A FROLIC THAT WAS NOT FUNNY.
By Mrs. H. P. I.
George Emery is my nephew. He isn't exactly the kind of boy I would like for my nephew; yet he is not a bad fellow. His mother calls him her “precious boy;” “a noble fellow, with just a little naughtiness;” but I hear that some people do not think so well of him. Reports have reached us that he does not behave in school as a little gentleman ought to. The truth is George is more fond of fun than of study; and, worse yet, he has no reverence—that is, he has no respect for those who are older and wiser than himself. That, my dear children, is a very sad lack. If you have no reverence in your characters, you are very poor, though your fathers may be worth millions of dollars. How I know that George has no reverence is because one day I heard him say to a white-haired old gentleman, who asked him the way to some place: “Follow your nose, old fellow, and you'll get there.” His mother insisted he must have said “Follow the road;” but I heard him very distinctly, and George did not deny saying “old fellow,” though he tried to get around the “nose.” This shook my faith in George, and I resolved to inquire into the stories I had heard about his conduct in school. I am sorry to say I learned that he threw spit-balls at his school-mates; pinned papers on their coats; marked their backs with chalk; tripped them when they passed him; talked about in a low, growling way, to disturb the school; and that his teacher had been so tormented by him she had not only scolded and punished him, but even threatened to expel him. I asked George about these things. “It was all just so,” he said; “but school was so dull, and he wanted some fun.” “He didn't care a fig,” he said, “for Miss Adams” (his teacher). “But you ought to care to please her,” I said, “She is trying to do a great deal for you.” “I know I ought to: but I don't, and I can't, and I won't.” I will tell you confidently, reader, that, though George was twelve years old, he did not know his multiplication-table, he read badly, and his spelling was about as bad as spelling can be. In a note he wrote me he spelled which “whitch,” school “schole,” sister “cister,” any “eny,” boat he spelled “bote,” says “sez,” and sugar “shuger.” So I said to him: “George, the reason you spell so badly and can't learn the multiplication-table is because in school you study mischief, instead of your lessons.” “I tell you, Aunt,” said he, “I hate books. I hate good scholars. I like a fellow who isn't afraid to do a funny thing.” But one day something happened; something funny, which George did not enjoy. Miss Adams was called out from the school-room; and before leaving she said:— “I wish George Emery to take my place on the platform and keep order till I return.” George slunk down into his seat as far as he could, and wished there was a hole in the floor to let him through. He felt the eyes of all the school turned upon him. He heard the snickerings of his mates, and knew they were all thinking: “The worst boy in the school would make a pretty monitor!” But he began to feel that he was a coward, and that they would all call him one if he did not go; so he pulled himself out of his seat and walked swaggeringly to the platform and took the teacher's chair, trying to look as if he was master of the situation. Miss Adams whispered a word to him and left the room. The girls bent their heads over their books, determined to be just as quiet and studious as if their teacher were present; but the boys had no such intention. In a moment spit-balls began to fly across the room, and even at George's head, and there was low laughter all through the room among the boys. Then they talked aloud and whistled, and the spit-balls flew faster and thicker. Poor George! He felt as if he would sink through the floor. First he thought he would take no notice of the disturbance; but the noise grew louder. Then he thought he would leave the room; but that would be cowardly—he was ashamed to do that. Then he thought he would beg them to be quiet; but he remembered how many times Miss Adams had begged him to behave himself, when he was playing these same tricks, and he knew they would laugh at him. He felt that moment that it was, after all, a mean thing, and not a funny one, to insult a teacher by behaving badly, and he wished he had never done so. The noise grew louder and louder. The laughing and talking and whistling and groaning seemed to increase, like a dreadful storm. A spit-ball struck George's forehead, and a voice called out: “Say, old boy, how do you like it? It's fun, isn't it?” George wished he could wring the neck of every boy in the room. His face grew red and his eyes glowed like fire. He felt sick. At last he stood up before them and said:— “Aren't you ashamed of yourselves! I should think you might behave yourselves, when the teacher has trusted to your honor!” All the boys laughed, and called out: “Oh! you! Yes, you're a nice one to preach to us! Now you know how it feels!” and half a dozen other insulting sentences. It suddenly occurred to him they were paying him off for his bad conduct in school. It did not soften his anger to know this, and I really believe he would have sprung at one or two of the ringleaders if just then the door had not opened and Miss Adams entered. She looked from the school to George, and to the boys again, who, though239quiet enough now, looked excited and somewhat ashamed. Poor George could not say a word; but his red face and angry look told the whole story. “Boys,” said Miss Adams, “it has not been very kind in you to distress George, when he was filling my place.” “We thought ’twould be good for him,” whispered a bold little fellow on the front seat. George went to his seat and put his head down upon his desk and secretly brushed some hot tears away from his eyes. That was six weeks ago, and never since has George behaved badly in school. It was a dreadful experience for him; but it took some of the mischief out of him. He is on the best of terms with his teacher, who told me about this incident; and he has already learned as far as the nines in the multiplication-table.—Mrs. H. P. I. in the Independent.