I hate to be corrected; but I hate more to be incorrect.
I could give Canary a hint or two now and then that would be
serviceable, if she would permit it. I have no right, however, to take
it upon me to instruct her, and it puts her in a pet. She laughed it
off, but I saw the mounting color and the flashing glance. I am an
impudent fellow, I suppose. Honest, to boot. I think she need not take
offence at what was intended as a friendly help. I am no flatterer, at
least. Really, I am hurt that I might not take so trifling a liberty
in behalf of my favorite song. I'll walk off as often as she sings
it. Can her temper be perfectly good? And yet, one could not expect--I
ought not to be surprised. Yet I can't help thinking, suppose--just
suppose I _had_ a right to find fault,--suppose I were a near
friend,--would she bear it then? Supposing she were my companion for
life--Humph! that startles one,--was I near thinking of it in earnest?
She is beautiful; I should be proud of her abroad. But at home,--at
home, where there should be confidence, would there not be constraint?
Must no improvement ever be suggested, because it implies
imperfection? I hope none of my friends will ever be on such terms
with me; if I am touchy like a nettle, may they grasp me hard, and
fear me not.
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