Whistler; or, The Manly Boy

by Walter Aimwell

The teacher now wrote “wrong” under the first drawing, and “right” under the other, and then fastened them upon the wall. He then held up to the school a large drawing, represented in the following engraving, and said “For this drawing, and the mate to it, which I shall soon show you, I am indebted to Miss Martin.” (This lady was one of the assistant teachers.) “It shows the wrong sitting position, and it is a pretty good likeness of the posture which many of you get into when you are writing and ciphering. Just study that boy’s attitude. See his head, hanging down as if it were loaded with lead,—and very likely it is, for he looks like a dunce! See his cramped and hunched chest, and his twisted legs! I will label it ‘wrong,’ and fasten it up here; and as often as you look at it, let it be a warning to you.

“And here, boys,” continued the principal, exhibiting the above drawing, “you see the right sitting position. What an improvement it is upon the other position, even if we think only of the looks! But the effect on the health is far more important than that. I suppose you all know that the spine, or backbone, is intended to support the body and keep it erect. It is one of the most curious contrivances in our bodies. It is composed of twenty-four small bones, between each of which there is a piece of cartilage, or gristle, which we may compare to an India-rubber spring. The whole makes a strong column, and yet it can be bent in any direction, and is so elastic or yielding that it protects the head from jars as completely as the softest cushion could do it. But the proper position of this spinal column is the upright one; and it can never be kept long out of that position without injury. Look at either of those boys who are in the wrong position. The spine, you see, must be very crooked. If they assume that unnatural position often, and remain in it for a long time, there is danger that the cartilages or springs in their backbones will harden where they are compressed, and then they will always be distorted. Besides, there are certain muscles in our trunks that sustain the spine. When we habitually sit or stand in a crooked position, these muscles are severely taxed, and finally lose their strength, and then we become liable to weakness and disease. Diseases of the spine are very difficult to cure. People are sometimes confined to their beds for ten, twenty, or thirty years by such complaints, before death comes to their relief.

“But the backbone is not the only sufferer from this bad habit. It crowds the lungs, so that they do not have room to work. They become contracted; the chest grows flat and narrow; the stomach and abdomen are pressed together unnaturally; and, after a while, you will be unable to take in air enough to give life and vigor to the blood. Then sores will form in your lungs; the doctors will tell you that you are in consumption, and death will begin to knock at your door. You can easily satisfy yourselves on this point by an experiment or two. Put yourselves into a crooked position, and then speak or read aloud a few minutes. Then do the same thing in an upright position, and see how much easier it is. Or, you may try to take a full breath without raising the shoulders, and then do so giving the shoulders fair play. You will find there is a right way and a wrong way to breathe, and that you cannot breathe right when you are sitting, standing, or lying in an unnatural position.

“There is one other bad sitting position to which I wish to call your attention. It arises from not keeping the arms on the same level, and is generally caused by sitting at a table or desk that is too high or too low. In resting one elbow, you throw up the shoulder on one side, and depress the other, and the spine is thus made very crooked. You should keep your shoulders as level as possible. Heads up, chest erect and straight, and shoulders square and thrown back—that’s the true position. Now, boys, you may go to your rooms, and see if you can put this lesson in practice.”

A few days after this, Whistler received another physiological lesson, which made a still deeper impression upon his mind. It happened in this wise. Ettie had a beautiful kitten, to which she was very much attached. It was as white as snow, with the exception of its feet, and a black spot under its neck. Its fur was very fine, soft and clean. One afternoon, on returning from school, Whistler found the kitten asleep in a little apartment which was devoted to Ettie’s especial use as a play-room. His sister’s playthings were scattered over the floor, and among them was a small box in which she kept many of her valuables, and which she called her work-box. It was made of mahogany, and the top slid on in a groove. Thoughtless of everything but fun, Whistler deposited kitty in the box, and closed the top, chuckling to himself as he imagined how Ettie would jump when she returned to her sports and opened pussy’s prison.

In the evening Ettie searched the house from cellar to attic for her kitten, but it did not come to her call. Besides herself, no one was at home but her father and the domestic, the rest of the family having gone to hear the band play upon the Common, this being one of the evenings in which music was provided for the public at the city’s expense. Ettie, however, would give neither her father nor the domestic any peace until they had joined her in the search; and when, after thoroughly exploring the premises, outdoors and in, without avail, they told her she must go to bed without seeing the kitty, she did not yield to their wishes without some tears, although assured that the little stray-away would doubtless come home in the morning.

The next morning Ettie was among the first in the family to arise, and she anxiously resumed her search for the lost kitten. Whistler heard her from his chamber, and his intended joke then flashed upon his mind, almost for the first time since he shut the box upon the kitten. Hurriedly dressing himself, he went down to Ettie’s play-room, and found the box just as he left it. Drawing off the cover, there lay the missing kitten, cold and stiff in death. It had evidently died of suffocation, or want of air. The joints of the box were fitted together with glue, and the top slid on very snugly, so that it was nearly air-tight.

Whistler felt sad enough at this unexpected issue of an act of playfulness. His sadness was greatly increased by the consciousness which flashed upon him that he was not altogether innocent in the matter. But, at the same moment, another thought flashed upon his mind, and that was, that the fate of the kitten need never be known to any one else. Fortunately he had said nothing about shutting her up, and it would now be very easy to dispose of her remains in a private manner. He was not sure but that it would be a kindness to Ettie to leave her in the dark as to the sad and untimely fate of her four-footed playmate. Then he thought of an admonition which his father had often urged upon him from early childhood. It was this: “When you accidentally do any mischief, always promptly confess it, for I can forgive your carelessness much more easily than your attempt at concealment.” He had been too faithfully trained to this excellent rule to disregard it now; and he made up his mind very quickly what course to pursue. Shutting up the box, and placing it where Ettie could not get at it, he went to his father’s chamber door, and knocked. Mr. Davenport was dressing himself, and admitted him.