“If I teach writing? To such with desks, yes. ’Twould be to all but for the privation of desks. You perceive how we have here nothing less than a desk famine. Madelaine! Claude! Sidonie!—present copy-book’! Sir, do you not think every chile should be provided a desk?—Ah! I knew ’twould be yo’ verdic’. But how great trouble I have with that subjec’! Me, I think yes; but the parents,”—he looked tenderly over among them,—“they contend no. Now, sir, here are three copy-books. Inspect; criticise. No, commence rather, if you please, with the copy-book of Madelaine; then p’oceed to the copy-book of Claude, and finally conclude at the copy-book of Sidonie; thus rising by degrees: good, more good, most good.”
“How about,” asked the stranger, with a smile, as he turned the leaves, “about Toutou and Crébiche; don’t they write?”
“Ah! sir,” said Bonaventure, half to the stranger and half to the assemblage, “they write, yes; but—they ah yet in the pot-hook and chicken-track stage. And now, chil’run, in honor of our eminent friend’s visitation, and of the excellence with which you have been examine’, I p’onounce the exhibition finish’—dispensing with ‘Twink’, twink’ lil stah.’ And now, in the book of the best writing scholar in the school—you, sir, deciding that intricacy—shall now be written the name of the eminent frien’ of learning hereinbefo’ confronting.—Claude! a new pen!”
The stranger made his choice among the books.
“Chil’run, he has select’ the book of Sidonie!” Bonaventure reached and swung a chair into place at his desk. The visitor sat down. Bonaventure stood over him, gazing down at the hand that poised the pen. The silence was profound.
“Chil’run—sh-sh-sh!” said the master, lifting his left arm but not his eyes. The stranger wrote a single initial.
“G! chil’run; G!—Sir, does it not signify George?”
“Yes,” murmured the writer; “it stands for George.” He wrote another.
“W! my chil’run; George W!—Sir, does it not sig—My chil’run! George Washington! George Washington, my chil’run! George Washington, the father of his country! My chil’run and fellow-citizen’ of Gran’ Point’, he is nominated for George Washington, the father of his country! Sir, ah you not a relation?”
“I really can’t tell you,” said the writer, with a calm smile. “I’ve always been too busy to look it up.” He finished his signature as he talked. Bonaventure bent over it.