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 eyes 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 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 is 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.
“What Ho, there!”
A scene from most any day in tke Middle Ages.
