"No, she ain't," I responded, with quickened beating of the heart.
Criticism of teachers was admissible in my code of ethics, but
justification must follow; there must be proof--or reproof.

"What's that?" said Pa, looking at me curiously. "Ever ketch her in a
mistake?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Bring the book."

I ran and fetched a well-thumbed book from the sewing machine and turned
to the definitions of familiar foreign words.

"There," said I, spreading the speller flat on the table and pointing with
my finger. "French word for 'Mister.' Teacher called it 'Monshure,' just
as they all do. But that's wrong. To-day I showed her how it is. See, the
book says it's pronounced 'm-o-s-s-e-r' and that little mark means an
accent on the last syllable and it's 'long e.' 'Mosseer' is right. But
when I showed it to teacher, she looked at it awhile, and then she
wrinkled up her eye-brows, and whispered it once or twice and said: 'Oh,
yes; "mosser."' And she made us call it 'mosser' all the rest of the day,
too," I ended triumphantly.

"Why, o' course that ain't right; 'mosser' ain't it!" volunteered one of
the hired men, who had lingered to hear the discussion. "I've heerd that
word a thousan' times; right way seems like 'M'shoo.' Shucks! Can't get my
tongue 'round it, nohow."

"Yes, I know", said Pa "you go call Frenchy."