FullReads

There was much excitement in the Red Schoolhouse. Examinations were over; books laid aside. And the walls re-echoed to thrilling sounds,–to happy voices and shuffling feet, to poetry, marches, and songs. They were practising for Commencement, for Closing Day. And at home the parents were busy, too, making white dresses and sashes for the girls, buying new suits for the boys in town, or making some over from father’s old trousers.

Marmaduke was to take part in the marches and songs, but Jehosophat had to speak a whole piece, all alone too. It was a great honor, no doubt about that, which Jehosophat didn’t appreciate. He thought it a bother.

Now their teacher was a patriot and fond of History. All through the term she had told them tales of brave lads who were good and great. Probably she wanted them to become good and great, too, and of course it was the thing to be. That Jehosophat knew, but it was pretty hard when one kept forgetting.

So he wasn’t at all sure of himself, but of one thing he was sure,–the stories were lost on Fatty. Try as he would he never could think of him as being “good and great,” or exactly “a hero.”

But that was the least of Jehosophat’s worries. He had been given a piece to learn–to recite before a big crowd!

It was poetry–all about a boy who had stuck by his ship and gone down with it, too. The piece was called by the boy’s name–a queer sort of word–Casabianca. If the piece was as hard as its name, Jehosophat thought he never would learn it.

“Well, Jehosophat,” said his father that night, “how’s the orator?”

But Mother said,–

“Don’t tease him, Will, I’m sure he’ll do us proud.”

Jehosophat squirmed in his seat. He didn’t want to “do anyone proud.” That was not his ambition. And he squirmed still more when she asked him,–

“Have you learned it all, Jehosophat?”

He mumbled something that sounded like,–

“Donev’nknownameyet.”

So next day when he came back from school he had to stay in the parlour to study it.

After a while–not so long a while, either–he called to Mother,–

“Mother, I think I could learn it a lot better out doors than in this dark room.”

“All right, dear,” she said, “if you’re sure you won’t let anything distract you.”

“No, Mother, I promise.” And he went out by the big elm and stood under the Oriole’s nest. “The boy stood on the burning deck Whence all but he had fled.”

That is the way it began and he started:

“The boy stood on the burning deck”–then he had to stop, for Mr. Stuck-up, the Turkey, was taking his afternoon parade right near him. Mr. Stuckup didn’t seem to like that piece at all. Neither did Jehosophat, for that matter.

“‘The boy'”–he began again.

“Gobble, gobble,” shrieked the Turkey.

“‘Stood on the burning–‘”

“Gobble, gobble,” again rudely interrupted Mr. Stuckup.

So Jehosophat went around to the side of the house by the Lilac Bush. He stood up straight and tried it all over again.

“‘The boy stood on the burning deck’–get down, get down!” he yelled. Now that was strange. It sounded as if he were telling the boy to get down off that deck. But it was only Wienerwurst he was talking to. For, when he made that fine gesture which Teacher had shown them, Wienerwurst, who had crept up behind him, thought his master was playing some game, and jumped up at his outstretched fingers.

So once more Jehosophat picked up his reader, and walked over to the Crying Tree, whose green willow branches trailed in the Pond.

He practised his fine bow for a while, then began. This time he actually got through the first verse all right, and was quite pleased with himself. But no sooner had he stopped than he heard behind him–

A loud

“HISS! HISS!”

Now it isn’t pleasant to try to make a good speech, and have some one hiss you when they ought to be clapping their hands. But that is just what The Foolish White Geese were doing to Jehosophat.