“He spell dat las word r-i-i-ight?” But the visitor with quiet gravity said, “Yes, that was all right;” and a companion pulled the Raccoon down into his seat again. Bonaventure resumed.
“Sir, let us not exhoss the time with spelling! You shall now hear them read.”
The bell taps, the class retires; again, and the reading class is up. They are the larger girls and boys. But before they begin the master has a word for their fathers and mothers.
“Friends and fellow-citizens of Gran’ Point’, think not at the suppi-zing goodness of yo’ chil’run’ reading. ’Tis to this branch has been given the largest attention and most assidu’ty, so thus to comprise puffection in the English tongue, whether speaking aw otherwise.” He turned to the stranger beside him. “I am not satisfied whilst the slightest accent of French is remaining. But you shall judge if they read not as if in their own vernaculary. And you shall choose the piece!”
The visitor waived the privilege, but Bonaventure gently insisted, and he selected Jane Taylor’s little poem, “The Violet,” glancing across at Sidonie as he himself read out the first two lines:—
“Down in a green and shady bed
A modest violet grew.”
Bonaventure proclaimed the title and page and said:—
“Claude, p’oceed!” And Claude read:—
“’Dthee vy—ee-lit. Dah-oon-a hin hay grin and-a shad-y bade—A mo-dest-a vy-ee-lit grŏo—Hits-a stallk whoz baint hit hawngg-a hits hade—Has hif-a too hah-ed-a frawm ve-ŏo. Hand h-yet it whoz a lo-vly flow’r—Hits-a co-lors-a brah-eet and fair-a—Heet maheet-a hāve grass-ed a rozzy bow’r—Heenstade-a hof hah-ee-dingg there”—
“Stop!” cried Bonaventure; “stop! You pronounciate’ a word faultily!” He turned to the visitor. “I call not that a miss; but we must inoculate the idea of puffection. So soon the sly-y-test misp’onounciating I pass to the next.” He turned again: “Next!” And a black-haired girl began in a higher key, and very slowly:—