A NIECE WHO WAS WELL READ

Evening Star, Issue 23143, 17 December 1938, Page 13

A NIECE WHO WAS WELL READ

[Emo Fohbes-Boyd, in the ‘ Christian Science Monitor.’]

Directly ray small niece pounced upon me with her latest acquisition, 1 knew that I was in for a period of tense mental activity. She had one of those books, not so popular as they used to be, on each page of which is a list of questions that have to be struggled through by the captive of the moment before ho can obtain his discharge by signing at the foot. “ Please,” began Suzanne, hopping about in the excitement of having “ bagged ” mo. “ All right,” I sighed, and regarded the first question resignedly Who is your favourite heroine in fiction ?

I lay back, and closed my eyes. As a stratagem it was doubly effective, for Suaanne became as quiet as a mouse. I was playing the game faithfully; and ray mind’s eye was free to roam among a host of shadowy figures. Strangely enough, the first to hold my attention was that pathetic, scatterbrainedi little kitten, Dora Copper field. I shook my head at once, how over, and, disregarding her childish pout, glanced over the rest of the company. For an instant or two I considered Clara .Middleton. Ho)' beautiful she wasl On the other/hand, her conversation demanded an effort on my part that became tiring aftei a time. No, 1 could hardly say that

she was my favourite. I looked longer at Di Vernon, as beautiful as Clara, cultured as well, and yet rather too wild, and, dare one suggest it? a trifle sharp-tongued. Face _ after face attracted me in turn—Catriona, Elisabeth Bennet, Lorna, Lady Castlewood—familiar and dear, each of them; but not one that was most dear.

Ah, but there was, though, and 1 had nil but opened my eyes and fumbled for my fountain pen, for there, without a doubt, was the sweetest, the wittiest, and the most understanding of them all. Nowhere, I was certain, in the realm of imagination walked the equal of Rosalind. Yet I hesitated; for one other bad beckoned to me. I tried to ignore her appeal, but it was no use; and in my heart I knew she was right. She was neither wise nor witty, and her beauty I had often suspected was but skin deep; but none the loss 1 could not deny the firmness of her bold upon me. I took out my pen. therefore, and wrote boldly, “ Sylvia Merlin.” • * « t Suzanne peered at the book eagerly. “Oo! but Uncle!” she protested. “Well?” “ That’s not—not exactly fair.” “Why?” 1 asked sheepishly. “ She’s out of your own book.” It’s quite extraordinary how well road the child is. “ Well.” I mumbled, “ what’s wrong with her? ” “ N-nothing—only—no one’ll know vho she is. Never mind."’ she added nagnaiiimously. “ I’ll toll them.” My favourite hero cost me hardly an instant’s thought; but I was surprised

to see that d’Artagnan did not seem to find much favour with Suzanne. “ Almost everyone I’ve asked at school has put him down,” she explained sadly. “ You see, we’ve been reading Robert Louis Stevenson’s essays.” I began to feel that I wasn’t doing too well; but the worst was yet to happen. Foolishly, when it came to my favourite novel, I paid my tribute to entertainment rather than aesthetic values, and Suzanne was frankly shocked. “ But, Uncle.” she exclaimed, with reproachful eyes, “ ‘ A Gentleman of France ’ is a boy’s book. Why, Tom was reading it the other day.” “ Your brother,” I said firmly, “ has a well-developed literary taste.” She shook her head. He’s reading ‘ Coral Island ’ now.’’ she affirmed, ns though that automatically annihilated his pretensions. • « • « In the matter of poems I momentarily regained a little prestige with ‘ II Penseroso.’ Suzanne clapped her hands. “Lovely!” she said. “Who wrote it?” “ Milton.” “Oh,” her face fell; “but Miss M'Tavish says ” “Who’s Miss M'Tavish?” “ She teaches us English and literature; and she says that ‘Paradise Lost ’ is Milton’s greatest poem.” “ Well—opinions differ, y’kpow.” “ Um. But are you quite, quite sure that yon like it bettor than 1 Paradise Lost ’ ? ” “ Huh? Well, von sec—er —the fact is. I’ve never had time really to read ‘ Paradise Lost.’ ?!

“ Oh, dear.” This was obviously extremely disconcerting. “ I’m afraid,” she went on dolefully, “ that Miss M‘Tavish’ll think that very funny.” “ But what’s she got to do with it? ” “ Oh, she knows all about you.” “ Really? ” “Yes, I told her; because she’s awfully interested in writers. And I promised to show her what yon put. Would you like to see hers? ” “ Y-yes,” 1 murmured, with a sinking feeling. Suzanne flipped over the pages. “ There.”

I ran my eye along the answers of Miss M'Tavisb —Una, Herr Teufelsdrockh, Crochet Castle, Divina Cornmedia, Plato. “ Suzanne,” I said contritely, “ I’ve let yon down.” “ Oh, no, Uncle,” she said politely. “ Miss M'Tavish says one must be honest, and that there is nothing worse than a literary snob. Now, there’s only one more—your favourite author.” I pondered deeply. It was difficult anyway; but, with the shadow of Miss M'Tavish looming over me, I found my own sense of values almost inoperative. Idly I commenced to scribble on the blotting pad. “ I don’t think ” exclaimed Suzanne with sudden trepidation, “ I don’t think you ought to put yourself, Uncle, if you don’t mind. Somehow, it wouldn’t ”

“Of course not,” I interrupted hastily. “ I was just—just doodling.” “ Yon know.” she said brightly, a little afraid that she had been tactless. “ I believe Miss M'Tavisb thinks a lot of you.”

“ You don’t mean she’s actually read anything of mine? ” I asked, awestruck by the thought. “ PerliapS'—at least, the other day when she gave me full marks for my essay, she said it looked as though I was going to take after you.” “Hal” I cried triumphantly, “Full marks, eh ? Then I think fihe’ll approve of my choice.” And, with a flourish, I set' Suzanne’s name opposite the last question, and signed, thankfully, on the dotted line.