“Really, Miss Eileen, you forget yourself.”
“No, I don’t,” answered Eileen, “but I’m just sick to death of ‘soul’ and ‘tone’ and ‘finish’ and ‘melody,’ and all the rest of it, and I would just like to see you up the country on a horse—and not old Brownie, either!” and she marched out of the room before the time was up.
“Really, a most extraordinary girl,” murmured the teacher, as he sat there and waited for his next pupil. He was only newly appointed to the teaching staff, and did not have the knack of imparting sympathy and enthusiasm to his pupils.
“I hate that old musical box,” said Eileen that evening to Marcia.
“What old box?” asked Marcia, perplexedly.
“The music teacher, with all the musical letters to his name,” went on Eileen, calmly.
“Why?” asked Marcia, opening her eyes very wide. “I think he’s beautiful, and he has such glorious dark eyes.”
“Ugh! dash his old eyes—they’re as silly as the rest of him. He sits there goggling and screwing and beating time like an old—old Jack-in-the-box,” concluded Eileen.
“Oh, Eileen! I don’t believe I can ever take another lesson from him,” laughed Marcia. “I’ll laugh when I see him ‘goggling and screwing’——”
“Yes, and bending down when the music’s soft, and sitting up straight and flapping his hands when the music’s loud. Ugh! it sickens me; I’m sorry I commenced to learn.”