SCHOOL BOYS I HAVE MET.--PROMISING BRITONS.--SLY-BOOTS.--TOO GOOD FOR
THIS WORLD.--"NO, THANKS, WE MAKES IT."--FRENCH DICTIONARIES.--A
NAUGHTY BOY.--MOTHERS' PETS.--DIRTY BUT BEAUTIFUL.--JOHN BULLY.--HIGH
COLLARS AND BRAINS.--DICTATION AND ITS TRIALS.--NOT TO BE TAKEN
IN.--UNLUCKY BOYS.--THE USE OF TWO EARS.--A BOY WITH ONE IDEA.--MASTER
WHIRLIGIG.--THE INFLUENCE OF ATHLETICS.--A GOOD SITUATION.--A SHREWD
BOY OF BUSINESS.--MASTER ALGERNON CADWALADR SMYTH, AND OTHER TYPICAL
SCHOOLBOYS.
Master Johnny Bull is a good little boy who sometimes makes slips in
his exercises, but mistakes--never.
He occasionally forgets his lesson, but he always "knows" it.
"Do you know your lesson?" you will ask him.
"Yes, sir," he will reply.
"But you can't say it."
"Please, sir, I forget it now."
Memory is his weak point. He has done his best, whatever the result may
be. Last night he knew his lesson perfectly; the proof is that he said
it to his mother, and that the excellent lady told him he knew it very
well. Again this morning, as he was in the train coming to school, he
repeated it to himself, and he did not make one mistake. He knows he
didn't.
* * * * *
If he has done but two sentences of his home work, "he is afraid" he
has not quite finished his exercise.
"But, my dear boy, you have written but two sentences."
"Is that all?" he will inquire.
"That is all."
"Please, sir, I thought I had done more than that." And he looks at it
on all sides, turns it to the right, to the left, upside down; he reads
it forwards, he reads it backwards. No use; he can't make it out.
All at once, however, he will remember that he had a bad headache last
night, or maybe a bilious attack.
The bilious attack is to the English schoolboy what the _migraine_ is
to the dear ladies of France: a good maid-of-all-work.
* * * * *
Sometimes my young hero brings no exercise at all. It has slipped, in
the train, from the book in which he had carefully placed it, or there
is a crack in his locker, and the paper slipped through. You order
excavations to be made, and the exercise has vanished like magic.
Johnny wonders.
"Perhaps the mice ate it!" you are wicked enough to suggest.
This makes him smile and blush. He generally collapses before a remark
like this.
* * * * *
But if he has a good excuse, behold him!
"I could not do my exercise last night," said to me one day a young
Briton. It was evident from his self-satisfied and confident assurance
that he had a good answer ready for my inquiry.
"You couldn't," I said; "why?"
"Please, sir, grandmamma died last night!"
"Oh! did she? Well, well--I hope this won't happen again."
This put me in mind of the boy who, being reproached for his many
mistakes in his translation, pleaded:
"Please, sir, it isn't my fault. Papa _will_ help me."
An English schoolboy never tells stories--never.
A mother once brought her little son to the head-master of a great
public school.
"I trust my son will do honor to the school," she said; "he is a good,
industrious, clever, and trustworthy boy. He never told a story in his
life."
"Oh! madam, boys never do," replied the head-master.
The lady left, somewhat indignant. Did the remark amount to her
statement being disbelieved, or to an affirmation that her boy was no
better than other boys?
* * * * *
Of course every mother is apt to think that her Johnny or Jenny is
nature's highest utterance. But for blind, unreasoning adoration,
commend me to a fond grandmamma.
The first time I took my child on a visit to my mother in dear old
Brittany, grandmamma received compliments enough on the subject of the
"lovely petite blonde" to turn her head. But it did not want much
turning, I must say. One afternoon, my wife was sitting with Miss Baby
on her lap, and grandmamma, after devouring the child with her eyes for
a few moments, said to us:
"You are two very sensible parents. Some people are so absurd about
their babies! Take Madame T., for instance. She was here this morning,
and really, to hear her talk, one would think that child of hers was an
angel of beauty--that there never was such another."
"Well, but, grandmamma," said my wife, "you know yourself that you are
forever discoursing of the matchless charms of our baby to your
friends."
"Ah!" cried the dear old lady, as serious as a judge; "but that's quite
different; in our case it's all true."
* * * * *
If you ever hope to find the British schoolboy at fault, your life will
be a series of disappointments. Judge for yourself.
I (once): "Well, Brown, you bring no exercise this morning. How is
that?"
PROMISING BRITON: "Please, sir, you said yesterday that we were to do
the 17th exercise."