There was much excitement in the Red Schoolhouse. Examinations were
over; books laid aside. And the walls re-echoed to thrilling
sounds,--to happy voices and shuffling feet, to poetry, marches, and
songs. They were practising for Commencement, for Closing Day. And at
home the parents were busy, too, making white dresses and sashes for
the girls, buying new suits for the boys in town, or making some over
from father's old trousers.
Marmaduke was to take part in the marches and songs, but Jehosophat
had to speak a whole piece, all alone too. It was a great honor, no
doubt about that, which Jehosophat didn't appreciate. He thought it a
bother.
Now their teacher was a patriot and fond of History. All through the
term she had told them tales of brave lads who were good and great.
Probably she wanted them to become good and great, too, and of course
it was the thing to be. That Jehosophat knew, but it was pretty hard
when one kept forgetting.
So he wasn't at all sure of himself, but of one thing he _was_
sure,--the stories were lost on Fatty. Try as he would he never could
think of _him_ as being "good and great," or exactly "a hero."
But that was the least of Jehosophat's worries. He had been given a
piece to learn--to recite before a big crowd!
It was poetry--all about a boy who had stuck by his ship and gone down
with it, too. The piece was called by the boy's name--a queer sort of
word--Casabianca. If the piece was as hard as its name, Jehosophat
thought he never would learn it.
"Well, Jehosophat," said his father that night, "how's the orator?"