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The Story of Sugar

Creator: Bassett, Sara Ware, 1872-1968
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had fearlessly told the truth, and despite the calamity it threatened he found himself the happier for telling it. Whether it would mean expulsion from Colversham he did not know; probably it would. To think of leaving Colversham, the place he loved so much! And in disgrace, too. What would the other boys say? And his father? Van shrank at the thought of telling his father. Mr. Blake was a severe man who, like Dr. Maitland, would not gloss over the affair either by tolerance or sympathy. He would be angry, and he would have the right to be. Van admitted that. As he looked back on his school days he realized for the first time how indulgent his father had been; he had denied his son no reasonable wish, simply asking in return that the boy express his gratitude by studiousness and obedience. Van flushed as with vividness it came to his consciousness that he had repaid his father's goodness with neither of these things. He had studied just as little as was possible, and in place of appreciation he had rendered nothing but disgrace. His self-esteem was at a very low ebb when Bob, dismissed from the infirmary, returned to his old quarters. Van was seldom depressed--so seldom, in fact, that the sight aroused in his chum nothing but an
Gems Gathered in Haste A New Year\'s Gift for Sunday Schools

A BRIGHT THOUGHT SPEEDILY EXECUTED. It is an excellent rule, no doubt, children, not to be in a hurry; and the proverbs, "Take time by the forelock" and "The more haste the worse speed," are wise proverbs, worth keeping. But occasions occur, once in a while, when working hastily is a great deal better than not working at all, and may be working to some purpose too. I remember a case of this kind. In a certain town, on the forenoon of July 3, 183-, when "Floral Processions" were novel affairs, a company of ladies and gentlemen were assembled in a barn-chamber, finishing off and packing up a lot of moss baskets, and arranging bunches of flowers to be sent to Boston, to the Warren-street Chapel, by the mail coach at 3 o'clock, P.M. It was about 10 o'clock when one of the party,--suppose we call him, for convenience just now, Mr. Perseverance,--who had been looking out of the window, down upon a very little garden, suddenly turned round, and exclaimed that something might be made prettier than any thing they had yet done. He told what it was. "It is impossible to do it now. We must wait till next year," said his friends. "Nothing like trying: a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. No time like the present," replied Mr. Perseverance, a pertinacious gentleman, who
anxiety lest he be ill. Surely nothing but sickness could cause Van Blake to lie on a couch, his face buried in pillows! "What's the matter, old fellow?" called Bob the instant he was inside the door. "Are you used up?" No answer. "I say, what's the trouble?" Bob repeated, hurrying to his side. It took much questioning before the story could be drawn from the boy's reluctant lips. "When Bob had at last heard it he was silent. "Can't you say something?" queried Van peevishly. "I hardly know what to say," Bob answered with slow gentleness. "I'm so sorry--so sorry and upset. I can't for the life of me understand how you came to do such a thing. Did you expect to get away with it? You must have known you would be missed at recitations and tracked down." "That's right--rub it in!" "I'm not rubbing it in; I'm only trying to understand it."