“No; but if there were no slates in the world, I should have no good-for-nothing sums to do.”
“Oh, ho! that does not follow, by any means. Did slates make the science of arithmetic? Would people never have to count or calculate, if there were no slates? You forget pens, lead pencils and paper: you forget all about oral arithmetic, Charlie.”
“Well, I don’t love to cipher, that’s all I know.”
“And so, you hasty boy, you get angry with the poor harmless slate, that is so convenient when you make mistakes and want to rub them out again. Now that is the way with a great many thoughtless, quick-tempered people. They try to find fault with somebody or something else, and get into a passion, and perhaps do mischief, when if they would but reflect a little, it is their own dear selves who ought to bear the blame. Now, Charlie, let me see what I can do for you.”
So Helen sat down in her mother’s great easy-chair; she tried to look grave and dignified, like an old lady, though she was but eighteen. Charlie came rather unwillingly, laid the slate in her lap, and began to play with the trimming on her apron. “Why, what is all this?” said she; “soldiers, and cats, and dogs, and houses with windows of all shapes and sizes!”
Charlie looked foolish. “Oh, the sum is on the other side,” said he, turning it over.
“Ah, silly boy,” said Helen; “here you have been sitting half an hour drawing pictures, instead of trying to do your sum. And now, which do you think ought to be broken, you or the slate?” and she held it up high, as if she meant to strike at him with it.