George. What is the matter?-no school to-day? John. School enough for you, I fancy. You have been getting the wrong lesson, after all!

George. O John, do not tell me so.

John. It is true; and the boy that sits there whittling a stick so quietly, he knew it yesterday, and would not tell you.

George. O Peter, how could you do so?

Peter. Easily enough. I do not see that I was under any obligation to help you to keep at the head of the class, when I am the next.

George. But you know you deceived me, Peter. I think it would have been but kind and fair to tell me my mistake, as soon as you found it out; but, instead of that, you said things that made me quite sure I was right about the lesson.

Peter. But I did not tell you so; you cannot say I told you so. Nobody ever caught me in a lie. John. But you will lie; you will come to that yet if you go on so.

Peter. Take care what you say, sir!

George. Come, come, John; do not quarrel with him. He will get the medal now; and it is a cruel thing too; for I sat up till eleven o'clock, last night, studying; and he knew that my father was coming home from Washington to-night, and how anxious I was to have the medal. But it cannot be helped

now.

not cry! I declare there

Peter. Poor fellow! do are great tears in his eyes. Now, it is a pity, really. John. For shame, Peter, to laugh at him' You

85

are a selfish, mean fellow, and every boy in school thinks so.

George. Come, John, I must go and study my lesson as well as I can. I would rather be at the foot of the class than to take advantage of any body.

(Exit George.)

Peter. The more fool you! Now, he will be so much excited, that he will be sure to miss in the very first sentence.

John. There is the master, coming over the hill. Suppose I should just step up to him, and tell him the whole story.

Peter. You know better than to do that. affair with which you have nothing to do.

It is an

John. I know that very well, and I have no desire to interfere; but the master will find you out yet, without any body's help; and that will be a day of rejoicing to the whole school. There is not a boy in it, Peter, that does not scorn you.

Peter. And who cares, as long as the master

John. Do not be quite so sure about the master! He never says much till he is ready. But I have seen him looking pretty sharply at you, over his spectacles, in the midst of some of your clever tricks. He will detect you one of these days, when you little think of it. I wish you much joy of your medal, sir. You got to the head of the class, last week, unfairly; and if your medal weighed as much as your conscience, I think it would break your neck.

(Peter sits whittling, and humming a tune.) Peter. Let me see. I am quite sure of the medal in

this class; but there is the writing! John Steady is the only boy I am afraid of. If I could get some bad boy to pester him, and joggle his desk till he gets mad, I should be pretty sure of that too.

LESSON XXVI.

CONSONANT SOUNDS IN COMBINATION.

sl

as in slake, slate, slave, slow.
sm as in small, smile, smoke, smote.
sn as in snail, snake, sneer, snow.

sp as in speak, spoke, asp, wasp.

Sometimes a distant sail, gliding along the edge of

the ocean, would be another theme of idle speculation.

A sweet and soothing influence breathes around the dwellings of the dead.

The same, concluded.

(Enter the Master, taking out his watch.)

Master. Ir wants twenty minutes to nine. Peter Sly, come to me; I wish to have some conversation with you this morning.

Peter. Yes, sir. - What now? He looks rather black. (Aside.)

Master. For what purpose do you imagine I bestow medals, once a week, on the best of my scholars?

sir.

Peter. To make the boys study, I believe, sir. Master. And why do I wish them to study? Peter. Why-to please their parents, I suppose,

Master. I wish them to study for the same reason that their parents do that they may obtain knowledge. I have suspected, for some time, that you labor under a mistake upon this subject. You take great pleasure, I presume, in wearing home the medal, and your mother takes pleasure in seeing it.

Peter. Yes, sir; she does.

Master. And why?

What does the medal say to

her? Of what is it a sign?

Peter. Why, that I am the best scholar in my class.

Master. Is that what it says? I think it only shows that you have been at the head of the class oftener, during the week, than any other boy.

Peter. Well, sir; then, of course, she must think me the best scholar.

Master. She would naturally think so, for so it ought to be. But you know, Peter, and I know, that a boy who has no sense of honor, no generous feelings, no strictness of principle, may get to the head of the class, and get medals for a time, without being

the best scholar.

You know how such a thing can be accomplished, do you not? and how the medal may be made to tell a falsehood at home? (Peter hangs his head in silence.) Shall I tell you how I have seen it done? By base tricks; by purposely leading others into mistakes; by trying to confuse a boy, who knows his lesson sufficiently well, but is timid; by equivocations that are little short of lies, and are forerunners of unblushing lies. Now, sir, a boy who does these things is so weak-minded that he cannot see the proper use of medals, and thinks he is sent here to obtain them, instead of being sent here to gain knowledge to prepare him for future usefulness; and, under this mistake, he labors for the empty sign, instead of the thing itself. That shows folly. Then he becomes so intent on his object, as to care not by what means he obtains it. That shows wickedness

want of principle. Have I any boy, in my school, of this description?

Peter. Yes, sir; but forgive me this time. I did not think you ever observed it.

So you

Master. The wicked are very apt to believe themselves more successful than they really are. concluded you had deceived me, as well as wronged your companions! Your tears are unavailing, if by them you think I shall be persuaded to drop the subject here. You must be publicly exposed.

Peter. What, sir, when I have not told a lie? Master. You have not spent a day in perfect truth for weeks. I have watched you in silence, and close