"I al'ays tol' ye, Ezry,
ye'd be proud o' her some day."
"I guess Sue Arkwright's a famous good teacher; that's one thing," said
Ma, amiably. "Sis never done near so well before; at least, not till last
term."
"I never thought Sue was anythin' remarkable," Pa broke in. "How is that,
Sis? Is she a good teacher?"
"No, she ain't," I responded, with quickened beating of the heart.
Criticism of teachers was admissible in my code of ethics, but
justification must follow; there must be proof--or reproof.
"What's that?" said Pa, looking at me curiously. "Ever ketch her in a
mistake?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Bring the book."
I ran and fetched a well-thumbed book from the sewing machine and turned
to the definitions of familiar foreign words.
"There," said I, spreading the speller flat on the table and pointing with
my finger. "French word for 'Mister.' Teacher called it 'Monshure,' just
as they all do. But that's wrong. To-day I showed her how it is. See, the
book says it's pronounced 'm-o-s-s-e-r' and that little mark means an
accent on the last syllable and it's 'long e.' 'Mosseer' is right. But
when I showed it to teacher, she looked at it awhile, and then she
wrinkled up her eye-brows, and whispered it once or twice and said: 'Oh,
yes; "mosser.
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