'Multiplication
Is a vexation.'

It was a bright and beautiful afternoon in March, the song of the
blackbird and thrush, and the loud chirp of the titmouse, came
merrily through the schoolroom window, mixed with the sounds of happy
voices in the garden; the western sun shone brightly in, and tinged
the white wainscoted wall with yellow light; the cat sat in the
window-seat, winking at the sun, and sleepily whisking her tail for
the amusement of her kitten, which was darting to and fro, and
patting her on the head, in the hope of rousing her to some more
active sport.

But in the midst of all these joyous sights and sounds, was heard a
dolorous voice repeating, 'three and four are--three and four are--oh
dear! they are--seven, no, but I do not think it is a four after all,
is it not a one? Oh dear!' And on the floor lay Phyllis, her back
to the window, kicking her feet slowly up and down, and yawning and
groaning over her slate.

Presently the door opened, and Claude looked in, and very nearly
departed again instantly, for Phyllis at that moment made a horrible
squeaking with her slate-pencil, the sound above all others that he
disliked. He, however, stopped, and asked where Emily was.

'Out in the garden,' answered Phyllis, with a tremendous yawn.

'What are you doing here, looking so piteous?' said Claude.