[ A RAP ON SOMEBODY'S KNUCKLES. ]
It is very strange my teacher never says a kind word to me. I am quite sure I say my lessons well. I haven't had an "error" since I came to school six months ago. I haven't been "delinquent" or "tardy." I have never broken a rule. Now there's Harry Gray, that fat boy yonder, with the dull eyes and frilled shirt-collar, who never can say his lesson without some fellow prompts him. He comes in half an hour after school begins, and goes home an hour before it is done, and eats pea-nuts all the time he stays; he has all the medals, and the master is always patting him on the head, and smiling at him, and asking him "if the room is warm enough," and all that; I don't see through it.
My dear, honest, conscientious, unsophisticated little Moses! if you only knew what a rich man Harry Gray's father was; what nice old wine he keeps in his cellar; how easy his carriage cushions are; what nice nectarines and grapes ripen in his hot house; and how much "the master" is comforted in his inner and outer man thereby, you'd understand how the son of such a nabob couldn't be anything but an embryo "Clay," or "Calhoun," or "Webster,"—though he didn't know "B from a buzzard."
Are you aware, my boy, that your clothes, though clean and neat, are threadbare and patched?—that your mother is a poor widow, whom nobody knows?—that no "servant man" ever brought your satchel to school for you?—that you have positively been seen carrying a loaf of bread home from the grocer's?—and that "New Year's day" passed by, without your appropriating any of your mother's hard earnings to make "a present" to your disinterested and discriminating teacher? How can you be anything but the dullest and stupidest boy in the school? It is a marvel to me that "the master" condescends to hear you recite at all.
Stay a bit, Moses; don't cry; hold on a while. If your forehead tells the truth, you'll be President of the United States by and by. Then, "the master" (quite oblivious of Harry Gray,) will go strutting round, telling all creation and his cousin, that he had the honor of first teaching your "young ideas how to shoot!"
Won't that be fun? Oh, I tell you, Moses! Fanny has seen some strange specimens of human nature. Still she tells you, (with tears in her eyes,) that the Master above is the "friend of the friendless;" and you must believe it too, my little darling, and wait, and trust.
Wish my mamma would please keep me warm. My little bare legs are very cold with these lace ruffles; they are not half as nice as black Jim's woolen stockings. Wish I had a little pair of warm rubbers. Wish I had a long-sleeved apron, for my bare neck and arms. Wish I might push my curls out of my eyes, or have them cut off. Wish my dress would stay up on my shoulders, and that it was not too nice for me to get on the floor to play ninepins. Wish my mamma would go to walk with me sometimes, instead of Betty. Wish she would let me lay my cheek to hers, (if I would not tumble her curls, or her collar.) Wish she would not promise me something "very nice," and then forget all about it. Wish she would answer my questions, and not always say, "Don't bore me, Freddy!" Wish when we go out in the country, she wouldn't make me wear my gloves, lest I should "tan my hands." Wish she would not tell me that all the pretty flowers will "poison me." Wish I could tumble on the hay, and go into the barn and see how Dobbin eats his supper. Wish I was one of those little frisky pigs. Wish I could make pretty dirt pies. Wish there was not a bit of lace, or satin, or silk, in the world. Wish I knew what makes mamma look so smiling at Aunt Emma's children, (who come here in their papa's carriage,) and so very cross at my poor little cousins, whose mother works so hard and cries so much. Wish I knew what makes the clouds stay up in the sky, and where the stars go in the day time. Wish I could go over on that high hill, where the bright sun is going down, and just touch it with my finger. Wish I didn't keep thinking of things which puzzle me, when nobody will stop to tell me the reason for anything. If I ask Betty, she says, "Don't be a fool, Master Freddy!" I wonder if I am a fool? I wonder if Betty knows much herself? I wonder why my mamma don't love her own little boy? I wonder when I'm grown a man, if I shall have to look so nice all the time, and be so tired of doing nothing?