nearly falling to pieces. The slate-pencil jumped up and tugged at its string as if it were a little dog; it wanted to put the sum right, but could not. And Hjalmar's copy-book began to wail; it was really terrible to listen to. Down along each page stood all the capital letters, each with the small letter at its side,—quite a long row of letters down the page, which had to be copied; and by their side stood again some letters which thought they were just like them,—for Hjalmar had written these letters; but they all leaned over to one side, as if they had stumbled over the pencil-line upon which they were to stand.
"Look here! This is the way you should hold yourselves up," said the printed letters; "see, this way,—with a smart flourish."
"Oh, yes; we should be so glad to do it," said Hjalmar's letters, "hut we cannot,—we don't feel well."
"Then you must have a powder," said Daddy Dustman.
"Oh, no!" cried the letters, and then they stood so straight and erect that it was a pleasure to look at them.
"Well, we shall have no time for stories now," said Daddy Dustman; "I shall have to put them through their paces. Left, right! Left, right!" and so he went on drilling the letters till they stood as upright and as fine-looking as any of the printed ones. But when Daddy Dustman had gone and Hjalmar looked at them in the morning they were as bad as ever.
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