There was no sooner a vacancy on our side of the table, than the Master proposed a change of seats which would bring the Young Astronomer into our immediate neighborhood.The Scarabee was to move into the place of our late unlamented associate, the Man of Letters, so called.I was to take his place, the Master to take mine, and the young man that which had been occupied by the Master.The advantages of this change were obvious.The old Master likes an audience, plainly enough; and with myself on one side of him, and the young student of science, whose speculative turn is sufficiently shown in the passages from his poem, on the other side, he may feel quite sure of being listened to.There is only one trouble in the arrangement, and that is that it brings this young man not only close to us, but also next to our Scheherezade.
I am obliged to confess that he has shown occasional marks of inattention even while the Master was discoursing in a way that Ifound agreeable enough.I am quite sure it is no intentional disrespect to the old Master.It seems to me rather that he has become interested in the astronomical lessons he has been giving the Young Girl.He has studied so much alone, that it is naturally a pleasure to him to impart some of his knowledge.As for his young pupil, she has often thought of being a teacher herself, so that she is of course very glad to acquire any accomplishment that may be useful to her in that capacity.I do not see any reason why some of the boarders should have made such remarks as they have done.One cannot teach astronomy to advantage, without going out of doors, though I confess that when two young people go out by daylight to study the stars, as these young folks have done once or twice, I do not so much wonder at a remark or suggestion from those who have nothing better to do than study their neighbors.
I ought to have told the reader before this that I found, as Isuspected, that our innocent-looking Scheherezade was at the bottom of the popgun business.I watched her very closely, and one day, when the little monkey made us all laugh by stopping the Member of the Haouse in the middle of a speech he was repeating to us,--it was his great effort of the season on a bill for the protection of horn-pout in Little Muddy River,--I caught her making the signs that set him going.At a slight tap of her knife against her plate, he got all ready, and presently I saw her cross her knife and fork upon her plate, and as she did so, pop! went the small piece of artillery.
The Member of the Haouse was just saying that this bill hit his constitooents in their most vital--when a pellet hit him in the feature of his countenance most exposed to aggressions and least tolerant of liberties.The Member resented this unparliamentary treatment by jumping up from his chair and giving the small aggressor a good shaking, at the same time seizing the implement which had caused his wrath and breaking it into splinters.The Boy blubbered, the Young Girl changed color, and looked as if she would cry, and that was the last of these interruptions.
I must own that I have sometimes wished we had the popgun back, for it answered all the purpose of "the previous question" in a deliberative assembly.No doubt the Young Girl was capricious in setting the little engine at work, but she cut short a good many disquisitions that threatened to be tedious.I find myself often wishing for her and her small fellow-conspirator's intervention, in company where I am supposed to be enjoying myself.When my friend the politician gets too far into the personal details of the quorum pars magna fui, I find myself all at once exclaiming in mental articulation, Popgun! When my friend the story-teller begins that protracted narrative which has often emptied me of all my voluntary laughter for the evening, he has got but a very little way when I say to myself, What wouldn't I give for a pellet from that popgun! In short, so useful has that trivial implement proved as a jaw-stopper and a boricide, that I never go to a club or a dinner-party, without wishing the company included our Scheherezade and That Boy with his popgun.
How clearly I see now into the mechanism of the Young Girl's audacious contrivance for regulating our table-talk! Her brain is tired half the time, and she is too nervous to listen patiently to what a quieter person would like well enough, or at least would not be annoyed by.It amused her to invent a scheme for managing the headstrong talkers, and also let off a certain spirit of mischief which in some of these nervous girls shows itself in much more questionable forms.How cunning these half-hysteric young persons are, to be sure! I had to watch a long time before I detected the telegraphic communication between the two conspirators.I have no doubt she had sedulously schooled the little monkey to his business, and found great delight in the task of instruction.
But now that our Scheherezade has become a scholar instead of a teacher, she seems to be undergoing a remarkable transformation.
