Part 40 (1/2)

”Oh, yes, indeed. I saw them often when he was a baby--bare, I mean. The shoulder ended smoothly where the arms should be. He grew up a very bright little fellow. Running barefoot all the time, as he did, I suppose he learned to pick up things with his toes very naturally. At any rate, when he was eight years old he could even handle his knife and fork with his toes.”

”Ugh!” shuddered Eunice, ”Did he sit on the table?”

”No, not quite so bad as that. He sat on a little low stool, and his plate was put on the floor in front of him. He would pick up his knife and fork, cut up his meat, and feed himself as deftly as possible. It was very funny.”

”Think of was.h.i.+ng his feet before dinner, instead of his hands!” giggled Cricket.

”Could he get his feet right up to his mouth?” asked Eunice.

”Yes, easily. He was very limber.”

Zaidee instantly sat down on the piazza floor and attempted the performance.

”It most cracks my back,” she said, getting up and trying to reach around behind herself to rub it.

”_I_ could do it,” said supple Cricket, who could sit on the floor and put her legs around her neck.

”He went to the district school,” went on grandma, ”and learned to read very quickly, and his mental arithmetic was really wonderful. Long examples that the others did on their slates, he did almost as quickly in his head. One year, they had a very good, patient teacher, who, noticing how deftly he picked up all sorts of things with his toes, had the bright idea of teaching him to write by holding his pen between his toes. Now his toes, by constant using, had grown longer and slenderer than most people's, and in a very short time he could guide a pencil sufficiently to make very legible letters. Quite as much so as your first attempts with your left hand, just now, Jean.”

”Think of it!” exclaimed Cricket. ”I'm going to try it to-night when we go to bed, Eunice.”

”It was a funny sight to see him get ready for his school work. When he arrived at school his brother washed and dried his feet carefully, and put on him an old pair of loose slippers to keep them clean. His slate or paper would be put on the floor before him, and he would slip his foot out of his slipper, grasp his pencil, and begin. By the end of a year, he really wrote wonderfully well.”

”Oh-h!” sighed Zaidee. ”Helen and I practised lots, last winter, with mamma, and we can't write much now. We writed every day, too.”

”Where is the man now?” asked Eunice. ”What became of him?”

”When he was a boy of fourteen or so, a travelling circus manager heard of him, and offered him a large salary to go with him to be exhibited,”

answered grandma. ”He got a large salary, and after that helped support his family. He learned to do many other things with his toes, later, people said. For instance, he drew beautifully, and could even hold a knife and whittle a stick. The family soon left here, and I never knew anything more about him. So, my little Jean, aren't you encouraged to practise writing with your left hand, with good hope of success?”

”Yes, indeed, grandma,” answered Cricket, taking her pencil, and going to work again, awkwardly but energetically. And I may just say, in pa.s.sing, that she worked to such good effect, that in ten days' time her left-handed writing, though it slanted backward, was firm and legible.

”There!” exclaimed Cricket, with a long sigh, after her first half-hour was over, as she rose to stretch her arm above her head, ”I've written so long that I'm so tired that I can hardly put one foot before the other.”

”That would be a more appropriate sentiment if you were my no-armed man,” said grandma, smiling.

”I'm just _wild_ with keeping still, grandma! Resting makes me _so_ tired. I want to go rowing or riding or walking. I'd like to jump over the moon, as far as my feelings go, but it makes my arm ache if I move round much.”

”Read aloud to us,” suggested grandma, ”and perhaps Eunice will hold the wool for me while you do.”

Cricket liked to read aloud, and she got a book very willingly.

”Here's a lovely story,” she said, ”all about battles and fighting, and exciting things. 'How Captain Jack Won His Epauplets.'”

”Won his--_what_?” asked grandma, holding her ball suspended.

”His epauplets. He was just a plain, every-day soldier, you know, to start with.”

”Oh! won his epaulets, you mean,” said grandma, gravely.

”Won his--oh, of course! how stupid of me!” looking more closely at the word. ”Now I've always thought that word was epauplets, grandma, truly I did.”