Part 20 (1/2)

It was September when this conversation took place, and it was December before the teachers, who were watching the boys' daily records very carefully, had the least idea who would get the prize for valor.

”Perhaps we cannot award it this year,” said the Princ.i.p.al. ”Fifty dollars should not be thrown away, nor a prize really bestowed on anybody who has not merited it.”

”There are chances for heroism in the simplest and most humble life,”

answered little Miss Riggs, the composition teacher.

That December was awfully cold. Storm and wind and snow. Blizzard and gale and hurricane. You never saw anything like it. In the middle of December the s.e.xton was taken down with rheumatic fever, and there wasn't a soul to ring the bell, or clear away the snow, or keep fires going in the church, and not a man in the parish was willing to take the extra work upon him. The old s.e.xton was a good deal worried, for he needed the little salary so much that he couldn't bear to give it up, and in that village church there was no money to spare.

Sammy's mother sent bowls and pitchers of gruel and other things of the sort to the sick man, and when Sammy took them he heard the talk of the s.e.xton and his wife. One night he came home, saying:

”Mother, I've made a bargain with Mr. Anderson, I'm going to be the s.e.xton of the church for the next three months.”

”You, my boy, you're not strong enough. It's hard work shoveling snow and breaking paths, and ringing the bell, and having the church warm on Sunday, and the lamps filled and lighted. And you have your ch.o.r.es to do at home.”

”Yes, dear mammy, I'll manage; I'll go round and get the clothes for you, and carry them home and do every single thing, just the same as ever, and I'll try to keep Mr. Anderson's place for him too.”

”I don't know that I ought to let you,” said his mother.

But she did consent.

Then began Sammy's trial. He never had a moment to play. Other boys could go skating on Sat.u.r.day, but he had to stay around the church, and dust and sweep, and put the cus.h.i.+ons down in the pews, and see that the old stoves were all right, as to dampers and draughts, bring coal up from the cellar, have wood split, lamps filled, wicks cut, chimneys polished. The big bell was hard to ring, hard for a fourteen-year-old boy. At first, for the fun of it, some of the other boys helped him pull the rope, but their enthusiasm soon cooled. Day in, day out, the stocky, st.u.r.dy form of Samuel might be seen, manfully plodding through all varieties of weather, and he had a good-morning or a good-evening ready for all he met. When he learned his lessons was a puzzle, but learn them he did, and n.o.body could complain that in anything he fell off, though his face did sometimes wear a preoccupied look, and his mother said that at night he slept like the dead and she just hated to have to call him in the morning. Through December and January and February and March, Sammy made as good a s.e.xton as the church had ever had, and by April, Mr. Anderson was well again.

The queer thing about it all was that Sammy had forgotten the prize for valor altogether. Nothing was said about it in school, and most of the boys were so busy looking out for brave deeds to come their way, that if one had appeared, they would not have recognized it. In fact, everybody thought the prize for valor was going by the board.

Till July came. And then, when the visitors were there, and the prizes were all given out, the President looked keenly through his spectacles and said:

”Will Master Samuel Sloc.u.m step forward to the platform?”

Modestly blus.h.i.+ng, up rose Sammy, and somewhat awkwardly he made his way to the front.

”Last winter,” said the President, ”there was a boy who not only did his whole duty in our midst, but denied himself for another, undertook hard work for many weeks, without pay and without s.h.i.+rking. We all know his name. Here he stands. To Samuel Sloc.u.m the committee award the prize for valor.”

He put five s.h.i.+ning ten-dollar pieces into Sammy's hard brown hand.

The Glorious Fourth.

Hurrah for the Fourth, the glorious Fourth, The day we all love best, When East and West and South and North, No boy takes breath or rest.

When the banners float and the bugles blow, And drums are on the street, Throbbing and thrilling, and fifes are shrilling, And there's tread of marching feet.

Hurrah for the nation's proudest day, The day that made us free!

Let our cheers ring out in a jubilant shout Far over land and sea.

Hurrah for the flag on the school-house roof, Hurrah for the white church spire!

For the homes we love, and the tools we wield, And the light of the household fire.

Hurrah, hurrah for the Fourth of July, The day we love and prize, When there's wonderful light on this fair green earth, And beautiful light in the skies.