LITMIR.BIZ

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chiefly for his laziness.

      The teacher proceeded:

      "I do not mean to tell you to-day who it is. To-morrow I shall call out his name before the school committee, and present him the prize. I want you to do as well as you can to-morrow. I want you to do yourselves credit, and to do me credit, for I do not want to be ashamed of you. Peter Shelby, put back that knife into your pocket, and keep it there till I call up the class in whittling."

      There was another laugh here at the teacher's joke, and Peter himself displayed a broad grin on his large, good-humored face.

      "We will now proceed to the regular lessons," said Mr. Burbank, in conclusion. "First class in arithmetic will take their places."

      The first class ranked as the highest class, and in it was Harry Walton.

      "What was your lesson to-day?" asked the teacher.

      "Square root," answered Harry.

      "I will give you out a very simple sum to begin with. Now, attention all! Find the square root of 625. Whoever gets the answer first may hold up his hand."

      The first to hold up his hand was Ephraim Higgins.

      "Have you got the answer?" asked Mr. Burbank in some surprise. "Yes, sir."

      "State it."

      "Forty-five."

      "How did you get it?"

      Ephraim scratched his head, and looked confused. The fact was, he was entirely ignorant of the method of extracting the square root, but had slyly looked at the slate of his neighbor, Harry Walton, and mistaken the 25 for 45, and hurriedly announced the answer, in the hope of obtaining credit for the same.

      "How did you get it?" asked the teacher again.

      Ephraim looked foolish.

      "Bring me your slate."

      Ephraim reluctantly left his place, and went up to Mr. Burbank.

      "What have we here?" said the teacher. "Why, you have got down the 625, and nothing else, except 45. Where did you get that answer?"

      "I guessed at it," answered Ephraim, hard pressed for an answer, and not liking to confess the truth—namely, that he had copied from Harry Walton.

      "So I supposed. The next time you'd better guess a little nearer right, or else give up guessing altogether. Harry Walton, I see your hand up. What is your answer?"

      "Twenty-five, sir."

      "That is right."

      Ephraim looked up suddenly. He now saw the explanation of his mistake.

      "Will you explain how you did it? You may go to the blackboard, and perform the operation once more, explaining as you go along, for the benefit of Ephraim Higgins, and any others who guessed at the answer. Ephraim, I want you to give particular attention, so that you can do yourself more credit next time. Now Harry, proceed."

      Our hero explained the sum in a plain, straightforward way, for he thoroughly understood it.

      "Very well," said the schoolmaster, for this, rather than teacher, is the country name of the office. "Now, Ephraim, do you think you can explain it?"

      "I don't know, sir," said Ephraim, dubiously.

      "Suppose you try. You may take the same sum."

      Ephraim advanced to the board with reluctance, for he was not ambitious, and had strong doubts about his competence for the task.

      "Put down 625."

      Ephraim did so.

      "Now extract the square root. What do you do first?"

      "Divide it into two figures each."

      "Divide it into periods of two figures each, I suppose you mean. Well, what will be the first period?"

      "Sixty-two," answered Ephraim.

      "And what will be the second?"

      "I don't see but one other figure."

      "Nor I. You have made a mistake. Harry, show to point it off."

      Harry Walton did so.

      "Now what do you do next?"

      "Divide the first figure by three."

      "What do you do that for?"

      Ephraim didn't know. It was only a guess of his, because he knew that the first figure of the answer was two, and this would result from dividing the first figure by three.

      "To bring the answer," he replied.

      "And I suppose you divide the next period by five, for the same reason, don't you?"

      "Yes, sir."

      "You may take your seat, sir. You are an ornament to the class, and you may become a great mathematician, if you live to the age of Methuselah. I rather think it will take about nine hundred years for you to reach that, point."

      The boys laughed. They always relish a joke at the expense of a companion, especially when perpetrated by the teacher.

      "Your method of extracting the square root is very original. You didn't find it in any arithmetic, did you?"

      "No, sir."

      "So I thought. You'd better take out a patent for it. The next boy may go to the board."

      I have given a specimen of Mr. Burbank's method of conducting the school, but do not propose to enter into further details at present. It will doubtless recall to some of my readers experiences of their own, as the school I am describing is very similar to hundreds of country schools now in existence, and Mr. Burbank is the representative of a large class.

      CHAPTER V. THE PRIZE WINNER

      "Are you going to the examination to-day, mother?" asked Harry, at breakfast.

      "I should like to go," said Mrs. Walton, "but I don't see how I can. To-day's my bakin' day, and somehow my work has got behindhand during the week."

      "I think Harry'll get the prize," said Tom, a boy of ten, not heretofore mentioned. He also attended the school, but was not as promising as his oldest brother.

      "What prize?" asked Mrs. Walton, looking up with interest.

      "The master offered a prize, at the beginning of the term, to the scholar that was most faithful to his studies."

      "What is the prize?"

      "A book."

      "Do you think you will get it, Harry?" asked his mother.

      "I don't know," said Harry, modestly. "I think I have some chance of getting it."

      "When will it be given?"

      "Toward the close of the afternoon."

      "Maybe I can get time to come in then; I'll try."

      "I wish you would come, mother," said Harry earnestly. "Only don't be disappointed if I don't get it. I've been trying, but there are some other good scholars."

      "You're the best, Harry," said Tom.

      "I don't know about that. I shan't count my chickens before they are hatched. Only if I am to get the prize I should like to have mother there."

      "I know you're a good scholar, and have improved your time," said Mrs. Walton. "I wish your father was rich enough to send you to college."

      "I should like that very much," said Harry, his eyes sparkling at merely the suggestion.

      "But it isn't much use hoping," continued his mother, with a sigh. "It doesn't seem clear whether we can get a decent living, much less send our boy to college. The cow is a great loss to us."

      Just then Mr. Walton came in from the barn.

      "How do you like the new cow, father?" asked Harry.

      "She isn't equal to our old one. She doesn't give as much milk within two quarts, if this morning's milking is a fair sample."

      "You paid enough for her," said Mrs. Walton.

      "I paid too much for her," answered her

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