Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. Frank's Campaign; Or, The Farm and the Camp by Jr. Horatio Alger (book club reads .TXT) 📖
- Author: Jr. Horatio Alger
Book online «Frank's Campaign; Or, The Farm and the Camp by Jr. Horatio Alger (book club reads .TXT) 📖». Author Jr. Horatio Alger
“You have hit it.”
“You were not in earnest, Frank?” said Mrs. Frost inquiringly.
“Ask father.”
“I think he was. He certainly appeared to be.”
“But what does Frank know about farming?”
“I asked him that question myself. He admitted that he didn't know much at present, but thought that, with Mr. Maynard's advice, he might get along.”
Mrs. Frost was silent a moment. “It will be a great undertaking,” she said, at last; “but if you think you can trust Frank, I will do all I can to help him. I can't bear to think of having you go, yet I am conscious that this is a feeling which I have no right to indulge at the expense of my country.”
“Yes,” said her husband seriously. “I feel that I owe my country a service which I have no right to delegate to another, as long as I am able to discharge it myself. I shall reflect seriously upon Frank's proposition.”
There was no more said at this time. Both Frank and his parents felt that it was a serious matter, and not to be hastily decided.
After breakfast Frank went up-stairs, and before studying his Latin lesson, read over thoughtfully the following passage in his prize essay on “The Duties of American Boys at the Present Crisis:”
“Now that so large a number of our citizens have been withdrawn from their families and their ordinary business to engage in putting down this Rebellion, it becomes the duty of the boys to take their places as far as they are able to do so. A boy cannot wholly supply the place of a man, but he can do so in part. And where he is not called on to do this, he can so conduct himself that his friends who are absent may feel at ease about him. He ought to feel willing to give up some pleasures, if by so doing he can help to supply the places of those who are gone. If he does this voluntarily, and in the right spirit, he is just as patriotic as if he were a soldier in the field.”
“I didn't think,” thought Frank, “when I wrote this, how soon my words would come back to me. It isn't much to write the words. The thing is to stand by them. If father should decide to go, I will do my best, and then, when the Rebellion is over, I shall feel that I did something, even if It wasn't much, toward putting it down.”
Frank put his essay carefully away in a bureau drawer in which he kept his clothes, and, spreading open his Latin lexicon, proceeded to prepare his lesson in the third book of Virgil's Aeneid.
CHAPTER V. MR. RATHBURN MAKES A SPEECH
Frank's seat in the schoolroom was directly in front of that occupied by John Haynes. Until the announcement of the prize John and he had been on friendly terms. They belonged to the same class in Latin, and Frank had often helped his classmate through a difficult passage which he had not the patience to construe for himself. Now, however, a coolness grew up between them, originating with John. He felt envious of Frank's success; and this feeling brought with it a certain bitterness which found gratification in anything which he had reason to suppose would annoy Frank.
On the morning succeeding the distribution of the prizes, Frank arrived at the schoolhouse a few minutes before the bell rang. John, with half a dozen other boys, stood near the door.
John took off his hat with mock deference. “Make way for the great prize essayist, gentlemen!” he said. “The modern Macaulay is approaching.”
Frank colored with annoyance. John did not fail to notice this with pleasure. He was sorry, however, that none of the other boys seemed inclined to join in the demonstration. In fact, they liked Frank much the better of the two.
“That isn't quite fair, John,” said Frank, in a low voice.
“I am always glad to pay my homage to distinguished talent,” John proceeded, in the same tone. “I feel how presumptuous I was in venturing to compete with a gentleman of such genius!”
“Do you mean to insult me?” asked Frank, growing angry.
“Oh, dear, no! I am only expressing my high opinion of your talents!”
“Let him alone, John!” said Dick Jones, “It isn't his fault that the teacher awarded the prize to him instead of you.”
“I hope you don't think I care for that!” said John, snapping his fingers. “He's welcome to his rubbishing books; they don't amount to much, anyway. I don't believe they cost more than two dollars at the most. If you'd like to see what I got for my essay, I'll show you.”
John pulled out his portemonnaie, and unrolled three new and crisp bank-notes of ten dollars each.
“I think that's pretty good pay,” he said, looking about him triumphantly. “I don't care how many prizes Rathburn chooses to give his favorite. I rather think I can get along without them.”
John's face was turned toward the door, otherwise he would have observed the approach of the teacher, and spoken with more caution. But it was too late. The words had been spoken above his ordinary voice, and were distinctly heard by the teacher. He looked sharply at John Haynes, whose glance fell before his, but without a word passed into the schoolroom.
“See if you don't get a blowing-up, John,” said Dick Jones.
“What do I care!” said John, but in a tone too subdued to be heard by any one else. “It won't do Rathburn any harm to hear the truth for once in his life.”
“Well, I'm glad I'm not in your place, that's all!” replied Dick.
“You're easily frightened!” rejoined John, with a sneer.
Nevertheless, as he entered the schoolroom, and walked with assumed bravado to his seat in the back part of the room, he did not feel quite so comfortable as he strove to appear. As he glanced stealthily at the face of the teacher, who looked unusually stern and grave, he could not help thinking, “I wonder whether he will say anything about it.”
Mr. Rathburn commenced in the usual manner; but after the devotional exercises were over, he paused, and, after a brief silence, during which those who had heard John's words listened with earnest attention, spoke as follows:
“As I approached the schoolroom this morning I chanced to catch some words which I presume were not intended for my ear. If I remember rightly they were, 'I don't care how many prizes Rathburn gives his favorite!' There were several that heard them, so that I can be easily corrected if I have made any mistake. Now I will not affect to misunderstand the charge conveyed by these words. I am accused of assigning the prizes, or at
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