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Updated: June 1, 2025
He is to be here in an hour, and Johnnie has started off to meet him, with Bertie and one of the girls." The other of the girls, namely, Gladys, had betrayed just a little shyness, and had left his young allies to go and fetch Crayshaw without her. Emily meeting her in the corridor as she came up-stairs, had stopped and given her a cordial kiss.
Tyrants avaunt! henceforth to me Whose Harrow'd heart beats faster, The coach shall as the coachman be, And Butler count as master. That maiden's nose, that puppy's eyes, Which I this happy day saw, They've touched the manliest chords that rise I' the breast of Gifford Crayshaw.
A few minutes passed away, while Crayshaw began to breathe like, other people, and a certain scratching noise was heard below, upon which significant looks entreated her to be silent. She thought she would let things take their course, and sat still for a minute, when a casement was flung open below, and a shrill voice cried, "Mr. Swan, I say, here's Mr.
"No," said Crayshaw, "but it's no stimulus to my genius to have to talk Yankee to such ignorant people. I might mix up North, South, and West as I liked, and you would be none the wiser. However, if she chances to hear me speak a week hence, she'll believe that my accent has entirely peeled off. I thought I'd better provide against that probability.
The best I can say for what we endured at Crayshaw's is that it was experience, and so I suppose could not fail to teach one something, which, as Jem says, was "more than Snuffy did." The affection with which I have heard men speak of their school-days and school-masters makes me know that Mr. Crayshaw was not a common type of pedagogue.
"Give my love to the kids, and tell them if they don't weed my garden they will catch it when I come home. "I remain, your deservedly revered brother, A postscript followed, from Crayshaw: "What this fellow says is quite right, our letters are worth three of yours. You never once mentioned my guinea-pigs in your last, and we don't care whether there is a baby at Wigfield or not. Pretty, is he?
Young Gifford Crayshaw had a general invitation to spend the holidays at Brandon's house, for his brother and Brandon were intimate friends; but boys being dull alone, Johnny Mortimer and he contrived at these times to meet rather often, sometimes to play, sometimes to fight even the latter is far better than being without companionship, more natural, and on the whole more cheerful.
At length, finding he was not to be caught, Crayshaw returned a good deal heated, and Johnnie followed smiling blandly, and flung himself on the grass breathing hard. "Well, I'm glad you two are not going to finish up your friendship with another fight," said Valentine. "He's always prophesying something horrid about me," exclaimed Crayshaw.
Silence, a crunching of decided step coming on fast and firmly; the faces of the party fell. "It's all up!" sighed Crayshaw. Somebody shook the door at the foot of the stairs; then a voice rang through the place like a silver trumpet, "Johnnie." "Yes, father," answered Johnnie in the loud, melancholy tone not unfrequently used by a boy when he succumbs to lawful authority.
They were all getting better; Valentine took care they should not want for amusement, and Crayshaw, who, to do him justice, had not yet heard of little Janie's death or of Nancy's extremely precarious state, did not fail to write often, and bestow upon them all the nonsense he could think of.
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