"Thomas Rutherford," reads out the master, "gained the prize for arithmetic."
"I'll tak' Tam's prize for him. The laddie's na weel. He's awa'. I'll tak' it;" and the shoemaker moved hastily up to the table.
The minister handed him the book; and, silently taking it, he made his way to the door....
A quiet old man moves listlessly about the village. He does nothing, but every one has a kind word for him. He never walks towards the river, but shudders when its name is mentioned. He sits in his workshop often, and looks up expectantly when he hears the joyous shout of the boys as they come out of school, and then a look of pain flits across his face. He has one treasure,--a book, which he keeps along with his family Bible, and he is never tired of reading through his blurred spectacles the words on the first page:--
BARNES SCHOOL. FIRST CLASS. PRIZE FOR ARITHMETIC AWARDED TO THOMAS RUTHERFORD.
After paying our money at the door, never while I live and breathe will I forget what we saw and heard that night. It just looks to me, by all the world, when I think on it, like a fairy dream. The place was crowded to the full; Maister Glen and me having nearly got our ribs dung in before we found a seat, the folks behind being obliged to mount the back benches to get a sight. Right to the forehand of us was a large green curtain, some five or six ells wide, a good deal the worse of the wear, having seen service through two-three summers: and just in the front of it were eight or ten penny candles stuck in a board fastened to the ground, to let us see the players' feet like, when they came on the stage; and even before they came on the stage; for, the curtain being scrimpit in length, we saw legs and sandals moving behind the scenes very neatly; while two blind fiddlers they had brought with them played the bonniest ye ever heard. 'Od! the very music was worth a sixpence of itself.
The place, as I said before, was choke-full, just to excess; so that one could scarcely breathe. Indeed, I never saw any part so crowded, not even at a tent-preaching when the Rev. Mr. Roarer was giving his discourses on the building of Solomon's Temple. We were obligated to have the windows opened for a mouthful of fresh air, the barn being as close as a baker's oven, my neighbor and me fanning our red faces with our hats to keep us cool; and, though all were half stewed, we certainly had the worst of it, the toddy we had taken having fermented the blood of our bodies into a perfect fever.