beautiful story."
"Isn't it just as well to read such a book? Why should you want to write one?"
"Because then I should have it go just as I wanted it! I am always—almost always—disappointed with the thing that comes next. But if I wrote it myself, then I shouldn't get tired of it; it would be what pleased me, and not what pleased somebody else."
"Well," said Donal, after thinking for a moment, "suppose you begin to write a book!"
"Oh, that will be fun!—much better than learning verbs and nouns!"
"But the verbs and nouns are just the things that go to make a story—with not a few adjectives and adverbs, and a host of conjunctions; and, if it be a very moving story, a good many interjections! These all you have got to put together with good choice, or the story will not be one you would care to read.—Perhaps you had better not begin till I see whether you know enough about those verbs and nouns to do the thing decently. Show me your school-books."
"There they all are—on that shelf! I haven't opened one of them since Percy came home. He laughed at them all, and so Arkie—that's lady Arctura, told him he might teach me himself. And he wouldn't; and she wouldn't—with him to laugh at her. And I've had such a jolly time ever since—reading books out of the library! Have you seen the library, Mr. Grant?"
"No; I've seen nothing yet. Suppose we begin with a holiday, and you begin by teaching me!"
"Teaching you, sir! I'm not able to teach you!"
"Why, didn't you as much as offer to teach me the library? Can't you teach me this great old castle? And aren't you going to teach yourself to me?"
"That would be a funny lesson, sir!"
"The least funny, the most serious lesson you could teach me! You are a book God has begun, and he has sent me to help him go on with it; so I must learn what he has written already before I try to do anything."
"But you know what a boy is, sir! Why should you want to learn me?"
"You might as well say that, because I have read one or two books, I must know every book. To understand one boy helps to understand another, but every boy is a new boy, different from every other boy, and every one has to be understood."
"Yes—for sometimes Arkie won't hear me out, and I feel so cross with her I should like to give her a good box on the ear. What king was it, sir, that made the law that no lady, however disagreeable, was to have her ears boxed? Do you think it a good law, sir?"
"It is good for you and me anyhow."
"And when Percy says, 'Oh, go away! don't bother,' I feel as if I could hit him hard! Yet, if I happen to hurt him, I am so sorry! and why then should I want to hurt him?"
"There's something in this little fellow!" said Donal to himself. "Ah, why indeed?" he answered. "You see you don't understand yourself yet!"
"No indeed!"
"Then how could you think I should understand you all at once?—and a boy must be understood, else what's to become of him! Fancy a poor boy living all day, and sleeping all night, and nobody understanding him!"
"That would be dreadful! But you will understand me?"
"Only a little: I'm not wise enough to understand any boy."
"Then—but isn't that what you said you came for?—I thought—"
"Yes," answered Donal, "that is what I came for; but if I fancied I quite understood any boy, that would be a sure sign I did not understand him.—There is one who understands every boy as well as if there were no other boy in the whole world."
"Then why doesn't every boy go to him when he can't get fair play?"
"Ah, why? That is just what I want you to do. He can do better than give you fair play even: he can make you give other people fair play, and delight in it."
"Tell me where he is."
"That is what I have to teach you: mere telling is not much use. Telling is what makes people think they know when they do not, and makes them foolish."
"What is his name?"
"I will not tell you that just yet; for then you would think you knew him, when you knew next to nothing about him. Look here; look at this book," he went on, pulling a copy of Boethius from his pocket; "look at the name on the back of it: it is the name of the man that wrote the book."
Davie spelled it out.
"Now you know all about the book, don't you?"
"No, sir; I don't know anything about it."
"Well then, my father's name is Robert Grant: you know now what a good man he is!"
"No, I don't. I should like to see him though!"
"You would love him if you did! But you see now that knowing the name of a person does not make you know the person."
"But you said, sir, that if you told me the name of that person, I should fancy I knew all about him: I don't fancy I know all about your father now you have told me his name!"
"You have me there!" answered Donal. "I did not say quite what I ought to have said. I should have said that when we know a little about a person, and are used to hearing his name, then we are ready to think we know all about him. I heard a man the other day—a man who had never spoken to your father—talk as if he knew all about him."
"I think I understand," said Davie.
To confess ignorance is to lose respect with the ignorant who would appear to know. But there is a worse thing than to lose the respect even of the wise—to deserve to lose it; and that he does who would gain a respect that does not belong to him. But a confession of ignorance is a ground of respect with a well-bred child, and even with many ordinary boys will raise a man's influence: they recognize his loyalty to the truth. Act-truth is infinitely more than fact-truth; the love of the truth infinitely beyond the knowledge of it.
They went out together, and when they had gone the round of the place outside, Davie would have taken him over the house; but Donal said they would leave something for another time, and made him lie down for ten minutes. This the boy thought a great hardship, but Donal saw that he needed to be taught to rest. Ten times in those ten minutes he was on the point of jumping up, but Donal found a word sufficient to restrain him. When the ten minutes were over, he set him an addition sum. The boy protested he knew all the rules of arithmetic.
"But," said Donal, "I must know that you know them; that is my business. Do this one, however easy it is."
The boy obeyed, and brought him the sum—incorrect.
"Now, Davie," said Donal, "you said you knew all about addition, but you have not done this sum correctly."
"I have only made a blunder, sir."
"But a rule is no rule if it is not carried out. Everything goes on the supposition of its being itself, and not something else. People that talk about good things without doing them are left out. You are not master of addition until your addition is to be depended upon."
The boy found it hard to fix his attention: to fix it on something he did not yet understand, would be too hard! he must learn to do
