"Are you positive?"

"Yes--why--that is--I glanced up from my book just in time to see it whiz, and it came from Tip's direction, and his hand was raised, so I supposed of course he threw it. I thought a minute ago that I knew he did."

"But now you would not say positively that some boy near him might not have done it?"

"Why, no, sir. Alex Palmer might have thrown it; but I didn't think of such a thing."

"Well, Ellis, my verdict is that you were mistaken; I don't think Edward told a falsehood this time. I'll tell you why: he is trying to take the Saviour for his pattern. I believe he is a Christian. Now, there is one thing which I want you to think of. Edward Lewis, who has never been taught anything good, who has never had any one to help him, has given his heart to Christ; and my boy, for whom I have prayed with, all my soul every day since he was born, has not."

CHAPTER IX.

"Hitherto hath the Lord helped us."

"Boys," said Mr. Burrows, one Monday afternoon, "you may lay aside your books; I want to have a talk with you."

Books were hurriedly gathered and piled in their places, and the boys sat up with folded arms, ready for whatever their teacher had to offer.

Mr. Burrows drew out his arm-chair from behind the desk, and sat down for a chat.

"Who will tell me what an acrostic is?"

Several hands were raised.

"Well, Howard, let us hear what you think about it."

"It's a piece of poetry, sir, where the first letter of every line spells another word."

"Do you mean the first letter alone spells a word?"

The boys laughed, and Howard explained promptly. "No, sir; I mean the first letters of each line taken together form a name."

"Must an acrostic always be written in poetry?"

This question called forth several answers, and made a good deal of talk; but it was finally decided that there could be acrostics in prose as well as in rhyme; and Mr. Burrows asked,--

"How many understand now what an acrostic is?"

A few more hands were raised, but many of the boys did not understand yet; it must be made plainer.

"Howard," said Mr. Burrows, "come to the board and give us an acrostic on the word boy."

Howard sprang up. "Must it be a sensible one, sir?"

"Sense or nonsense, just as you please, so as it shows us what an acrostic is."

"I can take my parsing-book and give you one, I think, sir."

And Howard came forward and wrote rapidly,--

"B But you shall hear an odd affair, indeed, O Of which all Europe rings from side to side"--

Then he paused, turning the leaves of his parsing-book eagerly.

"I can't find anything in Y to finish this up with," he said at last.

"Can't you give us a line from your own brain?"

And at this Howard's eye brightened with fun, and, turning to the board after a moment of thought, he dashed off the closing line,--

"Y You who can finish this may have the job;"--

then took his seat amid bursts of laughter from the boys, who all began to understand what an acrostic was.

Ellis Holbrook's hand was up, and his eyes were full of questions.

"Mr. Burrows, why is that called by such a queer name as acrostic?"

His teacher smiled.

"You must study Greek, Ellis. We get it from two words in the Greek, or from one word made up of two others, which mean _extreme_, or _beginning_ and _order_. In an acrostic the beginnings of the lines are arranged in order. Do you understand how we get that word now?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, now, you would all like to know what this talk is for. I want every boy in school who can write, to bring an acrostic on his own name for his next composition."

The boys groaned, and exclaimed, "They couldn't do it, they were sure; they couldn't _begin_ to do it!"

"Yes, you can," said Mr. Burrows; "I don't give my scholars any work that they _can't_ do. You may quote it, or make it original, as you please; but I want every one of you to _try_."

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.