low, who was ever ready and cheerful with his work.

While I stood looking at Ben, drifting slowly down-stream, and reflected
that the water was fully two fathoms deep at that point, three other boys
stopped on the bank below me to view him. They were strangers to me, but
I observed they were unusually well dressed. They had that effeminate,
exquisite appearance which satisfied me they were visitors from Boston,
sauntering along the river in order to learn whether there was anything
in our town worthy of their attention. They were apparently of nearly the
same age, and each was certainly one or two years older than Ben
Mayberry.

"Hello," exclaimed one, as the three came to an abrupt halt, "look at
that country boy out on that log over there; he thinks he's smart."

"He's trying to show off, Rutherford," said another.

"I say, boys, let's stone him," suggested the third, in a voice so
guarded that I was barely able to catch the words.

The proposition was received with favor, but one of them looked furtively
around and noticed me. His manner showed that he was in fear of my
stopping their cruel sport.

"Who cares for him?" said one of the party, in a blustering voice that it
was meant I should hear; "he's nobody. I'll tell him my father is one of
the richest men in Boston and is going to be governor some day."

"And I'll let him know that my father has taken me and our folks all over
Yurrup. Pooh! he daresn't say anything."

Soothed by this conclusion, the three began throwing stones at Ben.

Ben was close at hand, and the first boy who flung a missile poised and
aimed with such deliberation that I was sure Ben would be hit; but the
stone missed him by fully ten feet. It was not until two more had been
thrown that Ben awoke to the fact that he was serving as a target for the
city youth.

"What are you fellers doing?" he demanded, looking angrily toward them.
"Who you trying to hit?"

They laughed, and the tallest answered, as he flung another missile with
great energy but poor aim:

"We're going to knock you off that log, Country! What are you going to do
about it?"

"I'll show you mighty soon," answered the sturdy lad, who straightway
pushed the long pole in his hand against the bottom of the river, so as
to drive the log in toward the shore where his persecutors stood pelting
him.

There was something so plucky in all this that several others stopped to
watch the result. I secretly resolved that if Be