That Little Beggar Part 5

"'_She._ Yes; for why did she hit me? She is a big and bad old cow. See her! See how fat she is! She is as fat as a sow. She has a fat hip, and a fat rib, and a fat ear, and a fat leg, and a fat all.'"

As he came to the end of the sentence he sighed once more, very heavily and sadly, then waited.

"Yes, yes, go on," Granny said, as he looked at her expectantly; "read to the end, like my good little boy."

He obeyed, but with a look of protest on his face, which changed to one of injury, when, at the close of the one lesson, he found that Granny intended him to read another.

This was not what he had expected, and he was disappointed with her accordingly.

"That is just as much as I read with Briggs," he said, looking at her with a world of reproach.

"But you must read as much with me as you do with Briggs," she said, looking slightly fatigued with the arduous duty of giving the little beggar his lessons.

"Why must I?" he asked.

"Now, now, don't ask so many questions," she said slightly fl.u.s.tered.

"Begin here, my dear child."

"'Ben! Ben! I can see a fly!'" he started impatiently, and stumbling over the words in his haste; "'and the fly can fly, and the fly can die, and the fly is shy, and can get to the pie, and can get on the rye! and the fly can run, and can get on the bun, all for its fun! and the fly is gay all the day, and oh, Ben! Ben! the fly is in my ear, so do put it out of my ear.'"... Chris came to a stop, and leant his head back on Granny's shoulder.

"What a funny thing it must be to have a fly in your ear," he remarked thoughtfully. "Have you ever had a fly in your ear, Granny?"

"Never, my darling," said the long-suffering old lady patiently; "go on."

Chris obeyed; now, however, reading in a listless fashion, as if he had no further energy left.

He continued without a breath, until he reached the following: "Ah, but now it has got in the oil. Oh, fly, fly, why do you go to the oil?"

This was too good an opportunity to be lost.

"Granny," he said idly, and yawning as he spoke, "I want to ask you something."

"Yes, my Chris," she said inquiringly.

"Why did the fly go to the oil?" he asked with feigned interest.

"My darling, how can I possibly tell you?" she exclaimed. "See, you are slipping right off my knee. You can't read properly so."

Chris scrambled back to his former position, and then continued reading in a desultory fashion.

"'Oil is bad for a fly. So, now I put you out of the oil, and now I say you are to get dry. Ah! but now the fly is on the pot of jam, and it is on the jar and in the jam. The red jam, the new jam, the big jar of jam.'"

"How nice!" he exclaimed, with more enthusiasm. "May I have some red jam for my tea to-day?"

"If you are a good boy, and read right on to the end of the lesson without stopping," she replied. Thus encouraged, Chris with an effort toiled to the conclusion without any further pauses.

"'By, by! Wee fly!' Now must I do my sums?" he asked all in a breath as he came to the end.

"Yes; I think you had better," Granny replied, holding the slate-pencil between her fingers and looking meditatively at the slate. "I will write you out one."

"_Sometimes_ Briggs doesn't write horrid sums on the slate; _sometimes_ she asks me sums she makes up out of her head," he said, insinuatingly.

"I like that better, it is much, much nicer."

"Sometimes Briggs asks you sums out of her head, does she?" Granny repeated, putting down the slate-pencil. "Well, now, what shall I ask you?"

"Something about Jack," he said, getting off her knee and sitting on the ground beside the dog. "He's such a naughty, lazy, little doggie; he's done no lessons at all. Now, listen, Jackie, and do a sum with me. If Granny asks me something about you, you must think just as much as me.

Mustn't he, Granny?"

"Of course, of course," she replied absently. "I'm to ask you something about Jack, my darling. Let me see, what shall it be?"

She looked at Jack for a moment as she spoke, who blinked back at her inquiringly, as if to ask, "What are you all talking so much about me for?"

Then with a look of inspiration:

"I know," she said. "There were six--no, there were eight flies. Jack swallowed one--yes, he swallowed one, he ate another--let me see, how many flies did I say? Eight flies? Yes, eight. Well, he swallowed one, and he ate one, and"--she took off her spectacles and thought a moment--"he bit another in halves.

"Yes, that will do," she said with satisfaction. "He swallowed one, he ate another, and he bit another in halves. How many flies were left to fly away?"

Chris knitted his brows. "Lots," he replied, as he pulled one of Jack's ears.

"Come, come, think," Granny said reprovingly. "He swallowed one--that left how many?"

"Seven," said Chris.

"Very good. He ate another?" she went on--

"That left six," the little beggar said, looking very astute.

"That's right. And he bit another in halves. Then, how many were left to fly away?" she asked with mild triumph.

"Five and a half," answered Chris. Then thoughtfully: "How did the half-fly fly away, my Granny? P'r'aps Jack only ate the body and left the wings. Was that how it happened?"

"My pet shouldn't ask such silly questions," Granny said, speaking more testily than she generally did. "I only said, _supposing_ there were eight flies."

"Well, supposing," Chris persisted; "how would the half-fly fly away then?"

"It wouldn't, it couldn't. You see, my darling, it would be dead," the old lady said, becoming flurried.

"But you said it would," Chris said with some perplexity.

"There, there, that will do," she said. "You are a silly little boy to think such a thing. We must get on with your other lessons, for the time is pa.s.sing."

"Shall I have a holiday now?" he suggested lazily.

"No, no; that would never do," she said. "You had better do some more sums; but on the slate. Miss Baggerley, will you be so kind as to give them to him. That, with a little spelling and a copy, will, I think, be sufficient for to-day;" and the old lady, leaning back in her arm-chair, closed her eyes with an exhausted expression.

"Miss Beggarley," said Chris in a coaxing voice--he never failed thus to distort my name--"may I get on your knee and do my lessons, like I did on Granny's?"

"No, you had better not," I said, hardening my heart. "How do you expect to write well if you sit on my knee?"