When he was in the house, too, he was just as trying to one’s patience--not one minute’s peace would the noisy young scamp ever let me have. If he wasn’t playing “Happy Land” on the Jew’s-harp, he would be safe to be trying that frightful “Nix my Dolly Pals,” or “Happy Land,” on his hair-comb. No matter what I gave him to do--I declare he couldn’t keep at it for more than two minutes together, but off he’d be as if he had got nothing but quicksilver in his veins. Now, of a morning, he had got a trumpery dozen of knives to clean, but, bless you! even they were too much for him to do right off; for positively, as soon as he had cleaned one of them, he’d throw himself on his hands, and cocking his legs straight up in the air, he’d sing one verse of “Such a getting up stairs” on his head, all the while beating time with the soles of his feet--and then down he’d come again, do another knife, and then either be off to the back kitchen window, where he would stand making himself as knock-knee’d as a frog, and, turning his toes in and his elbows out, make the most horrible faces to Betsy through the window, shouting out to her, “Here we are,” just like the stupid clowns in the pantomime,--or else, all of a sudden, creep into the house, and, going up behind her back, give _such_ a whistle through his fingers right into her ear, as would make the whole house ring again, and set one’s teeth on edge as bad as slate pencil slid along a slate, frightening that nervous Betsy out of her life, and making her drop whatever she might have in her hand; while if one of those bothering organs only stopped opposite the window, he’d throw down his work, however much I might want it done, and rushing into the area, pull out of his pocket the bits of broken plate he always kept there, and putting them between his fingers, keep rattling away two in each hand, accompanying the music, till he heard me coming down after him, and then, of course he’d rush back again, and pretend to be working as hard as he could,--though I knew very well that directly my back was turned, the young Jackanapes would be putting his fingers to his nose, and making grimaces at me. Indeed, I can assure the courteous reader, that his antics were such, and he paid so little respect to me, when he fancied I couldn’t see him, that upon my word I was positively afraid to go out walking with him behind me (which was one of the things in particular I had him for), for I felt convinced that I should have him either coming after me walking on his hands, or else throwing himself head over heels sideways along the pavement, or, may be, running up and squaring away close at my back. As for the little scamp’s giving one a stylish appearance, as I had been silly enough to fancy he would, in answering the door, bless you! quite the contrary,--for it was ten chances to one if the young monkey didn’t rush up either with a wooden sword thrust through his breeches pocket, and a