Youthful Literature.

Cromwell Argus, Volume VI, Issue 298, 28 July 1875, Page 7

Youthful Literature.

Prentice Mulford's " Our Village School," is a wonderful bit of realism, quite as humorous as anything Mark Twain has done, and upon a higher plane of art. The following description of the urchin wrestling with his composition is worthy of Dickens:—The very acme of juvenile intellectual torture at the village school was realised in attempting to "write compositions." On "'composition day' every one was required to bring his written views, impressions, and opinions | on subjects sometimes previously designated by the master, sometimes left to the pupil's own selection. In either case the agonizing process was the same, the operation beginning With the shutting up of the victim alone in a room with the necessary pens, paper, and ink. The first step was easy, being that of heading the foolscap with tho title of the subject. That completed, there it remained for hours, the composer Writing in the vain attempt to say something about ' The Horse' or ' The Cow.' The horse was generally pronounced a 'very useful animal 'j'after which both fact and imagination refused to give down a drop ; and the victim's attention would wander toward some unfortunate fly crawling upon the windowpane, which, being caught and immolated on a pin, buzzed forth a doleful deathsong, thereby furnishing a few moments' entertainment and forgetfulness, until the writer suddenly bethought himself that time was passing, while the world still remained unenlightened concerning ' The Horse.' A fresh nenful of ink is taken, and the auther 1 squares himself,' at' The Horse.' Meantime, the clean sheet of paper begins to assume a solid and crumpled appearance, flecked here and there with spots of variouslyshaded ink. The author gazes out of the widows. Anvthing now stirring—a passing car, a dog, a boy—assumes an unwonted interest in his eyes. His fingers, toying with the pen, gradually accumulate upon themselves all the ink which should have been spread upon ' The Horse.' At last he is inspired to write thus : ' The horse is a noble animal. My father once owned a horse. He ate hay, oats, and kicked. 1 rode him. My father sold him to a man because he thought he had i;he heaves.' The writer's namo is now placed at the bottom of this essay, with such excess of care and precision that the joyous rebound consequent on the successful conclusion of the effort manifests itself by a triumphant flourish of the quill, with the immediate result of a huge ink drop immediately over the signature, which the young "litterateur" vainly endeavours to remove by a cleansing process with the tip of his tongue, an effort that only widens the soiled area of paper."