Penelopes Postscripts | Page 8

heard the wails of their offspring. As the last shred of LE PETIT
Paul has vanished in said smoke, the observer notes that the poor father
is indeed "too late."
VIII--DESESPOIR!!
The despair of all concerned would draw tears from the dryest eye.
Only one person wears a serene expression, and that is the G. L. M.,
who is evidently thinking: "Perhaps they will listen to me the next
time."
IX--LA FIN!
The charred remains of LE PETIT Paul are being carried to the
cemetery. The G. L. M. heads the procession in a white veil. In a
prominent place among the mourners is "LE PAUVRE PETIT
Charles," so bowed with grief and remorse that he can scarcely be
recognized.
It was a telling sermon! If I had been a child I should never have looked
at a match again; and old as I was, I could not, for days afterwards,
regard a box of them without a shudder. I thought that probably
Yverdon had been visited in the olden time by a series of disastrous
holocausts, all set by small boys, and that this was the powerful
antidote presented; so I asked the teacher whether incendiarism was a

popular failing in that vicinity and whether the chart was one of a series
inculcating various moral lessons. I don't know whether she understood
me or not, but she said no, it was "la methode de Pestalozzi."
Just at this juncture she left the room, apparently to give the pupils a
brief study-period, and simultaneously the concierge was called
downstairs by a crying baby. A bright idea occurred to me and I went
hurriedly into the corridor where my friend was taking notes.
"Salemina," said I, "here is an opportunity of a lifetime! We ought to
address these children in their native tongue. It will be something to
talk about in educational pow-wows. They do not know that we are
distinguished visitors, but we know it. A female member of a School
Board and the Honorary President of a Froebel Society owe a duty to
their constituents. You go in and tell them who and what I am and
make a speech in French. Then I'll tell them who and what you are and
make another speech."
Salemina assumed a modest violet attitude, declined the honour
absolutely, and intimated that there were persons who would prefer
talking in a language they didn't know rather than to remain sensibly
silent.
However the plan struck me as being so fascinating that I went back
alone, looked all ways to see if any one were coming, mounted the
platform, cleared my throat, and addressed the awe-struck youngsters in
the following words. I will spare you the French, but you will perceive
by the construction of the sentences, that I uttered only those
sentiments possible in an early stage of language-study.
"My dear children," I began, "I live many thousand miles across the
ocean in America. You do not know me and I do not know you, but I
do know all about your good Pestalozzi and I love him"
"Il est mort!" interpolated one offensive little girl in the front row.
Salemina tittered audibly in the corridor, and I crossed the room and
closed the door. I think the children expected me to put the key in my

pocket and then murder them and stuff them into the stove.
"I know perfectly well that he is dead, my child," I replied
winningly,--"it is his life, his memory that I love.--And once upon a
time, long ago, a great man named Friedrich Froebel came here to
Yverdon and studied with your great Pestalozzi. It was he who made
kindergartens for little children, jardins des enfants, you know. Some of
your grand-mothers remember Froebel, I think?"
Hereupon two of the smaller chits shouted some sort of a negation
which I did not in the least comprehend, but which from large
American experience I took to be, "My grandmother doesn't!" "My
grandmother doesn't!"
Seeing that the others regarded me favourably, I continued, "It is
because I love Pestalozzi and Froebel, that I came here to day to see
your beautiful new monument. I have just bought a photograph taken
on that day last year when it was first uncovered. It shows the flags and
the decorations, the flowers and garlands, and ever so many children
standing in the sunshine, dressed in white and singing hymns of praise.
You are all in the picture, I am sure!"
This was a happy stroke. The children crowded about me and showed
me where they were standing in the photograph, what they wore on the
august occasion, how the bright sun made them squint, how a certain
malheureuse Henriette couldn't go to the festival because she was ill.
I could understand very little