One pleasant summer afternoon, Mr Wright, coming in from the office,
seated himself beside his composed little wife, who was patching a pair
of miniature pantaloons.
"Nan," said the husband, with a perplexed look, "what _are_ we to do
with our Robin when he grows up?"
"George," answered the composed wife, "don't you think it is rather soon
to trouble ourselves with that question? Robin is a mere child yet. We
must first give him a good education."
"Of course, I know that," returned the perplexed husband, "still, I
can't help thinking about what is to be done after he has had the good
education. You know I have no relation in the world except brother
Richard, who is as poor as myself. We have no influential friends to
help him into the Army or the Navy or the Indian Civil Service; and the
Church, you know, is not suitable for an imp. Just look at him _now_!"
Mrs Wright looked through the window, over one of those sunny
landscapes which are usually described as "smiling," across a winding
rivulet, and at last fixed her gorgeous eyes on a tall post, up which a
small black object was seen to be struggling.
"What can he be up to?" said the father.
"He seems to be up the telegraph-post," said the mother, "investigating
the wires, no doubt. I heard him talking about telegraphy to Madge this
morning--retailing what cousin Sam tries to teach him,--and I shouldn't
wonder if he were now endeavouring to make sure that what he told her
was correct, for you know he is a thorough investigator."
"Yes, I know it," murmured the father, with a grim pursing of his lips;
"he investigated the inside of my watch last week, to find out, as he
said, what made the noise in its `stummick,' and it has had intermittent
fever ever since. Two days ago he investigated my razor,--it is now
equal to a cross-cut saw; and as to my drawers and papers, excepting
those which I lock up, there is but one word which fully describes the
result of his investigations, and that is--chaos."
There was, in truth, some ground for that father's emotions, for Master
Robin displayed investigative, not to say destructive, capacities far in
advance of his years.
"Never mind, George," said Mrs Wright soothingly, "we must put up with
his little ways as best we may, consoling ourselves with the reflection
that Robin has genius and perseverance, with which qualities he is sure
to make his way in the world."
"He has at all events made his way up the telegraph-post," said Mr
Wright, his smile expanding and the grimness of it departing; "see! the
rascal is actually stretching out his hand to grasp one of the wires.
Ha! hallo!"
The composed wife became suddenly discomposed, and gave vent to a
scream, for at that moment the small black object which they had been
watching with so much interest was seen to fall backward, make a wild
grasp at nothing with both hands, and fall promptly to the ground.
His father threw up the window, leaped out, dashed across the
four-feet-wide lawn, cleared the winding rivulet, and cut, like a hunted
hare, over the smiling landscape towards the telegraph-post, at the foot
of which he picked up his unconscious though not much injured son.
"What made you climb the post, Robin?" asked his cousin Madge that
evening as she nursed the adventurous boy on her knee--and Madge was a
very motherly nurse, although a full year younger than Robin.
"I kimed it to see if I could hear the 'trissity," replied the injured
one.
"The lek-trissity," said Madge, correcting. "You must learn to
p'onounce your words popperly, dear. You'll never be a great man if you
are so careless."
"I don't want to be a g'eat man," retorted Robin. "I on'y want
t'understand things whats puzzlesum."
"Well, does the telegraph puzzle you?"
"Oh! mos' awfully," returned Robin, with a solemn gaze of his earnest
eyes, one of which was rendered fantastic by a yellow-green ring round
it and a swelling underneath. "I's kite sure I's stood for hours beside
dat post listin' to it hummin' an hummin' like our olianarp--"
"Now, Robin, _do_ be careful. You know mamma calls it an olian _harp_."
"Yes, well, like our olian _h_arp, only a deal louder, an' far nicer.
An' I's often said to myself, Is that the 'trissity--?"
"Lek, Robin, lek!"
"Well, yes, _lek_-trissity. So I thought I'd kime up an' see, for, you
know, papa says the 'trissity--lek, I mean--runs along the wires--"
"But papa also says," interrupted Madge, "that the sounds you want to
know about are made by the vi--the vi--"
"Bratin'," suggested the invalid.
"Yes, vibratin' of the wires."
"I wonder what vi-bratin' means," murmured Robin, turning his lustrous
though damaged eyes meditatively on the landscape.
"Don'no for sure," said Madge, "but I think it means tremblin'."
It will be seen from the above conversation that Robert Wright and his
precocious cousin Marjory were of a decidedly philosophical turn of
mind.