FullReads

“‘Youth is a state of being we attain
In early years; to some ’tis but a crime–
And, like the mumps, most aged 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 particularly fond of tag and hide-and-seek, nor do I think that even as an infant I ever cried for the moon.”

“It would have expanded your chest if you had, Mr. Pedagog,” observed the Idiot, quietly.

“So it would, but I never found myself short-winded, sir,” retorted the School-master, with some acerbity.

“That is evident; but go on,” said the Idiot. “You never passed a childish youth nor a youthful childhood, and therefore what?”

“Therefore, in my present condition, I am normally contented. I have no youthful follies to look back upon, no indiscretions to regret; I never knowingly told a lie, and–“

“All of which proves that you never were young,” put in the Idiot; “and you will excuse me if I say it, but my father is the model for me rather than so exalted a personage as yourself. He is still young, though turned seventy, and I don’t believe on his own account there ever was a boy who played hookey more, who prevaricated oftener, who purloined others’ fruits with greater frequency than he. He was guilty of every crime in the calendar of youth; and if there is one thing that delights him more than another, it is to sit on a winter’s night before the crackling log and tell us yarns about his youthful follies and his boyhood indiscretions.”

“But is he normally a happy man?” queried the School-master.

“No.”

“Ah!”

“No. He’s an ab normally happy man, because he’s got his follies and indiscretions to look back upon and not forward to.”

“Ahem!” said Mrs. Smithers.

“Dear me!” ejaculated Mr. Whitechoker.

Mr. Pedagog said nothing, and the breakfast-room was soon deserted.

XIII

There was an air of suppressed excitement about Mrs. Smithers and Mr. Pedagog as they sat down to breakfast. Something had happened, but just what that something was no one as yet knew, although the genial old gentleman had a sort of notion as to what it was.

“Pedagog has been good-natured enough for an engaged man for nearly a week now,” he whispered to the Idiot, who had asked him what he supposed was up, “and I have a half idea that Mrs. S. has at last brought him to the point of proposing.”

“It’s the other way, I imagine,” returned the Idiot.

“You don’t really think she has rejected him, do you?” queried the genial old gentleman.

“Oh no; not by a great deal. I mean that I think it very likely that he has brought her to the point. This is leap-year, you know,” said the Idiot.

“Well, if I were a betting man, which I haven’t been since night before last, I’d lay you a wager that they’re engaged,” said the old gentleman.

“I’m glad you’ve given up betting,” rejoined the Idiot, “because I’m sure I’d take the bet if you offered it–and then I believe I’d lose.”

“We are to have Philadelphia spring chickens this morning, gentlemen,” said Mrs. Smithers, beaming upon all at the table. “It’s a special treat.”

“Which we all appreciate, my dear Mrs. Smithers,” observed the Idiot, with a courteous bow to his landlady. “And, by the way, why is it that Philadelphia spring chickens do not appear until autumn, do you suppose? Is it because Philadelphia spring doesn’t come around until it is autumn everywhere else?”

“No, I think not,” said the Doctor. “I think it is because Philadelphia spring chickens are not sufficiently hardened to be able to stand the strain of exportation much before September, or else Philadelphia people do not get so sated with such delicacies as to permit any of the crop to go into other than Philadelphia markets before that period. For my part, I simply love them.”