“I don’t believe I can say my lesson, and Mr. Garland will think I’m a dunce,” said he to himself, with a quivering lip.
Now Preston Gray was remarkably handsome, and one of the dearest boys that ever lived, but not a great scholar. He could whittle chairs and sofas and churns for Flaxie with a jackknife, and I don’t know how many ships and steam-engines he had made; but he did not learn his lessons very well.
To-day, after the recitation was over, Mr. Garland walked with him along the bank of the river.
“Preston, my fine little fellow,” said he, kindly, “I can’t bear to scold a boy I love so dearly; but I’ve been afraid for some time that you don’t study this term as hard as usual; what’s the matter?”
Tears sprang to Preston’s eyes, but he brushed them off and pretended to be looking the other way.
“Now, seriously, what do you suppose boys were made for?” went on Mr. Garland, without the least idea Preston was crying; “you don’t suppose they were made on purpose to play and have a good time?”
“I don’ know, sir,” replied Preston, clearing his throat, and trying to laugh; “perhaps they were made to play a good deal, you know, because they can’t play when they grow to be men.”
“Ah, Preston, Preston, I am not joking with you at all. If you were a small child like your sister Flaxie it would not matter so much whether you studied or not, but your father expects a great deal of his oldest son, and it grieves me to have to say to him—”
“Oh, don’t, don’t,” wailed poor little Preston, “I’ll do anything in the world if you won’t talk to my father; I’ll take my books home, I’ll—I’ll—”
“There, there, never mind it,” said soft-hearted Mr. Garland, moved by the boy’s distress, “if you really mean to do better—Why, look out, child, you’d have fallen over that stump if I hadn’t pulled you back. Where in the world were your eyes?”