ith got," and then suddenly subsided into a whisper.

"Speak up, Johnny," said the master encouragingly.

"Please, sir, it ain't anythin' he's seed--nor any real news," said
Rupert Filgee, his elder brother, rising with family concern and
frowning openly upon Johnny; "it's jest his foolishness; he oughter be
licked." Finding himself unexpectedly on his feet, and apparently at the
end of a long speech, he colored also, and then said hurriedly, "Jimmy
Snyder--HE seed suthin'. Ask HIM!" and sat down--a recognized hero.

Every eye, including the master's, was turned on Jimmy Snyder. But that
youthful observer, instantly diving his head and shoulders into his
desk, remained there gurgling as if under water. Two or three nearest
him endeavored with some struggling to bring him to an intelligible
surface again. The master waited patiently. Johnny Filgee took advantage
of the diversion to begin again in a high key, "Tige ith got thix," and
subsided.

"Come, Jimmy," said the master, with a touch of peremptoriness. Thus
adjured, Jimmy Snyder came up glowingly, and bristling with full stops
and exclamation points. "Seed a black b'ar comin' outer Daves' woods,"
he said excitedly. "Nigh to me ez you be. 'N big ez a hoss; 'n snarlin'!
'n snappin'!--like gosh! Kem along--ker--clump torords me. Reckoned he'd
skeer me! Didn't skeer me worth a cent. I heaved a rock at him--I did
now!" (in defiance of murmurs of derisive comment)--"'n he slid. Ef
he'd kem up furder I'd hev up with my slate and swotted him over the
snoot--bet your boots!"

The master here thought fit to interfere, and gravely point out that