School was out; and the seats looked as if the pupils had just left
the tediousness of it all lying there. The map of Europe looked down
peevishly on the heap of writing-pads. There lay the mutilated and
well-worn goose-quills, which since time immemorial have opened up
the gates of learning. True, the black-board vaunted itself with the
heavy results of the last lesson in "fractions"; but the school was
no more. The spirit had fled: It was a corpse.
Yes, the "Geist" had gone out with the children; for the reader will
see in a moment that they carried about with them a tremendous amount
of that article.
We already know that this was the great day when Pennewip was to
criticise the poetical effusions of his young geniuses. There he sat,
his restless wig sharing all the poetical feelings and emotions--and
motions--of its owner. We will just look over his shoulder and read
with him those inestimable treasures of poetic art; and perhaps we
too shall be moved to emotion.
Wig: In the middle, resting quietly.
Lucas de Bryer: "Our Native Land."
Cake and wine and native land,
Out in the moonlight I take my stand;
Our native land and cake and wine,
And I hope the moon will shine;
Five fingers have I on my hand,
All to honor our native land.
"Melodious," said the teacher, "very melodious; and very profound. Cake
and wine, with our native land as a climax."
Wig: On the right side.
Lizzie Webbelar: "My Father's Vocation."
The cat is sly, I know;
My father is a dealer in Po-
Tatoes and onions.
"Original, immediate! But I don't like the way she cuts her potatoes
in twain."
Wig: On the left side.
Jeanette Rust: "The Weather-cock."
He stands on the chimney since long ago,
And shows the wind which way to blow.
"Smooth, but not quite correct, if examined closely--but I'll let it
pass as poetic license."
Wig: Down in front.
Leendert Snelleman: "Lent."
In Lent it is always nice,
My brother's birth-day is in May,
He says his feet need warming,
So that Lent we must be praising,
And then we're going to celebrate,
Easter brings eggs and a holiday.
"It's too bad that he's so careless with his rhymes. His imagination
is extraordinary. Very original."
Wig: Down on his neck.
Keesje, the Butcher's Boy: "In Praise of the Teacher."
My father has slaughtered many a steer,
But Master Pennewip is still living, I hear;
Some are lean, and some are well-fed,
He has slipped his wig to the side of his head.
The wig actually went to the side of his head.
"Well, this is curious. I hardly know what to say about it."
The wig slipped to the other side.
"What's the connection between me and steers?"
The wig protested vigorously against any implication of relationship
with steers.
"H--mm! Can it be that this is what our new-fangled writers call
humour?"
The wig sank down to his eyebrows, which signified doubt.
"I will call up the boy and----"
The wig passed again to the zenith, to express its satisfaction with
the teacher's determination to interview the butcher's boy.
Lucas de Wilde: "Religion."
Religion very nice must be,
Much it pleases the people we see.
"The fundamental idea is very beautiful," said the teacher, "but it
ought to have been developed better."
The wig nodded acquiescence.
Trudie Gier: "Juffrouw Pennewip."
The path of virtue she shows us each day,
And we are glad to go that way;
And as there's nothing to do more fitting,
She teaches us sewing, darning and knitting.
The wig fairly leaped with pleasure, and the curls embraced one
another. This out-pouring of Trudie's heart was borne at once to
Juffrouw Pennewip, and was later hung by the fireplace in honor of
the poetess and the subject of the poem.
Then followed a sublime poem on God by Klaasje van der Gracht, the
son of the Catechist. He was thirteen years old, and had not been
vaccinated--out of regard for predestination.
"If only his father didn't help him!"
The wig was rigid with astonishment.
Louwtje de Wilde: "Friendship."
Friendship very nice must be,
Much it pleases the people we see.
The wig seemed dissatisfied. The "Religion" of Lucas de Wilde was
pulled out and compared with Louwtje's "Friendship."
"H--emm. It is possible. Another example of how one thought can
originate in two heads at the same time."
Wimpje de Wilde: "Fishing."
Fishing very----
"What's that?"
Yes, really, there it was again:
Fishing very nice must be,
Much it pleases the people we see.
The wig was moving continually. It looked as if it were fishing too.
The teacher looked hurriedly through the remaining poems and picked out
the offspring of the entire Wilde connection. His worst suspicions were
realized. Mietje de Wilde, Kees de Wilde, Piet and Jan de Wilde--all
uniformly declared that religion, friendship, fishing, dreaming,
cauliflower and deception "very nice must be," and that they were
also very pleasing "to the people we see." A regular flood of the
nice and pleasing.
Now, what do you suppose the wig did? It did the best thing that
could be done under the circumstances. More could not be expected of a
wig. As soon as it saw the futility of its efforts to comprehend the
difference between fishing, friendship, deception, dreams, religion
and cauliflower, it merely ignored the whole matter, readjusted itself
and assumed an expression of expectancy for what was yet to come.
Leentje de Haas: "Admiral de Ruyter."
Pulling the rope with emotion,
To the top of the mast he came,
And then he went to the ocean,
And won for himself great fame.
And very much more he perfected,
Saleh he vanquished, too;
A hero he was then elected,
With nothing else to do.
The wig lifted itself, the curls applauding enthusiastically. It was
evidently pleased.
Grete Wauzer: "The Caterpillar."
The caterpillar, free from care,
Crawls on the tree just over there.
"Descriptive poetry. A daring idea--the caterpillar crawling on the
tree free from care."
Wig: Quiet.
Ah, the pleasure of a wig is short-lived! And how soon was this
one--but I will not anticipate. Soon, all too soon, the reader will
know the worst.
Walter Pieterse: "A Robber Song."
"Aha, what's this? And 'goodness'? But where has he written on
goodness?"
The teacher could scarcely believe his eyes. He turned the sheet of
paper over and examined the back side, hoping to discover there some
lines on goodness.
Then he saw that on Walter's sheet there was not a trace of "goodness."
Oh, wretched wig!
Yes, wretched wig! For after it had suffered as never wig had
suffered before, after it had been pulled at and tugged at
and martyred in a manner beyond even the imagination of the
Wilde family, Master Pennewip snatched it from his head,
twisted it convulsively in his hands, stammered a short
"Heaven-human-Christian-soul-good-gracious-my-life--how is it
possible!" slapped it on his head again, covered it with his venerable
cap and burst out the door like one possessed.
He was on his way to Walter's home, where we shall soon see him
arrive. As a conscientious historian, however, it will be my duty
first to give an account of the happenings there.