A quarter race in Kentucky and other sketches, illustrative of scenes, characters, and incidents throughout "the universal Yankee nation." |
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"FRENCH WITHOUT A MASTER." |
 | A quarter race in Kentucky |  |
"FRENCH WITHOUT A MASTER."
BY "STRAWS," [JOSEPH M. FIELD, ESQ.]
Another "tip-top thing" by the editor of the St. Louis "Reveille,"
whose sketches of domestic life are among the cleverest of the
many which he is in the habit of "throwing off at a heat."
My dear, if that ain't the convenientest book—that
French one, with the yaller cover—as ever was; and
only to cost twenty-five cents, too! There's Bill and
Sally does nothin' else but keep a-askin each other questions
in it, and such a jabberin' all round the house, I
never did see! They can say a good deal more French
already than them stuck-up Wilkins' children opposite,
that's bin a payin' masters Heaven only knows how long
—and here comes the blessed darlin's now, and make
'em go through it before they gets a bit of dinner, you'll
say so, too, you will."
The delighted mother goes on "a settin' of the table,"
the expectant father puts down his hat, with the air of one
suddenly called upon to preside over an inquiry which
will necessarily call forth all his resources, and the hopeful
"Bill" having kicked the door open, is met by the
emulous "Sally," book in hand.
"William, your mother says you're a good boy, and
'tend to your French. Sally, my dear, what's a kiss in
French.
"A baiser, pa."
"A baiser! Let me see—`baiser, to kiss.' So it is.
Well, then, baiser your brother, and both come here
together."
"You, Bill, keep your fingers out of the pickles or I'll
baiser your back for you. Kiss your sister, and go on
as your pa tells you."
Bill drops the cucumber, minus one end, salutes his
sister in the neighbourhood of the ear, cracks a pecan nut
which he has taken from his pocket, and, with the nonchalance
of a professor of languages, looks at the paternal
examiner as he would say, "I guess I know more than
you about it."
"That's right, William, always observe what your
mother says to you. What is your mother in French,
William?"
"She's a mare."
"No, brother William—a mere. M-e-r-e, mere."
"Well, I know it's m-e-r-e; but isn't the e sounded
wide, like a? There's the wide accents and the sharp
ones, ain't there? A great deal you know about it.
You'd better say your father ain't a pear!"
"Eh?"
"Yes; I'm a man, you know. A man, in French?"
"Oh, yes, I know; you're a hum."
"No he ain't, neither; he's a hommy. H-o-m hom,
m-e me, hommy—ain't it? And a woman's a femmy, and
a lady a dammy, just the same! I'm always a tellin her
about the rules."
"Well, well, she's younger than you are, you know,
William. What is sister in French, can you tell?"
"Yes—she's a sewer."
"No, Bill, I ain't. S-o-e-u-r, sour!"
"Well, ain't the o a dipthorp? and don't you drop it,
say?"
"No, Bill, the e is the dipthorp, and that makes it
sour."
"Massy on the children, husband, if that ain't the
way they keep a disputin' from mornin' till night. There,
come along, you Bill and Sally; your father can ask
you all about the table things in French, you know.
Come, Hubby, sit down."
"D'ye hear your mother, my dear; come to the table.
Leave off your nuts, Billy; they make such a noise."
"Noise is brute, and nuts is knoyx, and table is tabble,"
screams the erudite Bill, as he draws up his chair
and spoils the other end of the cucumber.
"Now, then, my dears, in the first place, takey voo
some pain, and fill your glasses with awe, and your mother
will help you to hack. Pain is bread, my love, and
awe is water, amd hack is hash. You see, wify, I know
something about it myself. Ha, Ha!"
"Well, what the world's coming to, I don't know!
What with Morse's paragraph and steam chickens and
learnin' one's self, I don't belong to this creation—I
don't!"
"Now, William, what's that in your hand—not the
pickle, the knife?"
It's a cut-o."
"So it is, Billy, 'cause the dipthorp is all sounded
together at the end; and daddy was wrong about the
water."—(aside.)
"Oh, he don't know nothin'."—(aside, also.)
"The dipthorp, you know, Billy, is only separate
when it's got a diarhear on top."—(aside.)
"Well, I know that; shut up."
"Now, husband, just let me ask 'em a little. Sally,
what's this I'm eating now?"
"Jaw-bane and choaks, ma."
"Ba-a-ur! no it aint. She only spells—she can't
pronounce. You're a eating shan-bung and shoe!
Don't know what ham and cabbage is! Ba-a-ur!"
"Sally, my love, spelling's a great deal; but you
must mind the pronunciation. Words don't sound at
all as they look, as William shows you."
"Yes; she went and said, yesterday, that the tablecloth
was a toil when it's towell, and began a crying
'cause I said a glass wasn't a very—Halloo! Shovel
run away—shovel run away! Oh, look there, daddy—
there's the hommy off and he's smashed his taty 'gainst
the pavy! The roo is full of puples—only look—
And rushing out of the house, dragging after him the
table-cloth or towell, as he called it, the student of
French "without a master" disappeared; while his
anxious parents, running to the window, beheld a horse
with his head against a curb-stone, a gathering crowd,
and the hopeful Billy busiest of all!
| A quarter race in Kentucky | |