"There ain't nothin' the matter," said Alcestis Crambry.
"Father's dead, an we're dividin' up the furnerchure."

Alcestis was the pride of the Crambrys, and the list of his
attainments used often to be on his proud father's lips. It was
he who was the largest, "for his size," in the family; he who
could tell his brothers Paul and Arcadus "by their looks;" he who
knew a sour apple from a sweet one the minute he bit it; he who,
at the early age of ten, was bright enough to point to the
cupboard and say, "Puddin', dad!"

Alcestis had enjoyed, in consequence of his unusual intellectual
powers, some educational privileges, and the Killick
schoolmistress well remembered his first day at the village seat
of learning. Reports of what took place in this classic temple
from day to day may have been wafted to the dull ears of the boy,
who was not thought ready for school until he had attained the
ripe age of twelve. It may even have been that specific rumors
of the signs, symbols, and hieroglyphics used in educational
institutions had reached him in the obscurity of his cranberry
meadows. At all events, when confronted by the alphabet chart,
whose huge black capitals were intended to capture the wandering
eyes of the infant class, Alcestis exhibited unusual, almost
unnatural, excitement.

"That is 'A,' my boy," said the teacher genially, as she pointed
to the first character on the chart.

"Good God, is that 'A'! " exclaimed Alcestis, sitting down
heavily on the nearest bench. And neither teacher nor scholars