"That boy'll have a fit," said Aunt Olive. "Don't let him read any more, for massy sake!"
"O—What's that word, master? S-o-l-i-t-u-d-e, so-li-tu-de. O—So-li-tu-de."
"O Solitude, where are the charms?" read Mr. Andrew Crawford,
"That sages have seen in thy face?
Better dwell in the midst of alarms
Than reign in this horrible place."
Nathaniel followed the master like a race-horse. He went on smoothly until he came to "this horrible place," when his face assumed a startled expression, like one who had met with an apparition. He began to spell out horrible, "h-o-r-, hor—there's your hor, hor; r-i-b-, there's your rib, horrib—"
"Don't let that boy read any more," said Aunt Olive.
Nathaniel dropped his book by his side, and cast a far-away glance into the timber.
"I guess I ain't much of a reader," he remarked, dryly.
"Stop, sir!" said the master.
Poor Nathaniel! Once, in attempting to read a Bible story, he read, "And he smote the Hittite that he died"—"And he smote him Hi-ti-ti-ty, that he did" with great emphasis and brief self-congratulation.