"That gal reads well," said Blue-nose Crawford, or Josiah Crawford, as he should be called. "She ought to keep school. We're goin' to need teachers in Indiana. People are comin' fast." Miss Roby colored. She had indeed won a triumph of which every pupil of Spencer County might be proud. "Now, Nathaniel, let's hear you read. You're a strappin' feller, and you ought not to be outread by a gal." Nathaniel raised his book so as to hide his face, like one near-sighted. He spread his legs apart, and stood like a drum-major awaiting a word of command. "You may read Section V in poetry," said Mr. Crawford, the teacher. "Verses supposed to be written by Alexander Selkirk. Speak up loud, and mind your pauses." He did. "I am monarch of all I survey," he began, in a tone of vocal thunder. Then he made a pause, a very long one. Josiah Crawford turned around in great surprise; and Aunt Olive planted the chair in which she had been sitting at a different angle, so that she could scrutinize the reader. The monarch of all he surveyed, which in the case of the boy was only one page of the English Reader, was diligently spelling out the next line, which he proceeded to pronounce like one long word with surprising velocity: "My-right-there-is-none-to-dispute." There was another pause. "Hold down your book," said the master. "Yes, hold down your book," said Josiah Crawford. "What do ye cover yer face for? There's nuthin' to be ashamed of. Now try again." Nathaniel lowered the book and revealed the singular struggle that was going on in his mind. He had to spell out the words to himself, and in doing so his face was full of the most distressing grimaces. He unconsciously lifted his eyebrows, squinted his eyes, and drew his mouth hither and thither. "From the cen-t-e-r, center; center, all round _to_ the sea, I am lord of the f-o-w-l _and_-the-brute." The last line came to a sudden conclusion, and was followed by a very long pause. "Go on," said Andrew Crawford, the master. "Yes, go on," said Josiah. "At the rate you're goin' now you won't get through by candle-light." Nathaniel lifted his eyebrows and uttered a curiously exciting-- "O"-- "That boy'll have a fit," said Aunt Olive. "Don't let him read any more, for massy sake!" "O--What's that word, master? S-o-l-i-t-u-d-e, so-li-tu-de. O--So-li-tu-de." "O Solitude, where are the charms?" read Mr. Andrew Crawford, "That sages have seen in thy face? Better dwell in the midst of alarms Than reign in this horrible place." Nathaniel followed the master like a race-horse. He went on smoothly until he came to "this horrible place," when his face assumed a startled expression, like one who had met with an apparition. He began to spell out _horrible_, "h-o-r-, hor--there's your hor, _hor_; r-i-b-, there's your _rib_, horrib--" "Don't let that boy read any more," said Aunt Olive. Nathaniel dropped his book by his side, and cast a far-away glance into the timber.