Not at all discouraged, Bert waited patiently until one of the mowers stopped to sharpen his scythe, and then stepping to him, asked, in his most engaging way:
"Please, sir, won't you let me mow a little?"
The man looked down at him in surprise.
"You couldn't hold a scythe, sonny," he said, with a grin of amusement.
"Oh, yes, I could. Please let me try; won't you?" pleaded Bert.
The man yielded, and placing his scythe in Bert's hands, told him to go ahead.
With much difficulty Bert succeeded in grasping the two short handles which projected from the long curved shaft, and, summoning all his strength, he tried to move the scythe in the way the mowers were doing. But at the first attempt the sharp point stuck in the turf, and instantly the long handle flew up, turned over, and hit him a hard crack, square between the eyes, that felled him to the ground.
The stars were dancing before his eyes, and the next moment the tears would have been there too, had he not, as he picked himself up, caught sight of the men laughing heartily over his mishap.
"They shan't see me cry," said he to himself; and, putting forth a heroic effort, he swallowed his tears, though the gulping them down was positively painful, and, standing up straight, looked bravely about him. Uncle Alec saw it all and understood just how Bert felt.
"Well done, my little hero," said he, clapping him on the back. "You have the right stuff in you."