A Waif of the Mountains by Edward Sylvester Ellis (best free ereader txt) 📕

receiving instruction. It is true that she never sat still for more than three minutes at a time, but that was enough to establish the indispensable necessity of a chair.

"You are doing very well, my dear," said the parson, encouragingly; "you have received only a few lessons, but have mastered the alphabet. I notice that the 'd's' and 'b's' and 'h's' and 'q's' puzzle you a little now and then, but you have got them straight, and it is now time that we took a lesson in spelling."

"Oh, I can't do that, Mr. Brush," protested the queen, rising from the chair, adjusting her skirts and sitting down again; "I never can spell."

"What is it to spell?"

"I don't know; what is it?"

"I can best answer your question by showing you. Have you ever seen a cat?"

"Do you mean a pussy?"

"Yes; some folks call it that."

"Oh, yes; when we came from where we used to live,--I guess it must have been three or four hundred years ago, we brought my pussy along. Her name was Nellie, the same as mine."

"What became of her?"

"She died," was the sorrowful reply; "I guess she was homesick."

"That was too bad. Now will you tell me what letter that is?"

"Why, Mr. Brush, don't you know?"

"Yes, but I wish to find out whether you know."

"It is C; anybody knows that."

"And this one?"

"A."

"That is right; now this one?"

"T; I hope you will remember, Mr. Brush, because I don't like to tell you so often."

The teacher continued to drill her, skipping about and pointing at the letters so rapidly in turn that he was kept bowing and straightening up like a jumping-jack. Then, allowing her to rest, he pronounced the letters in their regular order, giving them the sounds proper to the word itself. Nellie, who was watching closely and listening, suddenly exclaimed with glowing face:

"Why, that's 'cat'!"

"Of course; now can you say the letters without looking at them?"

After one or two trials she did it successfully.

"There! you have learned to spell 'cat.' You see how easy it is."

"Does that spell 'pussy' too?"

"No,--only 'cat.' After a time you will be able to spell big words."

"Let me try something else, Mr. Brush."

The next word tackled was 'dog,' which was soon mastered. When this was accomplished, the teacher paused for a moment. He was trying to think of another word of three letters, but oddly enough could not readily do so.

"Ah," he exclaimed, "here is another. Now give me the name of that letter,"

"D."

"And that?"

"A."

"And that?"

"M."

"Now say them quickly, 'd-a-m;' what is the word?"

"Why, it's 'dam'; O, Mr. Brush, I heard you say that is a bad word."

The teacher was thunderstruck and stammered:

"I didn't think of that, but there are two kinds of 'dam' and this one is not a bad word. It means a bank of earth or stones or wood, that is put up to stop the flow of water."


CHAPTER VII

PUPIL AND TEACHER

Mr. Brush glanced nervously around, to learn whether any of his friends were within hearing, shuddering to think what the consequences might be. He believed that he could explain the matter to some of the folks, but the majority were so radical in their views that they would refuse to admit the distinction, and would take him to task for teaching improper language to his young pupil. It caused him another shudder at the thought that the same penalty that Wade Ruggles had undergone might be visited upon him, though it is doubtful if the issue would have been similar.

"Ahem, Miss Nellie, when we go back home, will you promise me to say nothing about this part of your lesson?"

"You mean 'bout that bad word?"

"Yes,--let's forget all about it."

"I'll try, but mebbe I'll forget to forget it."

"Likely enough," gloomily reflected the parson; "suppose we try some other words. Ah, we have a visitor."

At that moment Budge Isham climbed into view and sauntered smilingly toward them. Brush added a whispered warning to the little one not to forget her promise, though, since Isham was an educated man, there ought not to have been anything to fear in his case, but the teacher knew his waggish nature, and had good reason to fear the mischief he would delight in creating.

"Good day," was his cheery greeting, as he came up; "I hope I am not intruding, but I thought I should like to see how you are getting on, Nellie."

"Oh, Mr. Brush says I am learning real fast; I can spell 'cat,' and 'dog,' and 'dam.'"

Budge raised his hands in horror.

"What in the name of heaven, parson, does she mean?"

"Mr. Isham," said the gentleman, severely, "are you aware that you are using improper language in the presence of this young lady?"

"Explain yourself."

"It is wrong for you to appeal to heaven on so trifling a question; it is such a near approach to profanity that the dividing line is imperceptible. I am sorry you forgot yourself, but I will overlook it this time."

Budge was really frightened, for though the distinction was quite fine, he felt there was some justice in the position of the parson, but he bluffed it out.

"I doubt whether a jury would find me guilty, and in the meantime explain the remark just made by Nellie, if you please."

Thus cornered, the parson made a clean breast of it. Isham assumed a grave expression.

"The only criticism I can make is upon your taste in selecting a word, susceptible of a questionable meaning. You know as well as I that if this should be submitted to a jury at the Heavenly Bower this evening, the majority would sit down on you, and it would be hard work for you to escape the penalty."

"I'm afraid it would," responded the parson; "it was a piece of forgetfulness on my part----"

"Which is the plea that Bidwell and Ruggles made, but it didn't answer. However, I'll say nothing about it, knowing you will be more careful in the future, while I shall not forget to put a bridle on my own tongue. The trouble, however," he added with a smile, "is to make _her_ overlook it."

"She has promised she will do so."

"Since that promise was made just before I got here, she has shown how readily she can forget it."

"I will give her a longer lesson than usual and thus drive all remembrance out of her mind," said the parson resolutely.

Budge Isham folded his arms, prepared to look on and listen, but the queen of the proceedings checked it all by an unexpected veto.

"Mr. Brush, I feel so tired."

Her face wore a bored expression and she looked wistfully away from the blackboard toward the cabins below them.

"Does your head hurt you?" inquired the teacher with much solicitude, while the single auditor was ready to join in the protest.

"No, but mebbe it will hurt me one of these days."

"It isn't wise, parson, to force the child; a great deal of injury is done to children by cramming their heads with useless knowledge."

The teacher could not feel sure that this counsel was disinterested, for there could be no danger of his taxing the mental powers of the little one too severely, but her protest could not pass unheeded.

"You have done very well, my child; you are learning fast, so we'll leave the spelling for to-morrow. Suppose we now try the commandments: can you repeat the first one?"

Nellie gave it correctly, as she did with slight assistance, the remaining ones. She was certainly gifted with a remarkable memory and possessed an unusually bright mind. Budge Isham was impressed by her repetition of the decalogue, whose meaning she was unable fully to grasp. His frivolous disposition vanished, as he looked upon the innocent child and watched the lips from which the sacred words flowed. He quietly decided that it would be inexcusably mean to seek any amusement at the expense of the parson, and it may as well be added that he never afterward referred to the incident, while it seemed to have passed wholly from the mind of Nellie herself. At the conclusion of the lesson, Budge complimented teacher and pupil and said he would be glad to certify that Mr. Brush was the best teacher in New Constantinople, and that it was impossible for any one to take his place. Then he bade them good day and walked thoughtfully away, leaving them once more to themselves.

These were the most precious moments of all to the teacher, when the formal lesson was completed, and he sat down for a little talk with his pupil. He occupied the stone which served her for a seat, while one arm loosely clasped the figure which stood between his knees. She patted his cheek, played with his rough collar and shaggy whiskers, while as he listened and replied to her prattle, felt as never before the truth of the declaration that of such is the kingdom of heaven.

"Mr. Brush," she finally said, "do you know why I love you?"

"I suppose it must be because I am so handsome," he replied with a smile.

"No; it isn't that, for you _ain't_ handsome."

"Whew! but you are not afraid to speak the truth, little one, and I hope you will always do that. No; I don't know why you love me, unless you are so good yourself that you can't help it."

This was not exactly clear to the little one, and she stood silent for a minute, gently fingering his long beard. Then she thought it best to clear up the mystery without further parley.

"I love you 'cause you're good."

Even though the avowal was delightful, it caused a pang, like a knife-thrust from his accusing conscience.

"I am thankful to hear you say that, but, Nellie, I am not good."

"Yes, you is, but if you ain't good, why ain't you good?"

The logic of the reply of the adult was of the same grade as that of the child.

"I suppose the true reason is because I am bad. I am sorry to say it, but I have drifted far away from where I ought to be."

The dimpled hand continued to fondle the whiskers, and the little brain was busy, but a wisdom that was more than human guided it. Turning those lustrous blue eyes upon him she softly asked:

"Will you do what I ask you?"

He almost gasped, for he instinctively suspected what was coming, but he answered without hesitation:

"If it is my power I will do it, though it kills me."

"Oh, I don't want it to kill you; this won't hurt you; will you do it, Mr. Brush?"

"Yes, God helping me."

"Do like Mr. Ruggles."

"How's that?" asked the parson with a sinking heart.

"Don't drink any more of that red water, which makes men talk loud and sometimes say bad words."

"Heavens!" thought the parson; "she little dreams what she is asking me, but it is not she but some One who is thus calling me back to duty. Yes, my child, I will