  By Margaret Sidney. X.G GEORGE EDWARD ALLEN was now sixteen; hale, hearty, and full of fun. Truth compels me to state that he did not take first prize for English Composition, Latin, Mathematics, or even for general deportment, at the close of the summer term just past. He had no gold medals to carry home to his admiring parents, to be afterward hung up in his room for the delectation of any who might choose to examine. He was only an industrious, even-tempered boy of ordinary steady ability, but without the least capacity for shining before a large audience with the splendor of the examination hour. He did have bestowed upon him, however, at the last moment, in various little rencontres with master and under teachers, several little pleasant attentions that made his heart thrill, and the warm blood mount his brown cheek. “Allen, I must say I could give you a prize for loving the right, with all my heart.” This from the master, with that peculiar light in his gray eyes that seldom came; and because so seldom, was treasured deep by the one who brought it there. He went further: “My boy, I would give ten years of my life for such a son as you are.” They were in a side recitation room alone, and the master’s hand laid on the lad’s shoulder, no one saw, much less heard the words. George Edward looked up quickly and gratefully. “Good-by,” said the master. “If you want any help in vacation over a tough spot in any study, just drop me a hint of it.” There was a smile in the overworked face, that lighted up each hard line. “Good-by, Allen,” said an under teacher regretfully, as George Edward ran down the passage, “I wish you were to be near me this summer; I shall miss you,” and Mr. Bryan put himself in the way of the boy’s advancement. “I want to thank you for your good influence in the class-room. For you have done more than the teacher sometimes,” he frankly added. George Edward tried to protest, but it was no use. “Don’t be discouraged,” added the teacher kindly, “if prizes do not fall to you now; but keep on.” “I should have liked to carry one home to father and mother,” said George Edward honestly. “Of course; who of us does not?” assented Mr. Bryan. “Let me tell you though, my boy, that the prizes, though late often, that fall to industry and conscientious work, are better worth getting. Take that with you to think of this summer.” The boys made loud protestations of regret, which goes without saying, at the necessary parting to come. How long the vacation seemed, looking from the standpoint of June. How impossible to wait till September before George Edward’s round countenance should burst upon them like a ray of sunshine, and his cheery voice call to some sport, in which they could see no hint of fun if he did not lead off. But all things are finally pronounced ended. So at last George Edward found himself at home, with the only prospect of enjoyment ahead of him, an invitation to visit at Uncle Frost’s. “I’m sorry it’s all the outing we can give you this summer, my boy,” said Mother Allen soberly; “your father intended to take you if he went on the Maine trip, but Mr. Porter wanted the Western business done now, and that is altogether too expensive to be thought of.” George Edward’s eyes glistened. That Western trip would have made a vacation beating every other boy’s that he had known. He broke out eagerly, “O mother—” then stopped. She looked pale and troubled. “It’s a good enough place at Uncle Frost’s,” he finished indifferently; “when do I start?” “No, it isn’t very pleasant,” said Mrs. Allen truthfully. “I’m sorry you couldn’t have gone into the country; but we can’t afford it unless I go and shut up the house, and I can’t do that, because grandma isn’t well, and must come here.” “Never mind,” said George Edward, “there’s some fun in it, anyway. We’ll call it bully.” “It will be a change,” said his mother, “and “When does he want me to come?” asked George Edward, dashing at the letter again. “Next week,” said Mrs. Allen. “All right; I’ll put my traps together, and be off. Gainesburg is the cry now,” cried George Edward. But for once the boy was in luck. Two days after Uncle Frost’s house had received him, Mrs. Allen was reading the following letter:
“Yes” was telegraphed over the hills on Thursday, and for two weeks our boy revelled in the bliss of mountain life, with quantities of fun, frolic and adventure thrown in by the way, to return all made over, to Uncle Frost’s, there to meet the ill news travelling fast over the electric wires: “Your father died suddenly at St. Paul. Come at once.” Had it come so soon? George Edward looked life in the face this vacation time, accepted his cross, bade good-by to all hopes of ever entering school or college life again, and thanked God for the situation in the drug store that the apothecary around the corner gave him. His father’s affairs, well looked over, gave no hope of anything but the direst economy for the widow. As for the son, he must go to work, and at once. “Now we will see if he holds out a saint,” one boy was mean enough to think, seeing George Edward hurry to his place of work every morning bright and early. Other eyes quite as sharp, though far from cruel, were on him. It was an awful ordeal for any boy to pass through; most of all, because of the commonplaceness of the sacrifice he was daily making. Had he marched up to the cannon’s mouth, and courted death to save his mother’s life, this would have been easy compared to the monotonous dead-level existence he was enduring. For to the active boy, alert for an excitement, wide awake for novelty, with every muscle crying out for exercise and change, the close confinement of the small store, and the routine work, were torture indeed. He began to show the effects of such a life, and in three weeks his mother was aghast to find that her boy had grown suddenly thin and pale. “Why, George Edward,” she cried, “you can’t stay in that store.” “I must,” said George Edward doggedly. “But you will die,” cried poor Mrs. Allen, “then what shall I do?” And the tears began to come. George Edward thought a bit. Then he said “There isn’t anything else, mother, only work on a farm. But it’s August now, who’d give me a chance at it, pray tell?” “I shall try,” said his mother, rousing herself, “you will die where you are.” And she seized paper and pen and wrote the following:
George Edward was in a fever of excitement, though he tried not to show it, all the next three days. His mother met with such poor success in her efforts to conceal her state of mind, that she went around the house, a bright spot in either cheek, scarcely able to set herself with calmness at any task. At last, on the evening of the third day, this letter was drawn from the post-office:
The “paster’s” letter reading remarkably well, and a friend investigating the matter with thoroughness for Mrs. Allen, finding it all right, George Edward’s trunk was packed, and he at once dispatched for Blueberry Hill. It was evening when he arrived there. dividing line |
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