“Walter, did you know your lesson?”
“No, mother; I had to learn thirteen mountains in Asia, and I knew only nine.”
“Now, look here, that won’t do. I’m paying tuition for nothing. Do you think money grows on my back? I don’t know what’s to become of you.”
“I don’t know, either.”
After all, though, Walter was flattered by the commission to write a poem. Stoffel’s and Juffrouw Pieterse’s efforts to conceal their real opinion of his poetical talents had been useless. It was a pleasant surprise for the boy to learn that he was looked up to. He had always heard that he was worse than worthless, and that he would never amount to anything. It interested him now to hear the assurance of his mother and Stoffel that the commission was only a punishment for not knowing the mountains in Asia. In a great rush Stoffel taught him the difference between “masculine” and “feminine” verses, explaining that these must alternate, that all must be of the same length, and that if at any time the boy was in doubt he would clear the matter up, etc., etc.
Walter was delighted. He went to the back room, got a slate pencil and began to write. It could hardly be called a success. “A widower of God”—“O God, a widower!” That was as far as he got.
He gnawed on the pencil till he had pulverized it and worn out his teeth, but it wouldn’t go. He was continually being interrupted by Stoffel’s masculine and feminine verses. He had been too proud, and now he was receiving his punishment. He began to believe that his mother was right when she said nothing would ever come of him.
Nor could Leentje help him. So he determined to make another attempt to-morrow. Perhaps he could do better then. Leentje agreed with him.
“All right,” said Juffrouw Pieterse. “But don’t disgrace us all. Remember, I told Juffrouw Laps you could do it; and the man’s birthday comes Thursday week. So you haven’t any too much time.”
Walter went to Ash Gate, found his bridge and began to weep bitterly.