of th in English words—­pronouncing “thirty” as “sirty,” and “thick” as “sick”—­arguing that such English is superior to English as we speak it.  Here are some typically mispronounced English sentences:  “If Maria has seben fencils and see loses sree, see will hab four fencils left, and if her moser gibs her eight fencils, see will hab twel’ fencils in all.”  Here is another:  “Pedro has a new fair of voots.”  Another:  “If one fint ob binegar costs fi’ cents, sree fints will cost sree times fi’ cents, or fikteen cents.”  It would, I think, be hard to convince us that the euphonic changes in these words are an improvement to our language.

Some four years ago, I was teaching a class in the Manila School of Arts and Trades, and was giving some directions about the word form of English sentences.  I advised the class to stick to simple direct sentences, since they would never have any use for a literary style in English.  Some six or eight young men instantly dissented from this proposition, and insisted that they were capable of acquiring the best literary style.  Not one of them could have written a page of clear, grammatical, idiomatic English.  I tried to make it clear to them that literary English and colloquial English are two different things, and that what they needed was plain, precise English as a medium of exchange in business, and I said, incidentally, that such was the English possessed by the major portion of the English-speaking race.  I said that although the American nation numbered eighty millions, most of whom were educated and able to make an intelligent use of their language in conversation or in writing, the percentage of great writers and speakers always had been small and always would be so.

When I had finished, the son of a local editor, arose and replied as follows:  “Yes, madame, what you say of Americans is true.  But we are different.  We are a literary people.  We are only eight millions, but we have hundreds and thousands of orators.  We have the literary sense for all languages.”

Nearly thirty years ago, when I was a pupil in the Kansas City, Missouri, High School, the stepson of a United States Circuit judge made a brutally rude and insubordinate reply to a woman teacher who said to him, in reference to an excuse which he had given for tardiness, “That is not a good excuse.”  The young man turned an insolent eye upon the teacher—­a gray-haired woman—­and replied, “It’s good enough for me.  What are you going to do about it?”

I cannot conceive that a Filipino child would be guilty of such insolence, such defiance of decency and order.  But never have I met an American child who would have the artless indiscretion to put himself in the position of Domingo.  The American child does not mind violating a rule.  He is chary of criticising its propriety or its value.  In other words, the American child does not mind doing wrong, but he is wary of making a fool of himself; and I have yet to meet the