“Abel was right,” said the old man. “Take to learning, my lad. Love your books,—friends that nobody can kill, or part ye from.”
“I’d like to learn pieces like them you say,” said Jan.
“So ye shall, so ye shall!” cried Master Swift. “It’s a fine thing, is learning poetry. It strengthens the memory, and cultivates the higher faculties. Take some more bacon, my lad.”
Which Jan did. At that moment he was not reflecting on his doomed friend, the spotted pig. Indeed, if we reflected about every thing, this present state of existence would become intolerable.
At much length did the schoolmaster speak on the joys of learning, and, pointing proudly to a few shelves filled by his savings, he formally made Jan “free of” his books. “When ye’ve learnt to read them,” he added. Jan thanked him for this, and for leave to visit him. But he looked out of the window instead of at the book-shelves.
Beyond Master Swift’s gay flowers stretched the rich green of the water-meads, glowing yellow in the sunlight. The little river hardly seemed to move in its zig-zag path, though the evening breeze was strong enough to show the silver side of the willows that drooped over it. Jan wondered if he could match all these tints in the wood, and whether Master Swift would be willing to have leaf-pictures painted on that table in the window. Then he found that the old man was speaking, though he only heard the latter part of what he said. “—a celebrated inventor and mechanic, and that’s what you’ll be, maybe. Ay, ay, a Great Man, please the Lord; and, when I’m laid by in the churchyard yonder, folks’ll come to see the grave of old Swift, the great man’s schoolmaster. Ye’ll be an inventor yet, lad, a benefactor to your kind, and an honor to your country. I’m not raising false hopes in ye, without observing your qualities. You’ve the quick eye, the slow patience, and the inventive spark. You can find your own tools and all, and don’t stop where other folk leaves off: witness yon bluebells ye took to make skies with! But, bless the lad, he’s not heeding me! Is it the bit of garden you’re looking at? Come out then.” And, putting the biography back in the book-shelf, the kindly old man led Jan out of doors.
“Say what you said in the wood again,” said Jan.
But Master Swift laughed, and, stretching his hand towards the sweet-peas hedge began at another part of the poem:—
“Here are sweet peas on tiptoe for a flight:
With wings of gentle flush o’er delicate white,
And taper fingers catching at all things
To bind them all about with tiny rings.”
Then, bending towards the river, he continued in a theatrical whisper:—