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That was all. It had come without falter or pause, even for breath. Josey stood, and the room rose to him.

“Again! again!” they roared.” He ain’t a bit scared!” “Go it, Josey!” “You don’t forgit yer piece!” And a great deal more, while they pounded with their boots.

“I love little pussy,” began Josey.

“Poor darling!” said a lady next me. “No mother.”

“I’ll sit by the fi-yer,”

Josey was continuing. But nobody heard him finish. The room was a Babel.

“Look at his little hand!” “Only three fingers inside them rags!” “Nobody to mend his clothes any more.” They all talked to each other, and clapped and cheered, while Josey stood, one leg slightly advanced and proudly stiff, somewhat after the manner of those military engravings where some general is seen erect upon an eminence at the moment of victory.

Mr. Eastman again appeared from the bunting, and was telling us, I have no doubt, something of importance; but the giant barkeeper now shouted above the din, “Who says Josey Yeatts ain’t the speaker for this night?”

At that striking of the common chord I saw them heave, promiscuous and unanimous, up the steps to the stage. Josey was set upon Abe Hanson’s shoulder, while ladies wept around him. What the literary committee might have done I do not know, for we had not the time even to resign. Guy and Leola now appeared, bearing the prize between them–a picture of Washington handing the Bible out of clouds to Abraham Lincoln–and very immediately I found myself part of a procession. Men and women we were, marching about Sharon. The barkeeper led; four of Sharon’s fathers fol- lowed him, escorting Josey borne aloft on Abe Hanson’s shoulder, and rigid and military in his bearing. Leola and Guy followed with the picture; Stuart walked with me, whistling melodies of the war–Dixie and others. Eastman was not with us. When the ladies found themselves conducted to the saloon, they discreetly withdrew back to the entertainment we had broken out from. Josey saw them go, and shrilly spoke his first word:

“Ain’t I going to have any ice-cream?”

This presently caused us to return to the ladies, and we finished the evening with entire unity of sentiment. Eastman alone took the incident to heart; inquired how he was to accomplish anything with hands tied, and murmured his constant burden once more: “One is not appreciated, not appreciated.”

I do not stop over in Sharon any more. My ranch friend, whose presence there brought me to visit him, is gone away. But such was my virgin experience of the place; and in later days fate led me to be concerned with two more local competitions–one military and one civil–which greatly stirred the population. So that I never pass Sharon on my long travels without affectionately surveying the sandy, quivering, bleached town, unshaded by its twinkling forest of wind-wheels. Surely the heart always remembers a spot where it has been merry! And one thing I should like to know–shall know, perhaps: what sort of citizen in our republic Josey will grow to be. For whom will he vote? May he not himself come to sit in Washington and make laws for us? Universal suffrage holds so many possibilities.