Volume III Part 8 (1/2)

”Oh, papa! thank you very much. When I read this book clear through, all the way to the end of the last volume, may I have another little book to read?”

”No,” replied his father, ”that may not be; because you will never get to the last volume of this one. For as fast as you read one volume, the author of this history, or his heirs, executors, administrators, or a.s.signs, will write another as an appendix. So even though you should live to be a very old man, like the boy preacher, this history will always be twenty-three volumes ahead of you. Now, Mary and Rollo, this will be a hard task (p.r.o.nounced tawsk) for both of you, and Mary must remember that Rollo is a very little boy, and must be very patient and gentle.”

The next morning after the one preceding it, Mary began the first lesson. In the beginning she was so gentle and patient that her mother went away and cried, because she feared her dear little daughter was becoming too good for this sinful world, and might soon spread her wings and fly away and be an angel.

But in the s.p.a.ce of a short time, the novelty of the expedition wore off, and Mary resumed running her temper--which was of the old-fas.h.i.+oned, low-pressure kind, just forward of the fire-box--on its old schedule. When she pointed to ”A” for the seventh time, and Rollo said ”W,” she tore the page out by the roots, hit her little brother such a whack over the head with the big book that it set his birthday back six weeks, slapped him twice, and was just going to bite him, when her mother came in. Mary told her that Rollo had fallen down stairs and torn his book and raised that dreadful lump on his head. This time Mary's mother restrained her emotion, and Mary cried. But it was not because she feared her mother was pining away. Oh, no; it was her mother's rugged health and virile strength that grieved Mary, as long as the seance lasted, which was during the entire performance.

That evening Rollo's father taught Rollo his lesson and made Mary sit by and observe his methods, because, he said, that would be normal instruction for her. He said:

”Mary, you must learn to control your temper and curb your impatience if you want to wear low-neck dresses, and teach school. You must be sweet and patient, or you will never succeed as a teacher. Now, Rollo, what is this letter?”

”I dunno,” said Rollo, resolutely.

”That is A,” said his father, sweetly.

”Huh,” replied Rollo, ”I knowed that.”

”Then why did you not say so?” replied his father, so sweetly that Jonas, the hired boy, sitting in the corner, licked his chops.

Rollo's father went on with the lesson:

”What is this, Rollo?”

”I dunno,” said Rollo, hesitatingly.

”Sure?” asked his father. ”You do not know what it is?”

”Nuck,” said Rollo.

”It is A,” said his father.

”A what?” asked Rollo.

”A nothing,” replied his father, ”it is just A. Now, what is it?”

”Just A,” said Rollo.

”Do not be flip, my son,” said Mr. Holliday, ”but attend to your lesson.

What letter is this?”

”I dunno,” said Rollo.

”Don't fib to me,” said his father, gently, ”you said a minute ago that you knew. That is N.”

”Yes, sir,” replied Rollo, meekly. Rollo, although he was a little boy, was no slouch, if he did wear bibs; he knew where he lived without looking at the door-plate. When it came time to be meek, there was no boy this side of the planet Mars who could be meeker, on shorter notice.

So he said, ”Yes, sir,” with that subdued and well pleased alacrity of a boy who has just been asked to guess the answer to the conundrum, ”Will you have another piece of pie?”

”Well,” said his father, rather suddenly, ”what is it?”