"I saw the new moon late yestreen,
Wi' the auld moon in her arm."
"I saw the new moon late yestreen,
Wi' the auld moon in her arm."
"Miss Marvin, does 'yestreen' mean 'last night'?"
"It does."
"Then I wish the fellow would say 'last night,'" grumbled Master Calvin. "And how could the new moon have the old moon in her arm?"
Hester explained.
"But moons haven't arms." He pushed the book away pettishly. "I hate this poetry! Why can't you teach me what I want?"
"That," said Hester, "is just what I am trying to discover. Will you tell me what you want?"
To her amazement, he bent his head down upon his arms and broke into sobbing. "I don't know what I want! Everyone hates me, and I—I hate it all!"
Somehow, Hester—who had started by misliking the child, and only with the gravest misgivings (yielding to pressure from his father) had consented to teach him in her spare hours—was beginning to pity him. This new feeling, to be sure, suffered from severe and constant checks; for he was unamiable to the last degree, and seldom awoke a spark of liking but he killed it again, and within five minutes, by doing or saying something odious. He differed from other children, and differed unpleasantly. He had taken the full tinge of his sanctimonious upbringing; he was pharisaical, cruel at times, incurably twisted by his father's creed that wrong becomes right when committed by a pious person from pious motives. (His mother had once destroyed a cat because she found herself growing fond of it and believed that a Christian's soul must be weaned of all earthly affections.) He appealed to Hester's pity because, with all this, he was unhappy.