Johnny Thorpe, the smallest boy in school who could write, now seemed in
trouble, and stretched up his arm to its full length.

"Well, Johnny, what will you have?" asked his teacher.

"If you please, sir, I don't know what you mean by quote."

Mr. Burrows laughed pleasantly.

"I must remember, I see, to speak plain English; I mean you may borrow
your essay from a book, or a dozen books, if you like, so that you don't
try to make us believe the thoughts are your own. You may write in poetry
or not, as you please; but I want each to choose a subject, and stick to
it better than Howard did just now. I have given you something to do that
will keep you hard at work, but you will succeed at last."

Tip went home in a tumult. What could he do? He had never written a
composition in his life, having made it a point to run away from school
on composition-day; but running away was done with now. It didn't seem
possible that he could write anything: certainly not in such a new, queer
way as Mr. Burrows wished them to.

Supper and wood-splitting were hurried over for that evening, and Tip
took his way very early to the seat under the elm-tree down by the pond.
He wanted to think, to see how he should meet this new trouble; it was a
real trouble to him, for he had set out to do just right, and he saw no
way of getting out of this duty, and thought he saw no way of doing it.

"There is no place on the road so dark but this lamp will light you