Abraham Lincoln Spiker was two years younger than Ira Snarkle, but he seemed much taller and correspondingly thinner. In our valley the boys have a fashion of being born long, and getting shorter and fatter as they grow older. Abraham's mother in making his clothes had provided against the day when he would weigh two hundred pounds, and consequently his garments hung all around him, giving him an exceedingly dispirited look. His hair relieved this somewhat, for it was white and always stood gaily on end, defying brush and comb. Daniel Arker, a sturdy black-haired lad, would have done fuller justice to the passage that fell to Abraham, for the Spiker boy with his gentle lisp never shone in elocution; but our reading class is a lottery, as we go from scholar to scholar down the line. The lot falling to him, Abraham pushed himself up from the bench, grasped his book fiercely with both hands, and fixed his eyes intently on the ceiling. "Go on," I commanded kindly. "'Fierth broke he forth,'" lisped the boy. "Louder. Put some spirit in it," I cried. "'Fierce broke he forth!'" And my crutch beat the floor. "'Fierth broke he forth, and durtht thou then to bared----" "To beard," I corrected. "'Bared the lion in hith den--the Doog-dug-lath----'" Abraham stopped and took a long breath. I just gazed at him. "'In hith hall,'" he shouted. "'And h-o-p-hop-e-s-t-hopest thou then unthscathed to go?'" The boy's knees began to bend under him, and he was reaching a long, thin arm out behind hunting for the bench. He was fleeing. I knew it. I warned him. "No--go on--read on." Abraham sighed and drew his sleeve across his mouth from the elbow to the tips of his fingers. Then he sang: "'Noby--Thent Bride--ofBoth--wellno--updraw--bridgegrooms--whatward--erho --lettheportculluthfall!'" Young Spiker collapsed. "'Lord Marmion turned; well was his need,'" I cried, "if Douglas ever addressed him in that fashion." "Now watch me, boys," I added. And with as much fire as I could kindle in so short a time and under conditions so dampening, I thundered the resounding lines: "'No, by St. Bride of Bothwell, no! Up drawbridge, grooms--what, warder, ho!'" "'Let the portcullis fall!'" This last command rang from the back of the room. Perry Thomas stood there smiling. "I couldn't have done it better myself, Mark," he said. "It's a splendid piece--that Manny-yon--ain't it--grand--noble. I love to say it." "Teacher Thomas, Teacher Thomas," came in the shrill voice of Chester Holmes, "ain't it Dooglas?" Perry was at my side, smiling benignly on the school. He really seemed to love the scholars; but Perry is a pious man, and seeks to follow the letter of the Scriptures, and the command is to love our enemies. "Doogulus--Doogulus," he said. "Of course, boys, it's Doogulus." The word seemed to taste good, he rolled it over and over so in his mouth.