a sow with a litter of pigs. The sow had a slit in the ear to which my attention was invited. It was for being lazy, and when boys were lazy--the ogre brandished the long shears that hung at her belt--zip! I earned a kringle that very afternoon. The ways of the Latin School were still stamped with the old severity, but there was some approach to present-day methods of constitutional government. The faculty took hardened cases under advisement. Execution of judgment was vested in the Rector, as gentle an old man as ever unwillingly caned a boy, whose guileless soul was no match for our practised wiles. A remorseful howl put him instantly out of action, and he was always ready to be led sympathetically along the slippery paths of boyish excuses; for, however much the boy’s soul may pine for just punishment, his body will always struggle to escape it. We had a singing-teacher, the organist of the Domkirke, whom, seeing that he was a helpless old bachelor without proper home or boys of his own, we accounted our lawful prey. Accordingly the candle snuffer sputtered with powder to his mild amazement, mice haunted the piano and struck unexpected chords at singing-school, and the blackboard sponge performed unheard-of antics as an impromptu foot-ball while the organist was writing our lesson on the board. It was when he happened to turn suddenly once and caught me in the very act of aiming it at his wig, that the worm turned. I was conducted straight upstairs to the Rector, with _corpus delicti_ in my grasp, and left to his mercy. Rector rose mechanically from his papers when the door closed and opened a cupboard to afford me a private view of the stick standing there. Then he came over to me and said sternly, pointing to the sponge, “What is this?” “The sponge, Herr Rektor,” I said. “It was on the floor and I kicked it, like this--” it bounded across to the table--“and Niels, he--” “Ah,” Rector was all interest; “Niels, he--?” “He kicked it--so, and it landed where Hans stood.” “Eh!” he was rubbing his hands; “and Hans?” “Hans, he sent it--this way--to Peter; and Peter trod on it, and it shied to Anders. And he--” We were skipping across the room together, mapping out the journeys of the vagrant sponge as fast as Rector’s gout allowed, when we arrived at the turn. “It came back to me,” I explained, “and I was just going to fire it--” “Ha! you were just going to fire it--” [Illustration: “HA! YOU WERE JUST GOING TO FIRE IT--”] “When the organist turned and caught me.” The Rector stopped rubbing his hands abruptly. We gazed at one another soberly for a full minute. I don’t know, I think I saw the suspicion of a wink; then: “I think you said this was a sponge. Go then and tell the organist that you have discovered it is not a ball. Now go.” I went quickly. Unless my ears deceived me, I heard a chuckle behind the door as it fell to.