“We’re going to the country,” went on Bert. “To a place called Cloverbank. It’s near Hitchville.”
“Oh, that’s a swell place!” cried Danny. “I know a fellow who went there. There’s dandy fishing in the creek!”
“I’m glad of it,” said Bert. Then the boys and girls passed into the schoolhouse. I cannot say that any one was much interested in lessons that day. It was too hot to study much. Realizing this, the teacher in the room where Bert and Nan sat had an idea. She was trying to get the children to write a “composition,” which, as most of you know, isn’t easy work.
“You children will find it much easier to write compositions,” Miss Skell said, “if you will take as subjects something you know about. Instead of trying to write about the stars, as some of you did last week, try to write about something on earth. You don’t know much about the stars—no one does. But you may know a great deal about a nest that some birds have built in your apple tree. So write about those birds.
“And while I am talking about compositions,” the teacher went on, “I want to say that I am going to offer a prize to the boy or girl who, during the vacation, will write the best story, or composition, about something that happens to him or her this summer. Write about something real, in the best way you can, and bring the story back to school when it opens again in the fall.
“The best compositions will be read before the class, and I will decide who is to get the prize, which will be a set of books. The winner may choose the books from a list I will have on my desk.”
Murmurs of delight and surprise were heard about the room. This was something new—a prize for a summer composition! At once the children, who had been dull and listless because of the heat, seemed bright and cheerful. Miss Skell smiled at the success of her plan.
“Now we will have some practice work in writing compositions,” she went on. “You will be better able to do the work this summer when there is no school if you practice a bit now. So we will begin!”
Every boy and girl was most eager now, especially Nan Bobbsey. She was always good at composition work—perhaps not the best in the room, but certainly better than Bert, though he tried. But, really, Bert cared more about playing games than about writing compositions.
“Oh, if I could only win that prize!” thought Nan. “It would be wonderful! I wonder what I can find to write about? Perhaps something may happen while we are at Cloverbank.”