EDWARD. Because the book you gave me had so many long, stupid words,
that I couldn't understand what it was all about, so I just pitched it
out of the window.
MR. S. You call a book stupid which has such a thrilling account of the
bombardment of Vera Cruz, with a fine engraving showing you the great
General Scott and his brave soldiers? I wonder at you! You have a head,
and so has a drum; both empty.
[Illustration: Bombardment of Vera Cruz.]