At Last: Six Days in the Life of an Ex-Teacher/Chapter 2

by John Habberton

 

SECOND DAY.—THE TEACHER IS TAUGHT.

IT was with some trepidation and not a little sense of hypocrisy and guilt that I approached my hammock the day that little Alice had kindly consented to let me teach her a little, "but noffin' 'bout dolls, remember." My landladies, as quaint a couple of old persons as I could have imagined, but nevertheless true women, appeared to fear I would become lonesome for lack of society, and perhaps abruptly leave them: so they were so attentive that it was almost impossible to escape from them without seeming rude. Their conversation was well worth listening to, if only for curiosity's sake; for, although they were poor,—the last remains of a family which once had been influential,—they were living storehouses of about a century of country wit and wisdom, and could express opinions brightly on any subject. They knew everybody in the vicinity,—everybody who ever had amounted to anything in business, politics, or the professions,—and their inoffensive gossip was so quaint as to make me long to write a "History of a Rediscovered County."

I would call them ladies, had they not been possessed by the one demon of savagery which seems hardest to exorcise for some natures otherwise inoffensive and considerate,—a persistent impulse to manage the affairs of other people. Evidently they thought me a brute for having sought a summer resting-place where there were no children; for, no matter what the subject of conversation at the table, those well-meaning old women would deftly pass it to and fro between them until by some imperceptible process it got back to children, and how good some children were—or would be, and how bright others could be,—bright beyond the expectation of those who best knew them. This manifest effort to change my opinion began before I had taken a meal in the house.

"You don't like children; leastways, so I've been led to suppose," said Mistress Drusilla, as her sister always called her.

"Not when I am resting," I replied. "At home I am obliged to endure forty or fifty of them through five days of every seven, and I think I've earned a respite."

"Most children are pests," said Miss Dorcas,—her sister always addressed her by this name and title, except when they were alone together,—"but it takes exceptions to prove the rule, for I know a young one in this neighborhood whose manners, I must say, wouldn't be thought out-of-the-way in some grown folks who are considered quite proper."

"She's quite a little lady, Alice is," said Mistress Drusilla.

"Indeed she is," said Miss Dorcas. "She's original sometimes, and that makes some people think her queer; but, sakes alive, original folks are so scarce in this world that they sometimes puzzle the very elect."

"And Alice is so original." remarked Mistress Drusilla.

Evidently my hostesses were alluding to my new acquaintance and were desirous of changing my opinion of children by bringing us together. I would not have objected, had not their managing mania been so apparent: as it was, I determined to combat their purpose, even if it were necessary for me to find new lodgings. I had seen managing old women before.

"Alice comes of real good stock, too," continued Mistress Drusilla. "Her mother was a——"

"Spare me, Mistress Drusilla, please," said I, with a laugh intended to be conciliatory, "but I'm determined to be interested in no more children, and if you talk further I'm sure you'll shake my resolution. Tell me, instead, about grown people: you seem to know a great many who are more interesting than our humdrum city people."

"Just as you say, my dear," said Mistress Drusilla, after an odd interchange of glances between the sisters; "but I think—do have another cup of coffee—no?—I think you might be brought to change your mind about children, to your own great comfort, if you were to get acquainted with our little pet."

"That is why I don't want to extend my circle of juvenile acquaintance," I replied. "Children are wearing,—even the best of them. They've worn me out That is why I'm trying to escape them for the present."

"Maybe you'll wish you'd changed your mind, when one of these days you have some of your own climbing all about you, and you finding yourself lonesome when they're not doing it."

"No danger," I retorted. "I'm an old maid, and shall always remain one."

"So I said once, my dear," said the old woman, "but I changed mv mind and married, and if ever angels took human shape it was while my two little girls were alive. They were too angelic—that was the trouble. The Lord himself couldn't get along without them, so back they went to heaven. Their father followed after; and I would have gone too, if it hadn't seemed heartless to leave Miss Dorcas all alone."

Then Mistress Drusilla began to tremble and weep a little in the quiet, restrained way which appears to be a peculiarity of country-people, and Miss Dorcas with similar restraint of manner tried to console her sister, and the occasion seemed a fitting one for my escape, though I first expressed sympathy with all the tenderness that was in me. Nevertheless, as I sauntered towards the little pine grove in which my hammock swung I had to admit to myself that if my Alice were the Alice of my hostesses the fact of our chance acquaintanceship must soon become known in one way or other, so it would be advisable for me to be the first to mention it

I found little Alice awaiting me; at least, as I passed through, the pines I saw her figure motionless against the sky. She stood on the brow of the slope that fell away from the trees, and was looking out to sea. I approached her softly to see what it might be that was attracting her attention, but there was nothing unusual in sight. The beach, nearly a mile away, was bare, and the only vessels visible were too far away to hold one's attention. Yet she remained motionless, even when I was near enough for her to hear my foot-falls. Finally I stood beside her, laid a hand on her shoulder, and asked,—

"What are you looking at so earnestly, dear?"

"Oh, noffin'," she replied, lookup up as carelessly as if we had already met that morning.

"I had no idea that 'noffin’' would be so very interesting."

"Didn't you?" she asked, still looking seaward. "Well, just you try it; look 'way off dat way a long time, wivoot stoppin', an' you'll fink dat you can't stop if you want to. Now begin. I'll help you."

Is anything more uninteresting than a flat limitless expanse of water, with nothing to break the distance? I thought not, as I began, half in fun, a far-away stare, according to request. Soon, however, the view became interesting, then fascinating, then absorbing. A few minutes later, although I became conscious that little Alice had changed her position and was standing in front of me and looking up into my face, it required severe effort to withdraw my gaze. When finally I succeeded, the child clapped her hands, and her eyes danced, and her cheeks glowed, and her lips parted as roguishly as if she never had been absorbed in anything in her life, and she shouted,—

"I told you so! Didn't I tell you so? Say! do you know you looked ever so much like a picture my fahver's got,—a lovely picture of a lady, named——dear me! what is dat lady's name? I can always fink of it when I don't need to. Let me see; it's—it's—Meddy,—Meddy—— Oh, pshaw!"

I tried to recall some feminine names beginning with "Meddy," but failed: Medusa was the only one that seemed to bear a resemblance in sound, and I declined positively to admit for an instant that I could resemble that fateful creature. Could it be that the breeze-shaken crimps of my hair—which I am proud to say were dark, heavy, and abundant—resembled serpents? But could any child imagine a picture of Medusa "lovely"?

"I'm afraid I can't help you recall the name," said I. "There are so few names beginning with M-e-d."

"Meddy—Meddy—Meddy," the child continued to whisper; then suddenly she exclaimed aloud,—

"Oh!—Meddy Tation!—dat's de name of de lady in de picture. An' you looked just like her."

"That's a very pretty compliment dear, but 'Meditation' isn't a name."

"'Tis, too," said the child, with a valiant, defiant air, as if she felt called upon to fight for something: "it's the name of my fahver's picture."

"Ah, yes; I understand; but it isn't a person's name: it means the state of mind of the lady in the picture. Meditation means the act of thinking long about something,—perhaps something about which one is not entirely sure."

"Well, well!" drawled little Alice; "dat's news to me. It 'splains somefin', dough, 'cause once I asked fahver whever de lady in de picture wasn't finkin' very hard about somefin', an' he said 'yes,' an' I asked him what it was, an' he smoked a lot of smoke out his cigar first, an' looked at de picture a long time, an' den he said, 'I 'spect she's finkin' whever she ought to say "yes" or "no."’"

Just like a man! All men are alike. Frank Wayne was just that way; if he weren't I might have been a happy woman and wife. And here was another man who evidently regarded womanly deliberation in thought with the same impatience and contempt. Is it inexorable fate that man must ever be too dull of comprehension to understand woman? And must the wretch forever imagine that when woman meditates he is her whole object of thought?

"You don't look much like Meddy Tation now," remarked little Alice suddenly, while I was still full of indignant musings. "You look more like Miss Judiff in de big picture Bible. She's holdn' up a man's head dat she cutted off an' lookin' like as if she'd like to cut it off again."

"Thank you," said I, hastening to bring my features under control. "What were we talking about? Oh!—what did you see, Alice, while you looked so long at the ocean?"

"Oh, noffin' but water; noffin' else at all; but it didn't ever stay de same shape and color. Soon as I found somefin' I wanted to keep lookin' at, it went and looked some uwer way, an' when I wanted some of it to stay de uvver way it went and done somefin' else. What did you see, when you was lookin' like my fahver's picture?"

"About the same that you did, dear, though I don't believe I could explain it so well."

"My fahver comes out to look at de water sometimes wiff me, when he's home," said the child, "and he sees it just de way I do. He says dat's what makes it so interestin',—cause it's always doin' somefin' new. He says it's just de same way wiff folks: de ones dat's most changeable gets de most 'tention, even if dey's as weak as water."

"Quite true," I murmured. Alice's father knew something, it was quite evident, although his knowledge lacked comprehension of woman. I was willing even to admit that he might have acquired his simile of waves and human inconstancy by observation of women,—some women. Had not the butterfly girls of my acquaintance always been surrounded by hosts of admirers, while women of great heart and soul were attractive only to one another and an occasional widower of discernment—and extreme age?

"Let us leave the waves to themselves, dear," said I, "and think of something else. What were we going to do to-day?"

"Why, you was goin' to teach me somefin',—a little somefin',-but not 'bout dolls: you 'member dat part of it? An' I'll tell you de first fing you can teach me, if you want to, 'cause I want to know. You can teach me what your name is; else what's I to call you, 'xcept 'say'? You don't like to be called 'Say,' do you?"

"I have heard prettier names," I replied. "As for me,—I have it!—you may call me 'teacher.' You say you don't like teachers: now, I want to be so good and pleasant to you that you'll think more pleasantly of all teachers hereafter. Just call me 'teacher:' I'll give you the rest of my name afterwards."

"Well, if you's goin' to make me like 'em, you's got to be awful nice,—just awful nice,—and you's got to teach me noffin' 'bout dolls,—not one fing; 'member dat."

"I shall remember it, dear. Now listen to me. Far away from here, in New York, where I live, there are thousands upon thousands of little girls about as old as you who don't know anything good unless they learn it at school. Their parents are very poor, and while the children are at school the father is at work somewhere, and the mother somewhere else, for money enough to keep the roof over their heads and get food for their children to eat."

"Don't de children have any gran'mas to do anyfin' for 'em?"

"H'm,—not often, if I remember rightly; and when the fathers and mothers reach home again about supper-time, they are so tired that they haven't much time or sense to teach their children anything."

"Dey can teach 'em cat's-cradle, an' rabbit-on-de-wall, an' who's got de button, can't dey?"

"I suppose so; but——"

"Den what makes you say dey can't teach 'em noffin'? I fink dat's a good deal."

"True, but it isn't enough. They need to know how to get alone in the world should their parents be taken away; for sometimes one of these children loses a father or mother."

"Just like me," said the child, as cheerfully as if the loss of a mother were one of the every-day occurrences which one must bear philosophically. "I lost my muvver, you know."

"To be sure;, but you had a good rather left, I trust, and you'll have a grandmother to look after you. But some of these little ones' fathers are not good; they are rude, stupid, ignorant fellows, who think more of themselves than they do of their children, and——"

"Really?"

"Really."

"Well, I don't understan' dat, at all," said the child, going quickly into a brown study,—a very brown study,—out of which she presently emerged to remark, "I s'pose dat's what my fahver means when he says folks in New York ain't like folks anywhere else, 'cause dey don't seem to have any hearts. Don't you fink dat's what be means?"

"Quite likely. Some of the fathers and mothers of children in New York are so bad that they get drunk, and spend money for liquor that might buy comforts for their children, and——"

"I know 'bout dat kind," the child interrupted. "Dere's one of 'em lives next house but one to us. He's awful rich, an' got a great big house wiff a lovely garden, an' his wife's a real sweet lady, but his children don't ever seem glad when dey see deir fahver comin' home, 'cause he looks an' acts as if he didn't know 'em. One of his little girls tole me one day she wished de Lord had give her my fahver instead of hers. I tole her I didn't, 'cause den de Lord might have give me her fahver instead of mine, an' dat would be awful. Den she cried."

"Wasn't that dreadful? Well, these little children of whom I am telling you haven't rich fathers and handsome houses and pretty gardens. Their entire family have only two or three rooms to live in, and often the parents lock the doors when they leave home, so their few things can't be stolen: so when the children return from school they have only the street and gutter to play in."

"Dat's lovely, anyhow."

"Oh, Alice!"

"Yes, 'tis. I just love to go 'long de street an' pick daisies an' dandelions, an' see if dere ain't some wild strawberries, or if de green blackberries ain't beginnin' to turn red or black, an' if dere ain't a turtle behind a big stone somewhere, or a nest of little birdies dat ain't got all deir fevvers yet. Just tell you what, dem children don't have bad times like you fink dey do. An' if dey don't have no gran'mas, why, den who's to call 'em in de house to take naps, I'd like to know? I fink gran'mas is awful nice, but I don't like naps one single bit."

"But, Alice, dear, streets in the city aren't like roads in the country. There are no daisies or dandelions or birds' nests; there are only walls and stone pavements, stone sidewalks, dirt, mud, and people. There are no pleasant places in which to play, nor anything to play with."

"Why, you just said dere was mud."

"But mud isn't nice to play with."

"Oh, yes, it is. I didn't mean to conterdic', 'cause gran'ma says it isn't polite, but it it nice to play wiff mud,—really an' truly."

The horrid child! How easy it is to be deceived by appearances! There was nothing about Alice Hope's manner that would have led any one to imagine her in sympathy with any city people in any way. Nevertheless, it would not do to again make her suspicious of me, so I hastily said,—

"Mud such as you see—mere wet clay—isn't at all like the dreadful stuff in city gutters, where the wretched children of the very poor wade to and fro and sail make-believe boats made of——"

"Wade? Sail boats?" exclaimed the child, with a sigh. "Oh, just don't I wish I was one of dose dreadful poor children! See dat big ocean out dere? See what lots and lots of water dere is? Well, you can't go wadin' in it at all, 'xcept once in a very long time, when de wind an' tide is what my fahver calls 'just so.' Sure's you try it any uvver time a great big wave comes up and knocks you down an' splashes you all over. An' boats? Why, if you try to sail one it just gets rolled over an' over an' comes right back to where it started from. Dear, dear! don't I just wish I was one of dose poor children!"

"Well, dear, you wouldn't if you could see than. As I was saying, their parents teach them almost nothing; but there are hundreds of big schools where the poor little things are taught a great deal, and learn to become wiser and better than their parents."

"Den," remarked Miss Alice, with much positiveness, "I'm glad I'm not one of 'em. I don't want to be any smarter an' better dan my fahver and gran'ma. It makes my head just ache sometimes to fink how smart an' good dey is, an' I's sure my head would split right open if I had a muvver too dat was just as smart an' good, an' I had to fink 'bout her too. Of course my muvrer is 'cause ev'rybody up in heaven is everyfin' dey ought to be; but you don't have to fink dat way 'bout 'em, 'cause you don't see 'em an' hear 'em so much."

"So much? You don't see then and hear them at all, dear."

"Humph!" said the child, contemptuously. "I guess your muvver ain't dead, is she?"

"No, dear."

"Might know it; else you wouldn't talk dat way. Why, I can see my muvver whenever I fink 'bout her a little while; I can hear her talk, too. She looks just like she always did, an' talks just de same way she did when I was a baby. Just holds me ever so tight to her, an' looks at me ever so long, wiff de cunnin'est kind of a little laugh in her face, an' says, 'Muvver's little darlin'! Muvver's little darlin'!' an' it's just lovely."

"So I should imagine, dear," said I, gently, putting my arm around the child; "but you know you don't really see and hear her: you only imagine it"

"Don't you say dat again!" exclaimed the child, twitching away from my embrace and climbing from the hammock to the ground, where she stood and looked at me defiantly. "Guess I know more 'bout my muvver dan you does."

"Certainly you do, dear," said I, quickly.

"You never saw her, an' I did. I know all 'bout her."

"I should think you would, and I am ever so glad that you do. It ought to make you very happy, too; but I merely want to teach you to understand it rightly, so that you won't ever be disappointed."

I supposed this would appease her and restore confidence; but it didn't. She continued to stand aloof and look at me angrily, as if I had done her serious injury. Finally she said,—

"Just what I was 'fraid 'bout. You's gone an' wanted to teach me somefin' I didn't want to know, an' made me unhappy. Is dat de kind of fings you teach de children in your school?"

"No, dear; I teach them about the world, and the stars, and the ocean, and about the people who live in other countries——"

"In de moon, an' all dem places?"

"No, dear; there are no people in the moon, that we know of."

"But we can make b'lieve, can't we? 'Cause it's so much nicer to fink when you look up at a big round moon,—not one of dem little ones dat look like a piece of watermelon wiff all de red part out out,—it's so much nicer when you look up at de moon to fink dat dere's people in it lookin' down an' seein' de world goin' sailin' along in de sky, just like anuvver moon. You know de moon's noffin' but a star,—don't you?—only it's nearer, so it looks bigger, an' de world's noffin' but anuvver star,—don't you?"

"Yes," said I; "but when and where did you study astronomy?"

"Gracious! what a big word!" exclaimed the child. "I didn't ever study anyfin' as big as dat, I'm sure."

"Astronomy is the study of the stars," said I. "Where did you——"

"Oh, is dat all it means? Oh, yes, 'stron'my. Well, I's been learnin' 'bout 'em ever since I was a dear, tiny little fing, not much bigger dan one of my dolls, I guess. My fahver told me 'bout 'em; 'an gran'ma tole me some more. Say! do you know where de big dipper is?"

"No, dear. Are you thirsty?"

The child broke into a marry peal of laughter, and looked quizzically at me. "Of course not," she replied, and then, after another laugh, said, "If I was firsty, I wouldn't try to drink out of dat. It's too big, an' it's millions an' millions of miles away from here. Besides, most of de time it's turned up endways, or upside down, or somefin' so it would spill all the water out anyway. I mean de big dipper up in de sky,—de seven big stars dat's on de backwards end of the big bear dat's goin' roun' an' roun' de norf star all de time, like as if it wanted to bite it an' was 'fraid to."

Slowly I realized that the child was alluding to the constellation of the Great Bear, and that I had heard sometime, somewhere, that a portion of it was vulgarly called "the Dipper." I had seldom seen any stars but those which were directly overhead; houses in our portion of the city were too high to permit an extended view of the sky, and the air, at the level of the sidewalk, was at night so full of artificial light as to make any view of the heavenly bodies unsatisfactory.

"Now I understand you," I said. "Do you know any of the other stars?"

"Lots of 'em,—lots and piles. I know Jupiter, an' Mars, an' Venus, an' Satin——"

"Saturn, dear," said I, pronouncing the name of the ringed planet with distinctness.

"Say!" exclaimed the child, as if she were about to impart something in extreme confidence, "if you teach me to say it dat way my fahver won't let you play wiff me any more. One of our visitors once tried to teach me to say Satur-rn, as you call it, an' my fahver said if he didn't stop he wouldn't give him noffin' but bad cigars to smoke for a week."

"Very well," said I, with a sigh. "I'll try to avoid such dreadful punishment. Do you know any other stars?"

"Goodness, yes. Dere's de man wiff a sword,—dat man wiff de Irish name, dat I always keep forgettin',—O' somefin'."

"Orion?"

"Dat's it! Den dere's de Greek woman's chair——"

"The chair of Andromeda?"

"Yes. Why, you do know somefin' 'bout de stars, don't you? But I don't see why you didn't know 'bout de big dipper, when it's de biggest bunch of stars in de sky. Let's see: den dere's de seven stars, an' de five stars."

"What are they?"

"Why, stars, of course,—seven of 'em in one place, an' five in anuvver. Don't you know 'em?"

"I fear I don't."

"Dat's too bad! 'cause dey's awful cunnin' little bunches. Tell you what: you come over to our house to-night, an' I'll show 'em to you."

"I don't like to be out in the night air, dear," said I: fondness for this child was not going to draw me into country manners, the accepting of formal invitations, and the acquiring of a lot of country acquaintances.

"Night air in de country is better dan day air in de city—dat's what my fahver says. But I guess I can show you how dey look." The child went out from the shade of the pines, stooped to the ground a moment or two, and returned with both her chubby hands full of small stones. Then she stooped again and carefully arranged the stones on the ground, five in the form of a V lying on its side, and seven in about the lines of a hand-basin. Then she arose, contemplated her work, and explained,—

"Dere's de five stars, an' dere's de seven stars, just de way dey look in de sky."

"Ah, I see; the Hyades and the Pleiades."

"De wha-a-at?"

"The Hyades and the Pleiades; those are the names of the constellations you have pictured, and very correctly too. If you call them by their right names, no one who has studied astronomy can ever misunderstand you when you speak of them."

The child looked thoughtful, so I hoped the spirit of my injunction was taking effect. But it wasn't; for presently she remarked,—

"Well, I know a little 'bout Pleiades, but if I was to talk 'bout dose stars, an' give 'em such awful Dutchy names, nobody dat I know would know what I was talkin' 'bout."

"Why do you think the names Dutchy, dear?"

"'Cause dey don't remind you of anythin' you know; dat's de way Dutchman's talk is; dere's lots of Dutchmen 'bout here. But anybody smart enough to know what seven stars and five stars means."

I hastily abandoned an intention to explain to the child the value of the Greek language as an international basis of scientific nomenclature, for I feared my command of English would not be sufficient. I merely told her that stars and many other natural objects had names in Greek or Latin, because the meanings of words in these languages were known among educated people of all countries.

"Oh, yes, I know 'bout dat," the child replied. "'Cause I learned a lot of 'em last winter. Dere was a big girl—one of de neighbors' children—dat wanted to teach school roun' here, an' gran'ma let me go a little while. What words do you fink she taught me?—all 'bout fings dat was in me? Why, 'trachea,' an' 'sophagus,' an' 'biceps,' an' 'triceps,' an' 'phalanges,' an' 'medulla oblongata,' an' 'ab-do-men!' I asked my fahver if it wasn't dreadful for a little girl to have all dem fings inside of her, an' he made a face as if he was takin' medicine, an' said he'd ravver I'd have de measles. I didn't go to dat school no more. So you'd better be careful 'bout teachin' me big words, if you want to go on teachin' me anyfin'."

I resolved to take this hint to heart; at the same time I began to wonder whether there was anything that I really could teach this child, who had taken possession of my pity because of her ignorance, yet who seemed to know more than any child in my classes or in my circle of acquaintances. Still, was it any more sensible that she should have been taught astronomy instead of physiology?

"How did you come to learn so much about the stars, dear?" I asked. "Most girls are two or three times as old as you before they are taught anything about astronomy."

"Can't help learnin' 'bout 'em." she replied. "Dey're always where dey're lookin' right at me, after dark; dey keeps winkin' at me from my window almost every night till I go to sleep; an', besides, we don't see noffin' else from our piazza, dese warm nights, 'xcept de stars an' de ocean, so I can't help finkin' 'bout 'em an' askin' questions 'bout 'em. My fahver says if a person don't want to grow up wivout knowin' noffin' dey'd better ask questions 'bout what dey see oftenest an' fink 'bout most. So when I sits on de piazza nights, in papa's lap,—when he's home,—I ask him lots of fings 'bout de stars, an' he tells me 'em, an' when he ain't home gran'ma tells me 'em. She's got a great big map of de sky, wiff de names of all de stars,—bunches an' big stars. Sometimes, rainy days I plays stars on de floor. I's got lots of little white stones for stars, but de Milky Way bovvered me awful, 'cause its stars are so little an' close togevver, you know: so one day I got some flour out of de kitchen, an' den I got it all right. It looked just like de sky, 'cause de rug was blue. Gran'ma got real cross 'bout it when she came to clean de room, 'cause de flour wouldn't come out of de rug, but when she tole my fahver he only laughed; den he got a piece of chalk an' let me make de big stars wiff dat instead of stones, an' den—what do you fink? Why, he bought a new rug, an' hung de old one, wiff all de stars on it, on de wall of his room, an' he shows it to all his friends dat comes to see him."

I turned my face so as to laugh unseen. This child's father was evidently a ridiculous fellow, in spite of the occasional shrewd remarks which his daughter had repeated, but the incident of the rug certainly was funny. I found myself sympathizing with the grandmother, too, horrid old woman though I believed her, for what woman can contemplate unmoved the ruin of a rug? Nevertheless, had the rug been my own, and a child—this particular child—had laboriously mapped the heavens upon it, with so faithful a sense of proportion regarding the Milky Way, I was not certain that I would not have decorated my own wall with it.

But, after all, what was the incident but another illustration of imagination running riot? Of what possible use was her knowledge of the stars? Parallax, ascension, declination, occultation, all the laws that governed the movements of the heavenly bodies, that raised mere star-gazing to the rank of a science, had undoubtedly been neglected by the father in his pretended teaching; the mere words probably made their meanings distasteful to the literal-minded fellow. I could at least put a thought or two into the bright little head, as seed into good ground, to help the child towards more lasting comprehension of the system and law that governed the movements of the heavenly bodies: so I said,—

"Well, dear, have you learned or thought anything about the stars except what you have told me? The stars are very pretty to look at and to give you a new way of amusing yourself; but they weren't put there for that purpose alone. They must be of some use in some way besides merely amusing people: don't you think so?"

"Yes, indeed I do," she replied, with great earnestness. "My fahver tole me all 'bout it one time, an' I haven't ever forgot it eiver."

So the father didn't make a mere plaything of his child, after all! I was glad of it. I was becoming painfully solicitous about the future welfare of this child. I had so long carried in my heart a sense of responsibility for the wretched children in my school—-sheep with no shepherd but me—that I could not feel otherwise regarding any child with whom I came in contact. But how had her father brought practical astronomy within the comprehension of so small a head? I asked her to tell me all about it, as her father had explained it to her.

"Well," said she, "once dere lived 'way 'cross de ocean a farmer named Job, an' he was de richest farmer in all de country round. It never troubled him if de butcher's wagon didn't come round in time, 'cause he had just fousands of sheep, an' would go out an' kill one in time to have meat for dinner; an' gran'ma says when folks was offered spring lamb at his house dey got spring lamb. He had five hundred pairs of oxen,—jus' fink of it! enough to plough all de farms as far as you can look from our biggest hill, gran'ma says. He had such lots of camels dat if dey was all in a menagerie no little girl would have to be lifted up to see one; dere were such lots of 'em dat each little girl could have a whole one for herself to look at, all by herself, an' nobody to stand in front of her. An' donkeys—why, if a whole Sunday-school picnic had gone to his farm each boy and girl could have had a donkey to ride all day, instead of takin' turns of just a minute or two, like dey had to at our last picnic.

"But he deserved such lots of fings, 'cause he was a real good man. Why, when his children done anyfin' wrong he tried to be punished for it himself, 'stead of makin' dem have bad times; dough I 'spec' it hurt 'em just as bad, and maybe a little worse.

"Well, one day de Ole Bad Man come along, an' tole de Lord he didn't fink 'twas hard for Job to be good, 'cause he didn't have no trouble to make him want to be bad. An' de Lord tole de Ole Bad Man to give Job some trouble, an' he'd see dat it didn't make no difference. So one day de Old Bad Man sent some fighters to kill Job's farm-hands, an' some fieves to steal de oxen an' donkeys, an' some lightnin' to kill de sheep, an' some more fieves to steal de camels, an' den he sent a big storm dat knocked down a house where all Job's children was eatin' dinner, an' it killed all de boys; didn't kill de little girls, dough: my fahver says dat would have been too much.

"Well, Jo is was real good 'bout it; he said de Lord gave him everyfin' he had, an' if He wanted to take it all away again, why, who could prevent Him? So de Ole Bad Man felt pretty sheepish; an' he said dat if he could only hurt Job himself, den fings would be different. Den de Lord said, 'Well, go hurt him, just so you don't kill him; den you'll see you don't know as much as you fink you do.' So de Ole Bad Man give Job boils—did you ever have boils?"

"No," said I, with some asperity.

"Neiver did I: but gran'ma says dey's dreadful sores dat itches like de heat-rash—didn't you ever have heat-rash?"

"I—— Go on, dear."

"Well, dey hurt him so—just like a whole lot of big skeeter-bites, all at a time—dat he couldn't scratch himself fast enough wiff his hands, so he done it wiff a piece of broken dish. But he didn't get bad, dough his own wife told him to call de Lord bad names an' die. Gran'ma says she guesses de ole lady got tired of havin' a husband roun' dat was sick an' poor too. Job behaved himself real well till free friends of his came a-visitin'; dey talked to him for a whole lot of days to-gevver, an' tole him what he ought to do, an' oughtn't to do, an' what dey would do if dey was him. Den he lost his patience, an' began to say lots of cross fings, an' talk as if de Lord didn't have anyfin' to do but look after him, an' how if he'd made de world he'd have had fings diff'rent in a good many ways. My fahver says a man never knows ev'ryfin' so much as when fings ain't goin' to suit him."

"All this is very interesting, dear, though I think I've heard something of the kind before. But what has it to do with the stars? I don't want to lose the story; but try and remember that you were going to tell me how you had learned all about the stars."

"I haven't forgot: I'll reach dem stars pretty soon. Well, one day while Job was a-grumblin' away, de Lord came along in a whirlwind: my fahver says de Lord really was wiff Job all de time, but when folks gets into trouble dey fink dere's nobody near 'em but de Ole Bad Man, so it takes a storm, or a club, or somefin' awful big and strong, to bring 'em to deir senses. Den de Lord give Job a good talkin'-to. He just let him know dat Job nor no uvver man knew just how everyfin' in de world ought to be, an' no man could be as smart as de Lord. He tole him just lots of fings where Job wasn't as smart and strong as de Lord, an' one of de fings he said was, 'Canst dou bind de sweet'—say! what's dat name you calls de seven stars?"

"Pleiades?"

"Oh, yes; my fahver gave me a new doll if I'd learn dat verse to 'member it always, but I always forgets dat word. 'Canst dou bind de sweet influences of de Pleiades, or loose de bands of Orion?' Just fink how little dat must have made Job feel, an' how strong it made him fink de Lord! He couldn't help finkin' 'bout it, you know, 'cause stars was all Job had ever had to look at in de night-time. My fahver says what de Lord told Job in dat verse was de first lesson in de world in practical 'stron'my,—'stron'my is all 'bout de stars, you know,—an' he says I must 'member it all my life, so if ever I get to havin' bad times an' fink de Lord isn't strong enough to make fings right, I can just go out an' look at de stars awhile, an' get my mind right again."

A thunder-storm put an end to our interview, soon after little Alice ended her story, and I was not entirely sorry, for I became so absorbed in my own thoughts that I could not be good company for my little visitor. When at night the clouds disappeared, I sat in my window for hours, looking into the sky, and looking backward into my own life. For my one great sorrow I was conscious I had blamed heaven quite as much as Frank Wayne; but could I "bind the sweet influences of the Pleiades or loose the bands of Orion"?

How glad I was, when I retired, that no one could see my face as I suddenly realised how I had with much condescension begun the day in an attempt to teach the child, and how the teacher herself had been taught!