Sporting, Schooling and Moralising.  
Time flew by with rapid wing, and the infant colony prospered in many ways, though not in all.
 
One day John Adams took down his gun from the pegs on which it rested above the door of his hut. Saying to his wife that he was going to shoot a few cats and bring home a pig for supper, he sallied forth, and took the footpath that led to one of the darkest recesses of the lonely island.
 
Lest the reader should imagine that Adams was a cruel man, we must explain that, several years having elapsed since the landing of the mutineers on Pitcairn, the cats had by that time multiplied excessively, and instead of killing the rats, which was their duty, had taken to hunting and devouring the chickens. For this crime the race of cats was condemned to death, and the sentence was put in force whenever opportunity offered.
 
Fortunately, the poultry had also multiplied quickly, and the hogs had increased to such a degree that many of them had been allowed to take to a wild life in the woods, where they were hunted and shot when required for food. Sporting, however, was not often practised, because the gunpowder which had been saved from the Bounty had by this time sensibly diminished. Strange to say, it did not seem to occur to any of the men that the bow and arrow might become of use when guns became useless. Probably they looked upon such weapons with contempt, for they only made little bows, as playthings for the children, with harmless, blunt-headed arrows.
 
On turning from the clearing into the bush, Adams came on a sight which amused him not a little. In an open place, partially screened from the sun by the graceful leaves of palms and bananas, through which was obtained a glimpse of the sea, Otaheitan Sally was busily engaged in playing at “school.” Seated on the end of a felled tree was Thursday October Christian, who had become, as Isaac Martin expressed it, a great lout of a boy for his age.
 
Thursday was at the head of the class, not in virtue of his superior knowledge, but his size. He was a strong-made fellow, with a bright, intelligent, good-humoured face, like that of his father. Next to him sat little Matt Quintal, rather heavy and stupid in expression, but quiet and peaceable in temperament, like his mother. Next came Daniel McCoy, whose sharp sparkling countenance seemed the very embodiment of mischief, in which quality he resembled his father. Fortunately for little Dan, his mother was the gentlest and most unselfish of all the native women, and these qualities, transmitted to her son, were the means of neutralising the evil which he inherited from his father. After him came Elizabeth Mills, whose pretty little whitey-brown face was the counterpart of her mother’s in expression. Indeed, all of these little ones inherited in a great degree that sweet pliability of character for which the Otaheitan women were, and we believe still are, famous. Last, but not least, sat Charlie Christian at the bottom of the class.
 
“Now, hol’ up your heads an’ pay ’tention,” said the teacher, with the air of authority suitable to her position.
 
It may be observed here, that Sally’s knowledge of schooling and class-work was derived from Edward Young, who sometimes amused himself and the children by playing at “school,” and even imparted a little instruction in this way.
 
“Don’t wink, Dan’l McCoy,” said Sally, in a voice which was meant to be very stern, but was laughably sweet.
 
“P’ease, Missis, Toc’s vinkin’ too.” Thus had Dan learned to express Thursday’s name by his initials.
 
There was a touch of McCoy senior in this barefaced attempt to divert attention from himself by criminating another.
 
“I know that Toc is winking,” replied Sally, holding up a finger of reproof; “but he winks with both eyes, an’ you does it with only one, which is naughty. An’ when you speaks to me, sir, don’t say vink—say wink.”
 
“Yis, mum,” replied little Dan, casting down his eyes with a look of humility so intense that there was a sudden irruption of dazzling teeth along the whole class.
 
“Now, Toc, how much does two and three make?”
 
“Six,” replied Thursday, without a moment’s hesitation.
 
“Oh, you booby!” said Sally.
 
“P’ease, mum, he ain’t booby, him’s dux,” said Dan.
 
“But he’s a booby for all that, sir. You hold you tongue, Dan’l, an’ tell me what three and two makes.”
 
“P’ease, mum, I can’t,” answered Dan, folding his hands meekly; “but p’r’aps Charlie can; he’s clebber you know. Won’t you ax ’im?”
 
“Yes, I will ask ’im. Challie, what’s three an’ two?”
 
If Charlie had been asked how to square the circle, he could not have looked more innocently blank, but the desire to please Sally was in him a sort of passion. Gazing at her intently with reddening face, he made a desperate guess, and by the merest chance said, “Five.”
 
Sally gave a little shriek of delight, and looked in triumph at Dan. That little creature, who seemed scarce old enough to receive a joke, much less to make one, looked first at Charlie and winked with his left eye, then at Thursday and winked with his right one.
 
“You’re winkin’ again, sir,” cried Sally, sharply.
 
“Yis, mum, but with bof eyes this time, vich isn’t naughty, you know.”
 
“But it is naughty, sir, unless you do it with both eyes at once.”
 
“Oh, with bof at vunce!” exclaimed Dan, who thereupon shut both eyes very tight indeed, and then opened them in the widest possible condition of surprise.
 
This was too much for Sally. She burst into a ............