"That boy standing by the fireplace is one of the best spellers in our school."
My name was then reluctantly called, and I took my place at the foot of the column. I felt very grateful towards our master for his compliment and I thought I would be able to hold my position in the line long enough to demonstrate that our master was correct. The school-master from our district was selected to pronounce the words, and I inwardly rejoiced.
After going down the line several times and a number of scholars had fallen on some simple word the school-master pronounced the word "phthisic." My heart leaped as the word fell from the school-master's lips. It was one of my favorite hard words and was not in the spelling book. It had been selected so as to floor the entire line in order to make way for the exercises to follow.
As I looked over the long line of overgrown country boys and girls I felt sure that none of them would be able to correctly spell the word. "Next!" "Next!" "Next!" said the school-master, and my pulse beat faster and faster as the older scholars ahead of me were relegated to their seats.
At last the crucial time had come. I was the only one left standing. As the school-master stood directly in front of me and said "Next," I could see by the twinkle in his eye that he thought I could correctly spell the word. My countenance had betrayed me. With a clear and distinct voice loud enough to be heard by every one in the room I spelled out "ph-th-is-ic—phthisic." "Correct," said the school-master, and all the scholars looked aghast at my promptness.
I shall never forget the kindly smile of the old school-master, as he laid the spelling book upon the teacher's desk, with the quiet remark: "I told you he could spell." I had spelled down four schools, and my reputation as a speller was established. Our school was declared to have furnished the champion speller of the four districts, and ever after my name was not the last one to be called.
On my return home I was not compelled to ride under the driver's seat.
HALF A CENTURY WITH THE PIONEER PRESS.
Pioneer Press, April 18, 1908:—Frank Moore, superintendent of the composing room if the Pioneer Press, celebrated yesterday the fiftieth anniversary of his connection with the paper. A dozen of the old employes of the Pioneer Press entertained Mr. Moore at an informal dinner at Magee's to celebrate the unusual event. Mr. Moore's service on the Pioneer Press, in fact, has been longer than the Pioneer Press itself, for he began his work on one of the newspapers which eventually was merged into the present Pioneer Press. He has held his present position as the head of the composing room for about forty years.
Frank Moore was fifteen years old when he came to St. Paul from Tioga county, Pa., where he was born. He came with his brother, George W. Moore, who was one of the owners and managers of the Minnesotian. His brother had been East and brought the boy West with him. Mr. Moore's first view of newspaper work was on the trip up the river to St. Paul. There had been a special election on a bond issue and on the way his brother stopped at the various towns to got the election returns.