In a town in the interior of New York, a few years ago, a gentleman set forth a mathematical problem and proposed to give a prize to every public-school pupil who should furnish the correct solution of it.Twenty-two of the brightest boys in the public schools entered the contest.The problem was not a very difficult one for pupils of their mathematical rank and standing, yet they all failed--by a hair--through one trifling mistake or another.Some searching questions were asked, when it turned out that these lads were as glib as parrots with the "rules," but could not reason out a single rule or explain the principle underlying it.Their memories had been stocked, but not their understandings.It was a case of brickbat culture, pure and ******.
There are several curious "compositions" in the little book, and we must make room for one.It is full of *****te, brutal truth, and unembarrassed directness, and is the funniest (genuine) boy's composition I think I have ever seen:
ON GIRLS
Girls are very stuck up and dignefied in their maner and be have your.They think more of dress than anything and like to play with dowls and rags.They cry if they see a cow in a far distance and are afraid of guns.They stay at home all the time and go to church on Sunday.They are al-ways sick.They are al-ways funy and ****** fun of boy's hands and they say how dirty.
They cant play marbels.I pity them poor things.They make fun of boys and then turn round and love them.I dont beleave they ever kiled a cat or anything.They look out every nite and say oh ant the moon lovely.Thir is one thing I have not told and that is they al-ways now their lessons bettern boys.
From Mr.Edward Channing's recent article in SCIENCE:
The marked difference between the books now being produced by French, English, and American travelers, on the one hand, and German explorers, on the other, is too great to escape attention.
That difference is due entirely to the fact that in school and university the German is taught, in the first place to see, and in the second place to understand what he does see.
------------------------------------------------------------------TAMING THE BICYCLE
In the early eighties Mark Twain learned to ride one of the old high-wheel bicycles of that period.He wrote an account of his experience, but did not offer it for publication.The form of bicycle he rode long ago became antiquated, but in the humor of his pleasantry is a quality which does not grow old.
A.B.P.
I
I thought the matter over, and concluded I could do it.So I went down a bought a barrel of Pond's Extract and a bicycle.
The Expert came home with me to instruct me.We chose the back yard, for the sake of privacy, and went to work.
Mine was not a full-grown bicycle, but only a colt--a fifty-inch, with the pedals shortened up to forty-eight--and skittish, like any other colt.The Expert explained the thing's points briefly, then he got on its back and rode around a little, to show me how easy it was to do.He said that the dismounting was perhaps the hardest thing to learn, and so we would leave that to the last.But he was in error there.He found, to his surprise and joy, that all that he needed to do was to get me on to the machine and stand out of the way; I could get off, myself.
Although I was wholly inexperienced, I dismounted in the best time on record.He was on that side, shoving up the machine;we all came down with a crash, he at the bottom, I next, and the machine on top.
We examined the machine, but it was not in the least injured.This was hardly believable.Yet the Expert assured me that it was true; in fact, the examination proved it.I was partly to realize, then, how admirably these things are constructed.We applied some Pond's Extract, and resumed.The Expert got on the OTHER side to shove up this time, but Idismounted on that side; so the result was as before.
The machine was not hurt.We oiled ourselves again, and resumed.
This time the Expert took up a sheltered position behind, but somehow or other we landed on him again.
He was full of admiration; said it was abnormal.She was all right, not a scratch on her, not a timber started anywhere.
I said it was wonderful, while we were greasing up, but he said that when I came to know these steel spider-webs I would realize that nothing but dynamite could cripple them.Then he limped out to position, and we resumed once more.This time the Expert took up the position of short-stop, and got a man to shove up behind.
We got up a handsome speed, and presently traversed a brick, and I went out over the top of the tiller and landed, head down, on the instructor's back, and saw the machine fluttering in the air between me and the sun.It was well it came down on us, for that broke the fall, and it was not injured.
Five days later I got out and was carried down to the hospital, and found the Expert doing pretty fairly.In a few more days I was quite sound.I attribute this to my prudence in always dismounting on something soft.Some recommend a feather bed, but I think an Expert is better.
The Expert got out at last, brought four assistants with him.It was a good idea.These four held the graceful cobweb upright while I climbed into the saddle; then they formed in column and marched on either side of me while the Expert pushed behind; all hands assisted at the dismount.
