Richmond Palladium (Daily), Volume 33, Number 126, 20 June 1908 — Page 6

j THE KICHMOND PALLADIUM AND STJJf-TELEGRASI.l

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By ADELE BARNEY WILSON.

SOME ages ago, a dozen perhaps, In a far-away land that is not on our maps, -There lived a young king whose riches and greatness Were only surpassed by his youthful ssdateness: He read and he studied when his work was all done; His wisdom and justice amazed .every one; And money he spent with such careful intent That the national debt was reduced to a cent. But in the whole kingdom complaining was rife. Because the young king had ne'er taken a wife. "It is all very well while he lives," the folk said, "But who will rule o'er us when once he is dead? . Perhaps his proud cousin from over the ocean Will make us his subjects we don't like the notion. We want him to give us a son for his heir, To whom our allegiance forever we '11 swear." 'And one day they vowed they would go in a crowd ' ' To make known their grievance that hung like a V cloud. x rAnd so they drew up a petition to carry To the popular king to persuade him to marry. The petition was penned by a learned committee. And signed by his subjects in country and city; And when to receive it the king had consented. ,The ponderous scroll was duly presented. He read it all once, then read it once more. The force of its logic he could not ignore. "Good people," he said, "to please you I '11 wed, And soon to the altar the bride shall be led; A wife and a queen I 've no cause for refusing, But I '11 have my own way in the method of choosing. Next morning the king took his usual ride, His favorite courtiers close at his side; Each high-stepping steed with proud arching neck: A-quiver with life and impatient of check; The laughter and singing, the bugle-calls ringing. The flowers that before them the children were flinging, ;' "United in making so gay a procession, ' Of its beauty words give but a feeble impression.

The cavalcade passed from the old city gates To the beautiful roads of the country estates, Then on to the farms, where the vines and the flowers Transformed humble dwellings to fair floral bowers, And stopped at a door where a plump, blooming lass

"Of course," he continued, "you know how to bake, And often make biscuits and cookies and cake?" She answered with pride which he could not disguise. "And patties," he queried, "and tartlets and pies?" "Your Majesty, yes; even now I am making Some pies that are very near ready for baking." So then he explained that his call appertained To a wish for the bits of the dough that remained, As his horse, he averred, had a curious passion For eating these scraps in a ravenous fashion. "I '11 give him a treat, then," she cried, running toward The table, where lay the great white moldingboard, And scraping a cupful, she carried it out. "The quantity pleases," she thought, "without doubt. Though, alas!" and her face grew suddenly doleful, "Had I known it in time I 'd have saved a whole bowlful." But as the gay throng swept laughing along, She returned to her work with a jubilant song, And spent the whole day dreaming dreams most romantic, Irnd building air-castles whose size was gigantic. From that morning on, the king stopped every day At some humble cottage along the highway, And begged for his horse the scraps of rich dough iWhich all the fair cooks seemed so glad to bestow; But, spite of his courtiers' nudges and winks, Preserved his own counsel, close-mouthed as a sphinx; While each damsel tried, as a matter of pride, To see who the largest amount could provide. And his horse, which seemed to approve the whole matter, Kept on every day growing fatter and fatter.

"The scrappings of dough? I 'm sorry it 's so, But I never have even a crumb left, you know: My mother has taught me it 's wicked to waste The least little fragment of pie-crust or paste. "I measure with care the smallest ingredient, To make the amount which she thinks is expedient. And into the dough she says that I must Most carefully work every scrap of the crust; And if all has been planned exactly and true, My molding-board 's clean when I am quite through. Yes; there in the oven are my pies in a row, And here is my board without one .scrap of dough." "Economical maid!" the king cried in rapture, "You 're exactly the one I 've been trying to capture.

Their prodigal habits have filled me with" scorn. But such thrift as yours a throne should adorn. So, unless you object, I command and direct -The people to hail you the king's bride elect. You shall rule by my side over all this broad land" And he bent low to kiss her tiny brown hand. She trembled and blushed, quite unable to speak. And her long lashes lay in a fringe on her cheek; While proudly he led her out of the door. Rejoiced that his search was happily o'er; And cheer after cheer rent the soft morning' att From the loyal young courtiers who stood waiting there. To the palace they wended, with triumph at tended. And a great gala-week with a wedding was ended.

Peered through the small panes of diamondshaped glass. With heart wildly beating, she curtsied her greeting. "He 's seeking a wife!" her brain kept repeating. And the king, who had never looked grander or graver, Said kindly: "Dear maiden, pray grant me a favor.

Some weeks had thus passed when the cavalcade stood In front of a house at the edge of a wood. From whose shadows came tripping a shy little maid, Abashed by the splendor before her displayed. She heard with surprise the king's usual question, And gasped with dismay at the very suggestion.

Where others are reckless, you take pains to 'And the king ne'er regretted throughout lEeir long measure; The bits they would squander you frugally treasure; " The method he followed of choosing a wife.

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OMMY ATKINS was not a British soldier in a red coat and a smart foragecap, jauntily swinging a two-foot stick as he wlked along, but a little redchecked country lad away up in Maine.

Tommy was just an every-day little fcehap, with no wits to spare when it was a matter of parsing and writing compositions at school, but a (smart enough lad for the ordinary purposes of life. 'He was original, too, in his way, as you will see, but deplorably matter-of-fact, and he took at least two days to see a joke. t One day, just before school broke up for the sum)mer vacation. Tommy's teacher, a bright-faced woUnan whom Tommy secretly adored, made this announcement: i "Children, the pupils of this grade are extremely Meficient in composition. To correct this and pave" the way for more earnest work next year, I will assign a task for the vacation, for which I will offer a jnze-" A murmur of curiosity and excitement passed through the room. A prize! A prize! Tommy's fat cheeks bulged more than ever as he shut his lips Ifirmly. ' i Miss Sanderson paused impressively and each boy peld his breath. I expect each pupil, even the youngest, to write an original composition, pot to exceed two hundred words, and to present the same at my desk on September first nextl and in brder to st mulate your powers of observation, and to keep you in touch with nature study, I shall ask you o write a composition on an apple." "An apple that 's easy," whispered Johnny Dale, igain. : A shade of scorn, even, passed over the face 1 t Harold Ball, the . head boy, who, upon occasion, uld write verse that sounded like Casabianca. "Aa apple -a composition oa an apple," pondere'd

Tommy Atkins over and over all the way home. He could not see the simplicity of the theme; in fact, he could not even get it through his little thick head how the thing could be done at all. "Not more than two hundred words on an apple! I guess not." reflected Tommy. "What is the subject?" asked his mother, on hearing of the competition. "I dunno," said Tommy; "I did n't hear her say. But it 's got to be on an apple." Tommy worried a good deal about the competition during early vacation-time. But one day, as he lay in the long grass of the orchard, idly watching the green globes and graygreen leaves of the sturd old apple-trees above him, a bright idea came into his head. He saw at last how it could be done; he even decided upon the subject, which Miss Sanderson had aoDarently forgotten to mention, and the very words it should contain. That night, when the chores were done, Tommy hunted up a sheet of writing-paper and his mother's sharpest scissors. His hand was ever more nimble than his wits, and with great neatness and dexterity he drew and erased and clipped away until presently he had a pile of little paper letters. During this process he sniffed and squirmed and wriggled, after the fashion of active boys when engaged in a close piece of work; but at last the work was done to his satisfaction and the letters were formed into words. These he read half aloud to himself. They sounded well. His teacher would surely be pleased with this composition. True, it was short, but he decided it was as much as he cou reasonably get on an apple. Then he stole out into the wood-shed for a lantern, and hied him to the orchard as fast as his fat legs could run. Climbing the ladder, he selected with great deliberation, from an old apple-tree, the largest, roundest, smoothest green apple he could

spy, and carefully broke it off, stem and all. In an incredibly short space of time (for Tommy) the task was finished. The letters were gummed and put in their places on the apple, and the apple itself carefully placed on a window-sill where the morning sun might reach it first. Henceforth it was literally "the apple of his eye." A dozen times a day he ran to see if it was ripening the proper way or if any of the letters had come off. September came. A double row of bright-faced, freckled, sunburned boys, spick-and-span in clean sailor waists, stood at the school-house door on opening day. The pupils of Miss Sanderson's class could easily be detected by the important way each boy carried a roll of neatly tied manuscript. Tommy Atkins, however, had no roll of paper and no important air. Indeed, it was with a feeling of blank surprise and not a little uneasiness that he beheld the aforesaid .manuscripts. "What had he done? What had they done? he asked himself. The teacher had a bright smile of welcome for each returning pupil. As each boy in turn brought up his roll of paper and deposited it with a confident or anxious air, according to his temperament, Tommy Atkins's heart sank lower. He was the last boy to go up to the desk. Laying down his composition, carefully wrapped in silver-paper and tied with lilac "love-ribbon," his lips quivered with anxious fear when he heard the teacher say, as she felt the hard round parcel. "Why, what is this, Tommy" "It 's my composition. ma'am," stuttered Tommy. "I guess I did n't do it right." He blinked back the tears which would come. He was a conscientious little chap and took his schooling seriously. Then he broke down, for, after all, he was only a little boy and not a British soldier as you might imagine from his name and he had put so much heart into this effort! He did not want the prize so much, but he wished to please his teacher. Now he began to see that he must have missed something that his quicker schoolmates had grasped. It seemed as if it were love's labor lost, and Tommy was sorely disappointed. The teacher opened the wrapper, and disclosed to the astonished eye of herself and her pupils the most unique "composition on an apple" ever seen. Tommy's matter-of-factness had resulted rather originally this time. There stood a rosy apple, its crimson globe delightfully streaked with faintest creams and yellows, and girdling it like an emerald zone were a number of words in the vivid green of the unripe apple. What did the words say? A buzz of curiosity filled the room. Even Harold corrmoHT it thi cihtuat eMT

Ball, the head boy, forgot his supercilious smile of contempt for all things below his standard of excellence. The teacher held it up high but the hand was unsteady, for a trembling child with all his heart in his brown eyes and an agony of disappointment in his chubby face was awaiting her sentence of doom. The teacher read slowly:" You are the nicest teacher in the bunch. I love you alwuz. Tommy atkins." The class giggled and the teacher smiled, but her eyes were dim with tears.

"The English is faulty and the spelling poor; but the workmanship is good and your composition it certainly original." Tommy breathed again, and went soberly to his seat. And when a committee of the teachers read the boys' effusions, and compared Tommy's originality, painstaking effort, and loving heart with sheets of commonplace statements, such as, "An apple is good to eat," 'Apples grow on trees," etc.? etc. -it was unanimously decided that Tommy Atkins should receive the prize.

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