John Bull, Junior Part 9

The shrewd ones take the last word, to make believe they went through the whole list.

Result: "_A chest of drawers_"--"_Une poitrine de calecons_."

The careless ones do not take the right part of speech they want.

Result: "_He felt_"--"_Il feutra_"; "_He left_"--"_Il gaucha_."

With my experience of certain French dictionaries published in England, I do not wonder that English boys often trust in Providence for the choice of words, although I cannot help thinking that as a rule they are most unlucky.

Very few boys have good dictionaries at hand. I know that Smith and Hamilton's dictionary (in two volumes) costs twenty s.h.i.+llings. But what is twenty s.h.i.+llings to be helped all through one's coaching? About the price of a good lawn-tennis racket.

I have seen boys show me, with a radiant air, a French dictionary they had bought for six-pence.

They thought they had made a bargain.

Oh, free trade! Oh, the cheapest market!

Sixpence for that dictionary! That was not very expensive, I own--but it was terribly dear.

When an English boy is about to write out his French exercise, he invariably begins by heading the copy

"FRENCH,"

written with his best hand, on the first line.

This is to avoid any misunderstanding about the language he is going to use.

I have often felt grateful for that t.i.tle.

Children are very great at t.i.tles and inscriptions.

Give them a little penny pocket-book, and their keen sense of owners.h.i.+p will make them go straightway and write their name and address on the first page. When this is done, they will ent.i.tle the book, and write on the top of each page: "Memorandum Book."

When I was at school, we French boys used to draw, on the back of the cover of our books, a merry-Andrew and a gibbet, with the inscription:

"Aspice Pierrot pendu, Quod librum n'a pas rendu.

Si librum redidisset, Pierrot pendu non fuisset."

I came across the following lines on some English boys' books:

"Don't steal this book for fear of shame, For here you see the owner's name; Or, when you die, the Lord will say: 'Where is that book you stole away?'"

Boys' minds are like a certain place not mentioned in geographies: they are paved with good intentions. Before they begin their work, they choose their best nib (which always takes some time). This done, they carefully write their name and the t.i.tle of the exercise. FRENCH looks magnificent. They evidently mean to do well. The first sentence is generally right and well written. In the second you perceive signs of flagging; it then gets worse and worse till the end, which is not legible. Judge for yourself, here is a specimen. It collapses with a blot half licked off.

Master H. W. S.'s flourish after his signature is not, as you see, a masterpiece of calligraphy; but it is not intended to be so. It is simply an overflow of relief and happiness at the thought that his exercise is finished.

Translate the flourish by--

"Done!!!"

H. W. S. is not particularly lucky with his genders. Fortunately for him, the French language possesses no neuter nouns, so that sometimes he hits on the right gender. For this he asks no praise. Providence alone is to be thanked for it.

Once he had to translate: "His conduct was good." He first put _sa conduite_. After this effort in the right direction, his conscience was satisfied, and he added, _etait bon_. Why? Because an adjective is longer in the feminine than in the masculine, and with him and his like the former gender stands very little chance.

I remember two very strange boys. They were not typical, I am happy to say.

When the first of them was on, his ears would flap and go on flapping like the gills of a fish, till he had either answered the question or given up trying, when they would lie at rest flat against his head. If I said to him sharply: "Well, my boy, speak up; I can't hear," his ears would start flapping more vigorously than ever. Sometimes he would turn his eyes right over, to see if he could not find the answer written somewhere inside his head. This boy could set the whole of his scalp in motion, bring his hair right down to his eyes, and send it back again without the least difficulty. These performances were simply wonderful.

The boys used to watch him with an interest that never flagged, and more than once I was near losing my countenance.

One day this poor lad fell in the playground, and cut his head open. We were all anxious to ascertain what it was he had inside his head that he always wanted to get at. The doctor found nothing remarkable in it.

The other boy was a fearful stammerer. The manner in which he managed to get help for his speech is worth relating. Whenever he had to read a piece of French aloud, he would utter the letter "F" before each French word, and they would positively come out easily. The letter "F" being the most difficult letter for stammerers to p.r.o.nounce, I always imagined that he thought he would be all right with any sound, if he could only say "F" first.

He was successful.

A boy with whom you find it somewhat difficult to get on is the diffident one who always believes that the question you ask him is a "catch." He is constantly on guard, and surrounds the easiest question with inextricable difficulties. It is his misfortune to know that rules have exceptions, and he never suspects that it would enter your head to ask him for the ill.u.s.tration of a general rule.

He knows, for instance, that nouns ending in _al_ form their plural by changing _al_ into _aux_; but if you ask him for the plural of _general_, he will hesitate a long while, and eventually answer you, _generals_.

"Do you mean to say, my boy, that you do not know how to form the plural of nouns in _al_?"

"Yes, sir, but I thought _general_ was an exception."

I pa.s.s over the wit who, being asked for the plural of _egal_, answered, "two gals."

A diverting little boy in the cla.s.s-room is the one who always thinks "he has got it." It matters little to him what the question is, he has not heard the end of it when he lifts his hand to let you know he is ready.

"What is the future of _savoir_?"

"Please, sir, I know: _je savoirai_."

"Sit down, you ignoramus."

And he resumes his seat to sulk until you give him another chance. He wonders how it is you don't like his answers. His manner is generally affable; you see at once in him a mother's pet who is much admired at home, and thinks he is not properly appreciated at school.