Chapter 12 - Page 2

you'd been born dumb we'd esteem you very highly. It is only your
manners and your theories that we don't like; but even in these we are
disposed to believe that you are a well-meaning child."

"That is precisely the way to put it," assented the School-master. "You
are harmless even when most annoying. For my own part, I think the most
objectionable feature about you is that you suffer from that
unfortunately not uncommon malady, extreme youth. You are young for your
age, and if you only wouldn't talk, I think we should get on famously
together."

"You overwhelm me with your compliments," said the Idiot. "I am sorry I
am so young, but I cannot be brought to believe that that is my own
fault. One must live to attain age, and how the deuce can one live when
one boards?"

As no one ventured to reply to this question, the force of which very
evidently, however, was fully appreciated by Mrs. Smithers, the Idiot
continued:

[Illustration: "'I THOUGHT MY FATHER A MEAN-SPIRITED ASSASSIN'"]

"Youth is thrust upon us in our infancy, and must be endured until such
a time as Fate permits us to account ourselves cured. It swoops down
upon us when we have neither the strength nor the brains to resent it.
Of course there are some superior persons in this world who never were
young. Mr. Pedagog, I doubt not, was ushered into this world with all
three sets of teeth cut, and not wailing as most infants are, but
discussing the most abstruse philosophical problems. His fairy stories
were told him, if ever, in words of ten syllables; and his father's
first remark to him was doubtless an inquiry as to his opinion on the
subject of Latin and Greek in our colleges. It's all right to be this
kind of a baby if you like that sort of thing. For my part, I rejoice to
think that there was once a day when I thought my father a mean-spirited
assassin, because he wouldn't tie a string to the moon and let me make
it rise and set as suited my sweet will. Babies of Mr. Pedagog's sort
are fortunately like angel's visits, few and far between. In spite of
his stand in the matter, though, I can't help thinking there was a great
deal of truth in a rhyme a friend of mine got off on Youth. It fits the
case. He said:

"'Youth is a state of being we attain
In early years; to some 'tis but a crime--
And, like the mumps, most ag�d men complain,
It can't be caught, alas! a second time."'

"Your rhymes are interesting, and your reasoning, as usual, is faulty,"
said the School-master. "I passed a very pleasant childhood, though it
was a childhood devoted, as you have insinuated, to serious rather than
to flippant pursuits. I wasn't