Chapter VI Two Lessons from Nature
After his first terror over the prospect of having Felix with him for three months, Johnny got on very well with his cousin. Although it was evident Felix had been accustomed to be very wilful and disobedient towards his seniors, and overbearing, with his companions, the respect with which his uncle’s decided yet friendly manner inspired him, and Mrs. Le Bras’ firm though mild manners, held his forwardness and self-will well in check. He soon began to appreciate the advantage, also, of having a boy like Johnny for a companion; he had never before had the benefit of a constant companion; and the boys with whom he had been accustomed to associate were more or less undisciplined, like himself, ready to be offended and quarrel at the first provocation. It would have been very difficult to quarrel with Johnny, because he never gave any ground for offence himself, and was not disposed to find any such ground in the manners of others; the most that he asked was not to be disturbed in his quiet and studious ways; and there was something in his gentle and thoughtful manner which impressed even such a reckless boy as Felix with something like deference and consideration.
About two weeks after Johnny had been presented with his bicycle, and when he had learned to ride it so well that none but an experienced wheelman would have noticed that he was a novice, Mr. Le Bras met the grammar-school teacher who had been Johnny’s instructor the past year, preparatory to his entrance to the high school.
“I see Johnny has become a bicyclist,” said Mr. Farnsworth.
“Yes,” replied Mr. Le Bras: “what do you think of the amusement?”
“A very good thing for Johnny, and a very bad thing for some other boys.”
“Ah!” replied Mr. Le Bras. “How is that?”
“Why, there is Harrison Brown, for instance: it would be the best thing for him if he could be wholly deprived of his bicycle for a time, and then allowed to ride it only Saturdays. That boy’s education is all going into his legs, and all his vigor is going the same way. He rides his bicycle before school in the morning, at noon, after school at night, and every Saturday. Now, he is a backward scholar, to begin with, and this wheeling has just used him up, so far as learning any thing is concerned: he comes to school all tired out, without enough life and energy left to even give attention to what the teacher says; and as to studying, he hardly knows what lesson he is expected to get from day to day; he sits half asleep and dreaming,—probably dreaming of his bicycle-rides,—and knows almost nothing of what is going on around him: he has been a mere figure-head all this year, and is no nearer to entering the high school than he was a year ago.”
“I can see the disadvantage in such a case as that,” replied Mr. Le Bras: “in fact, I have a nephew at my house who is wholly given up to outdoor sports, fun, etc.; although he is such a vigorous, wide-awake fellow, that he is not often caught dreaming or asleep: he and Johnny are having very good counter-influences upon each other, I find; he is getting Johnny into outdoor exercise more, and Johnny is beginning to put the idea into Felix’s head, that there is some use and interest in books. I think riding a bicycle is a very good thing for Johnny: he is so much inclined to sit down and read and study, that we have apprehended serious danger from it; indeed, the doctor is constantly warning us to put some stop to it. The teachers have been very kind about heeding my request to hold him back as much as possible at school, but we have found it no easy matter at home to keep him from his books. I hope much from his taking to bicycle-riding.”
“A very good thing! a very good thing indeed!” replied Mr. Farnsworth. “The quickness with which Johnny learns, and his fondness for books, are extraordinary; considering that, I think we have kept him back pretty well: a good many quite ordinary scholars get into the high school at thirteen, provided they have been to school pretty steadily.”
“Oh, yes!” returned Mr. Le Bras. “I began to prepare for college at twelve; but I was very strong and healthy, and exceedingly fond of outdoor sports. I was fully as well balanced physically as I was mentally, and that is what I believe in.”
“Just so! just so! you’ve got the right of it: but I can tell you, there are very few boys who are well balanced nowadays; they are chiefly one thing or the other,—brains or brawn. But I hope you’ll bring Johnny out all right.”
“You know Pierre Stein?” said Mr. Le Bras.
“Pierre? Oh, yes! he’s just right, isn’t he?”
“I think so. The Germans understand what education should be better than we do, in some respects. But it is a great pity about his father. I’m afraid he will not be able to go back to teaching for some time: and that is bad for Pierre, too, just as he is ready for college; he don’t feel now as though he ought to ask any help from his father. I tell him, if I were he, I would look out for some employment that would pay pretty well without confining me too closely, and be studying up to enter the junior class next year: in that way he will lose no time, and yet have some money to pay for the next year at college.”
“That would be a good idea. What does he say to it?”
“He agrees with me, but don’t know where to find such a place. I have been looking about for him myself, but nothing suitable seems to offer. I could give him considerable writing in my office, but that would be bad for him: it would soon use him up to write and study constantly, although he is ready enough to undertake it. He has been in my office a good deal, off and on, for several years, out of school-time. You know, he used to be my office-boy when he was a youngster?”
“Yes: he went to school to me then.”
“I am some in hopes,” continued Mr. Le Bras, “that my nephew will take a fancy to him: and if he does, I shall advise my brother to hire Pierre next year for Felix’s tutor; it would be a great thing for Felix, and my brother is able to pay a young man well for bringing his son into the traces; he is what we call a spoiled child at present.”
“That would be an excellent arrangement, then.”
“Yes; and as Pierre is to stay with us while his father and mother are at the mountains, I hope to bring it about by fall, when my brother gets back from Europe. In fact, Pierre is coming home with me this noon to stay: his parents start this morning. Tell Lester to come over and see him as often as he can.”
“I will. Lester and he were always good friends, and Lester will be very much disappointed that they cannot enter college together this fall.”
Mr. Le Bras and Mr. Farnsworth had now reached the corner, and bade each other good-morning, as they were going different ways.
Johnny and Felix had gone off on their bicycles after breakfast. They crossed the river on the long, open bridge, which commanded a fine view on both sides, and went up the river-road on the other side, until they came to a hill on the left. The plan had been to go on up the river to the manufacturing-town above, and visit the carpet-mill there; but when they came to the hill, Felix said,—
“Let’s get off of this level road, and go up on that hill: I want to show you how to come down hill with your feet in rest.”
“I don’t believe I should like to try on such a steep hill as that.”
“It isn’t any thing at all: the hill is just right.”
Felix immediately turned, and rode up the hill, which, although quite long, was not very steep. Johnny hesitated a moment, and then followed, saying,—
“If we linger on the way very much, we sha’n’t be able to visit the mill and get home before dinner.”
“Never mind: all we want is a good time. We can go to the mill some other time; and I don’t much care how carpets are made, so they keep on making them all right.”
Felix was considerably ahead; and when he reached the top of the hill, he called out,—
“Oh! here’s a steeper hill, Johnny! This is just fine! Now I’ll show you!”
When Johnny reached the top of the hill, he saw there was a shorter and much steeper hill a little way off, in a nearly opposite direction from the river-road.
“Come, now, Johnny, just try it with me: this is the way.”
Felix then told Johnny just how to proceed in going down the hill.
“But I don’t like to try, the first time, on such a steep hill,” replied Johnny. “I am about certain I shouldn’t have confidence enough to do just right, and so should lose my balance, or get a header.”
“Nonsense!” replied Felix: “I can go down this hill blindfolded. I’ll prove that I can.”
Felix immediately alighted from his bicycle, and, taking out his handkerchief, bound it about his eyes.
“Please don’t, Felix,” said Johnny anxiously. “I’m afraid you’ll get badly hurt.”
Johnny also alighted from his bicycle, for he was resolved not to go down either of these hills before he had tried some declivity that was not as steep.
“Oh, ho!” said Felix, mounting his bicycle without any apparent difficulty, in spite of the bandage. “I didn’t suppose you were quite so much of a coward! Now just see me go down this hill blindfolded.”
With this, he glided off, while Johnny stood almost holding his breath with suspense. Felix went on all right, and in a perfectly straight course, until he was about half way down the hill. Johnny had begun to breathe more freely at seeing how well Felix kept the middle of the road, which was quite even: but all at once he turned to the right, and the reason was at the same time evident to Johnny; for a heavy team appeared at that moment, around the turn, coming up the hill. Before Johnny had time to wonder how his cousin had dodged this danger so well with the handkerchief over his eyes, Felix was thrown violently forward from his bicycle, upon the rough surface at the side of the road, which was covered with bushes, briers, and stones. Johnny uttered a terrified “Oh!” and, dropping his bicycle, ran down the hill, fearing that Felix was killed. The teamster at the same time alighted, and hurried towards the fallen boy. Felix was lying motionless, half covered by the wild growth about him. As the man had been rather nearer the scene of the disaster than Johnny, and, having longer legs, could run faster, he was just lifting Felix up when Johnny got there.
“Is he killed?” asked Johnny, with whitened, quivering lips.
The man brought Felix out of the bushes, and put him down on a smooth strip of turf by the side of the road: his face was covered with blood. But when Johnny drew off the bandage, he could see that his eyes were open, and that he was moving them about, although in a vacant, languid manner.
“There’s a pail in the bottom of my cart,” said the man: “go and get it, and then run to the brook down yonder, and bring some water.”
Johnny ran to the cart, and found the pail: then, springing over the rail-fence, he hurried to a little stream that ran through the pasture below, scooped up some water hurriedly, and hastened back. To his delight, he found that Felix was sitting up, although he was supported by the teamster: still better, he was answering a question the teamster had addressed to him. Johnny did not hear the question; but he heard Felix say,—
“I guess I didn’t know much at first, but I see where I am now.”
The man had wiped off the blood as well as he could with the handkerchief, and then bound it around Felix’s head; but his face was smeared with blood, and the stained handkerchief added to the ghastly effect. Johnny pulled out his handkerchief, and, wetting it in the water, handed it to the man, after he had filled a little telescope-cup, which he had brought in his pocket to drink from if they should get thirsty on their excursion. The man told Felix to drink some of the water, and then wiped the blood from his face with Johnny’s handkerchief, and asked him how he felt.
“I guess I don’t feel so very badly,” he replied, in quite a natural manner; “but I wish that blood wouldn’t come trickling down my face all the time.”
The bandage was by this time saturated, so that it no longer absorbed the blood from the wound: Johnny’s handkerchief was wrung out as dry as possible, and substituted for it.
“I’ll tell you what we had better do,” said the man. “I’ll put him in my cart, and carry him right to the doctor: he lives about as near as any one, and he’ll know just what ought to be done.”
“Yes,” said Johnny: “I wish you would.”
It was found that Felix could now walk tolerably well. He was helped into the cart; and the bicycle, which had continued on down the hill a little way, and lodged in another clump of bushes at the side of the road, was put in behind. The man then got in and drove up the hill, supporting Felix with one arm; while Johnny walked up, and got upon his bicycle, for the man said the doctor lived on the hill.
They passed one house, and then came to a brown cottage with a piazza running along the side, facing an apple-orchard. A little boy was sitting upon the piazza, with some playthings about him.
“Hallo, Charley!” said the man: “is your father in?”
The boy made no reply, except to jump up and run into the house. The man stopped his team, and Johnny alighted from his bicycle. A moment afterwards, a gentleman came out of the front-door, and approached them with, “Good-morning, Mr. Jenks.”
“Good-mornin’, doctor. I’ve got a boy here who took a bad header going down our hill here blindfolded: he’s got lesson enough without any remarks of mine, for he’s cut a pretty deep gash on his head. I guess you’d better tend to it, if you’ve a mind to, and send the bill in to his father.”
“Never mind the bill,” replied the doctor in a hearty, cheery tone, as he helped Felix out of the cart. “I was a foolhardy boy myself once, and I’m willing to help a young fellow out of a little trouble, any time.”
“I can pay, myself,” replied Felix: “I guess I’ve got money enough in my pocket; and if I haven’t, I can come over some day and bring the rest.”
By this time, his face was very bloody again, although he had been wiping it with his handkerchief, which Johnny had rinsed in the pail.
“I’ll pay you for your trouble, too,” said Felix, as the man began to drive on.
“No, you don’t!” replied Mr. Jenks. “That’s all right. Hope the doctor can make you as good as new.”
Johnny leaned his own bicycle and that of Felix against the fence, and then followed the doctor and his patient into one of the front rooms, which was the doctor’s office. The doctor immediately washed Felix’s face, and then bound the wound together with strips of court-plaster, after cutting the hair as close as possible in the neighborhood of the gash. It was evident that Felix had struck his head against the sharp edge of one of the stones at the side of the road.
“There, young man,” said the doctor, when he had finished: “you’ll be all right after a while, and you’ll be a little wiser than you were before; so, on the whole, you may be even better off for the accident. But what possessed you to try to go down hill on a bicycle blindfolded?”
“I just did it to make Johnny wonder how it was done: I’ve tried it before with the boys at home, without their finding out the trick. I didn’t put the handkerchief so but what I could see some, just down under; and I should have been all right, because I could see the ground close ahead of me well enough; only when I heard the team coming, I lifted up one side of the handkerchief so as to pass all right, and then I turned out to the side without thinking of its being rocky there; and as I couldn’t see off that way, easily, because of the handkerchief, I ran on a stone all of a sudden, and that gave me a header. If the team hadn’t come, I should have kept on in the middle of the road all right.”
“This going along without the full use of your eyes isn’t a good plan, you see, young man; and it’s so all through life. Keep your eyes wide open, my boy, keep your eyes wide open. And now about your getting home. I presume you feel pretty weak and faint after losing so much blood, and having something of a fright?”
“No; I’m all right now, I guess; I’ll pay you, and then I’ll get on my bicycle and ride home.”
Felix pulled out his pocket-book, opened it, and took out some bills. “How much will it be?” said he.
“You are quite a capitalist, I see,” remarked the doctor; “but put up your money; I don’t want any pay; you are perfectly welcome.”
“No: I shall pay,” replied Felix. “I’ve got plenty of money.”
“In that case, if you think you will feel better for paying, you can give me a dollar, which is the usual fee for such an operation when the patient comes to my office; but you would be quite welcome to the service free of charge.”
Felix handed the doctor a dollar, and then said he guessed he had better be going.
“You must not go for an hour, at least,” replied the doctor, “or I cannot promise that you will have no unpleasant results from your injury. Sit down in the fresh air a while, on the piazza, with your friend, until you are fully certain that you are equal to the exertion of returning home. At the end of an hour I will feel of your pulse and tell you whether you can go on your bicycle, or had better be sent home in my carriage.”
The doctor then felt of Felix’s pulse, and continued,—
“No, you can’t go yet, my boy: just step out on the piazza, and sit down in that arm-chair, till I see you again.”
Although Felix would have preferred to have his own way, there was something in the doctor’s manner that made him hesitate about attempting to disregard his advice, the more especially as the doctor took hold of his arm, led him upon the piazza, and sat him down in the large out-of-door rocker, with its wide, comfortable arms. Once set down in front of the cool orchard, Felix felt a consciousness of languor and restfulness that made him quite willing to keep his seat. Johnny seated himself on a settee near; and the little boy, who had gone back to his play, said,—
“Isn’t this a good place to stay in?”
“Yes,” replied Johnny. “I should like just such a place to sit and read in, of a summer day: it’s almost as good as the sky-room, isn’t it, Felix?”
“I guess so: only you can’t see much of the sky; it’s all green whichever way you look, except where the house is.”
“That would make it all the better for reading, because green is such a good color for the eyes.”
“It’s lucky, then, that the grass and leaves are green instead of red: if every thing were red and yellow always, as the trees are in autumn, it would get to be sort of tiresome, I suppose.”
“It isn’t luck that makes the foliage green,” replied Johnny; “somehow or other, Nature does it on purpose; you can tell that because every thing is all right in just the same way: if it was luck, things would happen right only now and then, and sometimes they would happen all wrong and uncomfortable.”
“They do happen uncomfortable, lots of times: it’s uncomfortable to have the sun hot in the middle of a summer’s day. If Nature wants to fix things all right, why don’t it have it just about the right warmth all day, summer and winter?”
“There are ever so many things we need to eat that would never ripen in that case, besides a great many other disadvantages. You see, Nature don’t always do what is pleasantest for us at the time, but what is best for us in the end. She might make every thing so convenient that nice crops would grow without any care, and we should have our clothes all ready made and fitted for us, like that cow and horse over in the lot; but it is better for us to have to work and contrive to supply our own wants out of the material that Nature has supplied in the rough,—like trees for our fine houses, and cotton, flax, wool, and silk for our hundreds of sorts of clothes.”
“She has made some things all ready for us: there are fruits and milk and vegetables and meat for food, and furs for clothing.”
“Yes, of course, she supplied some things all ready to eat and wear, so that folks could get along until they became civilized; and then, you see, she is very good-natured, and likes to make it as easy and comfortable for us as she can without spoiling us and making babies of us: there are ever so many pleasant things in the world that we could get along without; but it is intended that it shall be a pleasant world to live in after all, so that we sha’n’t want to get out of it before we’ve learned all we need to learn. I suppose that’s why death is made to seem so horrible; for if death seemed pleasant, we shouldn’t take such good care of our lives.”
“How did you know all that?”
“Some of it I learned myself by studying about Nature from books, and some my father and mother told me ever so long ago, and some I’ve heard the minister say at church.”
“Our minister don’t say that Nature looks out for us: he says God does it. I don’t pay much attention to what he says; but as he always keeps on saying that, I can’t help remembering it.”
“He says God takes care of you, and gives you a pleasant home, don’t he?”
“Yes.”
“But it’s your father and mother that do it, too, isn’t it?”
“Yes: it always seems to me that the minister don’t put it right, and I’ve wanted to tell him so, sometimes.”
“Yes, he puts it right, if you understand what he means: he means that God made the world so that children have parents to take care of them. God don’t appear to do things in this world directly himself, but seems to have agents to carry out his plans; and Nature is the greatest of these agents, who appoints all the smaller agents. Of course, God made Nature, and some think he is in Nature; and we can find out a good deal about him by studying her ways.”
“What can you find out?”
“We can find out that he is wise and good, and that he doesn’t let us know every thing in a minute, even about his wisdom and goodness, and that we’ve got to wait until we get into another world before we can understand the meaning of some things that happen in this world; so we learn to have faith in him,—that is, to believe he will make every thing right sometime, even though we can’t see how.”
“Do you suppose we shall ever know just how the trees and grass came to be so green?” said Felix, who was getting sleepy, and looking dreamily into the thick, low boughs of the apple-orchard.
“Why, we know that now; that was explained long ago.”
“Was it? Well, I’d like to know how. I never heard any one tell about it.”
“Hasn’t your teacher at school told you what makes colors?”
“She’s talked something about it; but I never saw any sense to what she was saying, and so I didn’t pay attention.”
“I learned about that in the primary school, but I didn’t understand it very well until I read about it in my ‘Science for the Young.’ I’ll see if I can explain it to you.”
There was a rubber ball among the little boy’s playthings, and Johnny asked him if he might take it a few moments. As the boy was not using the ball, he handed it to Johnny very willingly, saying, “You can play with it as long as you’ve a mind to.”
Johnny threw the ball on the floor of the piazza in a straight line, remarking,—
“You see, Felix, the ball bounds right back to my hand, in just the direction in which I threw it down.”
“That’s nothing: everybody knows that a ball always does so.”
“But that is just the way some of the rays of light bound back whenever they strike any thing which is not transparent; that is, if they strike it directly, or at a right angle. The rays which come back are called reflected rays. Every thing which is not transparent reflects light that shines upon it; that is, the light bounds back. It is just the same with heat: that which is not absorbed by the substance upon which it falls, bounds back, or is reflected.”
“If that’s so, what of it?”
“Why, that’s what makes the grass green, and flowers of different colors, and your suit blue, and your necktie red, and your eyes brown: that’s what makes things seem to be colored.”
“Seem to be colored? Why, they are colored! my suit was colored with a blue dye, and there’s a kind of green dye in grass: I’ve got it on my stockings and handkerchiefs many a time.”
“The juice, or fluid, in the grass looks green, just as the grass does, because its particles are so arranged that they absorb all of the light except the green rays, and those they reflect. The substance of those roses out there in the garden absorbs all except a red part of the light, and reflects that. Your collar reflects all the colors in the light, and that makes it white, which is the mixing of all the colors together in certain proportions. My spectacle-case looks black, because it absorbs the light without reflecting any of it.’”
“I don’t believe that,” replied Felix: “I shall always believe things are colored in themselves, without any regard to the light. How do you know that there are different colors in light? You can’t see any thing but a kind of yellow.”
“You can’t see yellow, unless it is reflected.”
“Why, yes, you can. Look over in that field; it’s just as yellow there where the sunshine falls as can be; and where it falls between the trees here in the orchard, the green looks yellowish, while it is just bright green under the trees; and the sun itself is just as yellow as can be.”
“The grass has been mowed out in that lot, so the sun has dried it, and changed the substance of it so that it reflects more yellow rays. I suppose that here in the orchard more of the rays striking the parts that are not protected by the trees gives a different reflection. As for the sun being yellow, it isn’t always yellow; that is, I mean it doesn’t always look yellow; I have seen it look quite red.”
“If it isn’t yellow, I’d like to know what color it is!” exclaimed Felix, rather impatiently.
“I don’t suppose it is any color at all, though it gives the impression of a good many colors to our minds: color is nothing but a sensation produced by the kind of light that is reflected to our eyes. But light that is not separated at all, gives us only a sensation of whiteness. I don’t suppose the sun would look yellow to us if we could see it without looking through any air. The air even changes the direction of the sunlight so as to make the sun appear to us to rise a little while before it does rise.”
“I don’t see how folks found out all that, and I don’t believe they have! I’ll bet they made it all up!”
“I have a fine prism at home: we’ll go up in the sky-room this afternoon, and I will separate some light into its different colors. But look here, Felix! see! When I throw this ball against the floor in a slanting direction, notice how it bounds back the other way in just such a slant line as I threw it in from this way. Light does just like that, and heat too: if a ray of light strikes a plane surface at a slant, it is reflected the other way in exactly the same slant. And it’s something so when light passes through any transparent substance: it comes out the other side just as it went in. That is, if it goes in at a slant, it comes out at the same slant it went in at, making an angle; but if it passes in at a right angle, as I throw this ball against the floor, it comes out and goes on the other side, in the same straight line.”
“I should think it would make your head ache to try to study about such things,” said Felix, with a yawn; “it makes mine ache just to hear about it; it’s all so queer and unlikely and mixed up. I think it’s ever so much pleasanter to just take things as they are, without trying to make out what makes them so and so. I’m glad the grass is green, and the sky blue, and that there are other pretty colors in the world; but I don’t care a cent what makes them so. Though I don’t believe the color is just in the sun or our eyes.”
“I like to know why things are so and so; in order to see how wise and beautiful the laws of Nature are, and what wisdom and beauty there must be in all the rest of the universe.”
“What do I care about the rest of the universe? all I care about is the part of it which I am in.”
“But when we see how wonderful this little part of it is, we can get a pleasant idea of what another world might be which we shall go into when we leave this: and that is ever so much pleasanter than having such a common idea about it as some folks have, as a place paved with gold, and built of stones; or to have no idea of it at all, or only to think of just being dead and buried. When we learn how every thing is made for some purpose, and nothing ever really dies, and then remember that our minds and feelings are the very highest part of all creation, and the most delicate and complicated, we feel very certain that there is some great future before us that we can’t tell any thing about.”
“If you can’t tell any thing about it, what’s the use of trying?”
“Why, it’s enough for us to see that it must be something grand; that’s all we want to know now: we’ve got plenty to enjoy and take up our minds here; all we want to know is, that we shall keep on having enough to busy us, and make us happy always; and Nature tries to tell us that in every way she can, or as much about it as she thinks it best for us to be told of. I am sure I am happier for knowing what little I have learned; and it makes me happy, too, to keep on learning curious things about Nature.”
“I’d rather ride ’round on a bicycle, and see what’s going on, any time, than study about such things,” replied Felix, with another and longer yawn. “I know I feel well enough to ride home now. I’m going to get my bicycle.”
Felix immediately rose, and walked around the house to the place where Johnny had placed the bicycles. But Johnny went into the office, and told the doctor Felix was determined to go, and asked him if he would try his pulse. The doctor, who had been sitting near a window of his office, not far from where the boys were conversing, had heard the whole of their conversation. But as the blinds were closed, the boys had not noticed this, and were rather surprised when, after feeling Felix’s pulse, and saying it was safe for him to go, he remarked,—
“Well, my boy, you have had two lessons from Nature this morning: she taught you herself that you will get punished if you trifle with her laws,—viz., in this case, if you try to get along without using the eyes she has given you,—and she has taught you, second or third hand, through Johnny, something of the way in which she produces her beautiful and useful effects. So, although this is vacation time, you see a great many things can be learned outside of a schoolroom. Life is a great school, and you have just begun your course in it. Make the most of your advantages; for some folks go through life without learning much of any thing, just as some boys go through school and college, yet come out ignoramuses at last.”
The doctor then told the boys he should like to have them stop any time they came that road, and that, if they would come in apple-time, they might take their choice of fruit from the trees in the orchard.
After, they were on their way, Felix asked,—
“What is an ignoramus?”
“It’s Latin for an ignorant person,” replied Johnny.
Felix looked thoughtful a moment, and then he began to whistle: he was thinking how little he had learned at school, and wondering if he was in danger of going through life, and turning out an ignoramus at last. He wondered, too, if he was so much duller than Johnny, or what the reason was that Johnny knew so much and he so little. As he did not like to take any blame himself, he concluded it was because his father and mother did not try to teach him any thing, and did not seem to know any thing themselves of these things which Johnny had learned about, and part of which he said his father and mother had told him.
When they came to the hill, Johnny got off of his bicycle, and walked down. At first, Felix was inclined to laugh at him; but when he reflected how much smarter Johnny was than himself in some ways, he refrained for once to boast of his superior acquirements.
When they reached home, they found the family at the dinner-table; and at one end of the table, by the side of Sue, sat a young man with auburn hair, which, being closely cut, stood up smartly all about his head. His eyes were hazel, his complexion ruddy, and he had a very bright and good-natured expression of countenance.
“How d’y’ do, Pierre?” exclaimed Johnny, apparently very much pleased at seeing the young man. “Have you come to stay?”
“I believe so,” replied Pierre, smiling.
Johnny had sat directly down at the table, since he knew his parents did not like to have him late; but Felix remained in the sitting-room with his hat on, looking curiously through the door at Pierre.
“Come, Felix, don’t be any later than necessary,” called out his uncle. “I do not think Johnny timed himself very well, or you would have been home earlier.”
Johnny said nothing in self-defence; but Felix replied promptly,—
“We were late because I had a header, and that’s the reason I don’t like to come to the table: I’ve got a lot of court-plaster on my head.”
Mr. and Mrs. Le Bras immediately rose from the table, and went into the sitting-room to examine into the extent of Felix’s injuries; but when he told them he felt pretty well, and had no objection to eating dinner except concern for his personal appearance, their minds were much relieved. His aunt bound a handkerchief over the wound; and his uncle led him out, and seated him in his usual place, beside Johnny.
“Johnny must entertain us with an account of your adventures,” said Mr. Le Bras; “but you had better keep pretty still yourself, this afternoon, Felix.”
Felix kept quiet while Johnny was telling the story, but more because Pierre was present, and he was quite busy observing this new member of the family, than from any disinclination to talk. He was a little afraid, too, that his uncle might be displeased with his trying to cheat Johnny about the blindfolding. Johnny did not refer to that deception, however. But when Mr. Le Bras said, “How could you do such a foolish thing, as to attempt riding with a bandage over your eyes?” Felix stated exactly how it was, rather than have it supposed he was so very foolish as appeared.
“Very well: I will not say any thing about the deceptive part of the performance,” said Mr. Le Bras; “when one has had the kind of lesson you have, words don’t add much to it. But it seems a very astonishing good fortune that there were no bones broken, and no worse bruises or wounds.”
“I think that was on account of the bushes,” replied Johnny; “he fell right into a whole lot of stout bushes: but there happened to be quite a high stone, and so his head hit against it.”
“I hadn’t but just got over my lame ankle,” said Felix, “and now I was awfully afraid I should be laid up again. But I don’t feel badly at all: I guess I’ll go up to the carpet-mill with you this afternoon, Johnny.”
“No, young man,” replied his uncle: “no more bicycling for you to-day. Amuse yourself around home this afternoon, and we will see how you feel to-morrow. In fact, I shall veto more than half a day’s riding at a time, either on your part or Johnny’s; that is enough for any boy; and always take the cool of the morning for it too.”
Felix would have liked to remonstrate, but there was a decision about his uncle’s manner which prevented his objecting at that time.