Mr. S. Did you take your writing lesson to-day?
Edward. No, sir. I don't like writing lessons. They are a perfect plague. They give me the cramp in my thumb, and kinks in my fingers.
Mr. S. Essence of switch on the fingers is good for taking out kinks. Has your dancing master been here?
Edward. Oh yes! I love him dearly, he is so funny! He tells me comical stories, and can imitate everybody in the house. Andrew's lumbering, poking walk, Jane's prinking ways, and even you, with your long dismal face, your eyes staring at a book like a cat looking at a fish, and your solemn walk, oh, it would make you die a-laughing! His lessons always seem too short.
Mr. S. What is that sticking out of your pocket?
Edward (pulling it out and looking at it). Oh! ha, ha! It's a portrait I drew of you, as you look when I don't know my lessons.
Mr. S. Give it to me. (He takes the caricature and looks at it, but shows no anger.) So you prefer to spend your time in an unamiable, contemptible occupation like this, to acquiring useful lessons.
Edward (looking a little ashamed). Well, I like to be amused. It was only a little fun. It was not meant for you to see.
Mr. S. Will you give me an account of your reading to-day?