"THAT IS NOT READING; THAT IS MOUTHING."
"That is not reading; that is mouthing," Mr. Tayloe ended the imitation by saying. "The sooner you get rid of that sort of affectation, Felicia Grigsby, the better for yourself. It may do for your private Shakespeare studies. It will not do for the Bible and this school. You think it very fine; it is really ridiculous. Next girl, read the eighth verse!"
The blow was brutal. It cut, as he had meant it should, down to the quick of the child's sensibilities. True, her self-conceit and her mannerisms had drawn it upon her. When children are thus "taken down" by their superiors in age and position we say, "It hurts, but it is good for them. But for such rubs they would be prigs; but for such pricks to vanity they would grow up cads. We all had to go through the small mill. In after-years we are the wiser for it."
Had Felicia Grigsby dropped from the bench in a dead swoon it would have been a merciful relief from what she endured, as, with eyes bent upon the page she could not see for the hot haze that swam between her and it, she sat perfectly still and let teacher and pupils think what they might of her.
At last she was dully awake to the fact that the boys on the front bench were upon their second round. Her turn would be upon her again before she could stop breathing fast or swallow the burning ball in her throat. She could not speak! She would not try. Nearer and nearer came the husky, reedy voices of the big boys. There were five on the front bench. The smallest of the five sat next to the aisle. His name was Senalius Snead. They called him "Snail" for short. He had a high, squeaking voice, like a pig's squeal. She had not turned a leaf. She could not have read a line if she had, but her ears, grown all at once acute, lost not one of the stammered words. Senalius Snead read horribly. She had pitied him when he read awhile ago. She could wish now that he would go on forever.
"And-the-evening-and-the-morning-were-the—"
"Spell it!" ordered the teacher, as the boy brought up short.
Without looking at him, Flea knew that he used a stubby forefinger with a dirty nail as a "pointer."
"S-i-x-t-h!" he squeaked. "Sixtieth day!"
"It would have been the sixtieth if you had had a hand in the job," said the master, smiling his unpleasant smile. "As it is, 's-i-x-t-h,' spells 'sixth.' Let us pray! The scholars will kneel."