their doings of the previous day; and it is not easy to describe nor to
imagine the effect produced by this new translation of their own narrative.
Some buried their heads behind their desks; some cried; some looked askance
at one another; and many hastened down to the desk of the teacher, with
apologies, regrets, and acknowledgments without end.

"We did not know it was your father," they said.

"Ah, my lads," replied the teacher, "what odds does it make whose father it
was? It was probably somebody's father,--an inoffensive traveler, an aged
and venerable man, entitled to kind treatment from you and everybody else.
But never mind; he forgives it all, and so do I."

Freely pardoned, they were cautioned that they should be more civil for the
future to inoffensive travelers, and more respectful to the aged and
infirm.

Years have passed by. The lads are men, though some have found an early
grave. The boy who related the incident to his master is "in the deep bosom
of the ocean buried." They who survive, should this story meet their eye,
will easily recall its scenes and throw their memories back to the
schoolhouse in Federal Street, Salem, and to their friend and teacher.

--_Henry K. Oliver_.

* * * * *



The Tongue Can No Man Tame