r and the
ticket-agent and the hotel-manager on the literary committee of
judges at the school festival. There would be a stage, and flags,
and elocution, and parents assembled, and afterwards ice-cream with
strawberries from El Paso.

"Have you ever awarded prizes for school speaking?" inquired the
telegraph-operator, Stuart.

"Yes," I told him. "At Concord in New Hampshire."

"Ever have a chat afterwards with a mother whose girl did not get the
prize?"

"It was boys," I replied. "And parents had no say in it."

"It's boys and girls in Sharon," said he. "Parents have no say in it
here, either. But that don't seem to occur to them at the moment. We'll
all stick together, of course."

"I think I had best resign." said I. "You would find me no hand at
pacifying a mother."

"There are fathers also," said Stuart. "But individual parents are small
trouble compared with a big split in public opinion. We've missed that
so far, though."

"Then why have judges? Why not a popular vote?" I inquired.

"Don't go back on us," said Stuart. "We are so few here. And you know
education can't be democratic or where will good taste find itself?
Eastman knows that much, at least." And Stuart explained that Eastman
was the head of the school and chairman of our committee. "He is from
Massachusetts, and his taste is good, but he is total abstinence. Won't
allow any literature with the least smell of a drink in it, not even
in the singing-class. Would not have 'Here's a health to King Charles'
inside the door. Narrowing, that; as many of the finest classics speak
of wine freely. Eastman is useful, but a crank. Now take 'Lochinvar.'
We are to have it on strawberry night; but say! Eastman kicked about it.
Told the kid to speak something else. Kid came to me, and I--"

A smile lurked for one instant in the corner of Stuart's eye, and
disappeared again. Then he drew his arm through mine as we walked.

"You have never seen anything in your days like Sharon," said he. "You
could not sit down by yourself and make such a thing up. Shakespeare
might have, but he would have strained himself doing it. Well, Eastman
says 'Lochinvar' will go in my expurgated version. Too bad Sir Walter
cannot know. Ever read his Familiar Letters, Great grief! but he was a
good man. Eastman stuck about that mention of wine. Remember?

'So now am I come with this lost love of mine
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.'

'Well,' thought I,