“I have a great mind to break this stupid old slate,” said little Charlie Fidget, one morning, as he sat over his first sum in subtraction.

“Why, what has the poor slate done?” asked the pleasant voice of his sister Helen, behind him.

“Nothing; just what I complain of; it won’t do this plaguy sum for me; and here it is almost school-time!”

“What a wicked slate, Charles!”

“So it is. I mean to fling it out of the window and break it to pieces on the stones.”

“Will that do your sum, Charlie?”

“No; but if there were no slates in the world, I should have no good-for-nothing sums to do.”

“Oh, ho! that does not follow, by any means. Did slates make the science of arithmetic? Would people never have to count or calculate, if there were no slates? You forget pens, lead pencils and paper: you forget all about oral arithmetic, Charlie.”

“Well, I don’t love to cipher, that’s all I know.”

“And so, you hasty boy, you get angry with the poor harmless slate, that is so convenient when you make mistakes and want to rub them out again. Now that is the way with a great many thoughtless, quick-tempered people. They try to find fault with somebody or something else, and get into a passion, and perhaps do mischief, when if they would but reflect a little, it is their own dear selves who ought to bear the blame. Now, Charlie, let me see what I can do for you.”

So Helen sat down in her mother’s great easy-chair; she tried to look grave and dignified, like an old lady, though she was but eighteen. Charlie came rather unwillingly, laid the slate in her lap, and began to play with the trimming on her apron. “Why, what is all this?” said she; “soldiers, and cats, and dogs, and houses with windows of all shapes and sizes!”

Charlie looked foolish. “Oh, the sum is on the other side,” said he, turning it over.

“Ah, silly boy,” said Helen; “here you have been sitting half an hour drawing pictures, instead of trying to do your sum. And now, which do you think ought to be broken, you or the slate?” and she held it up high, as if she meant to strike at him with it.

Charlie looked up, with his hands at his ears, making believe he was frightened, but laughing all the while, for he knew she was only playing with him. Presently, however, she put on a serious face, and said, “Now, my little man, you must go to work in good earnest to make up for lost time.”

“Oh, Helen, it wants only twenty minutes to nine; I can’t possibly do this sum and get to school by nine. I shall be late. What shall I do? Miss Fletcher will certainly punish me if it is not done. Can’t you, just this once, Helen?”

“No,” said Helen.

“Oh, do, there’s a dear, good sister; just this once.”

“No, Charlie; there would be no kindness in that. You would never learn arithmetic in that way.”

“Just once,” still pleaded Charlie.

“No,” answered Helen, in a kind, but resolute tone: “if I do it once, you will find it harder to be refused to-morrow; you will depend upon me, and sit playing and drawing pictures, instead of ciphering. I will keep you close at it till you perform your task.”

So she passed her hand gently round him, and though Charlie pouted at first, and could hardly see through his tears, she questioned him about his rule, and then began to show him the proper way to do his sum, yet letting him work it out himself, in such a pleasant manner, that he was soon ashamed of being sullen. First she held the pencil herself, and put down the figures as he told her to do; and then she made him copy the whole, nicely, on another part of the slate, and rub out her figures.

After all this was finished patiently and diligently, Charlie was surprised to find he should still be in good time for school.

“Now, to-morrow, Charlie,” said Helen, “don’t waste a moment, but go to your lesson at once, whatever it is, and you will find it a great saving, not only of time, but of temper. You won’t get into a passion with this clever old slate of mine. It went to school with me when I was a little girl, and I should have been sorry if you had broken it for not doing your work. Generally, Charlie, when you see a person fidgety and angry, and complaining of things and people, you may be sure he has either done something he ought not to do, or left undone something he ought to do.”

Away ran Charlie to school, thinking to himself, “Well, I suppose I was wrong both ways. I ought not to have been drawing soldiers, and I ought to have been ciphering.”

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