Fifty Famous People | Page 3

for little Edward," he said. Then he took from his pocket a sheet of paper on which some verses were written.
"See! It is a little speech that I have written for him. The teacher will soon ask him to speak a piece at school, and I am sure that he can learn this easily and speak it well"
Edward took the paper and thanked the kind minister.
"Mother will help him learn it," said his sister.
"Yes, I will try to learn it," said Edward.
"Do so, my child," said the Minister; "and I hope that when you grow up you will become a wise man and a great orator."
Then the two children hurried on to school.
The speech was not hard to learn, and Edward soon knew every word of it. When the time came for him to speak, his mother and the minister were both there to hear him.
He spoke so well that everybody was pleased. He pronounced every word plainly, as though he were talking to his schoolmates.
Would you like to read his speech? Here it is:--
Pray, how shall I, a little lad, In speaking make a figure? You're only joking, I'm afraid-- Just wait till I am bigger.
But since you wish to hear my part, And urge me to begin it, I'll strive for praise with all my heart, Though small the hope to win it.
I'll tell a tale how Farmer John A little roan colt bred, sir, Which every night and every morn He watered and he fed, sir.
Said Neighbor Joe to Farmer John, "You surely are a dolt, sir, To spend such time and care upon A little useless colt, sir."
Said Farmer John to Neighbor Joe, "I bring my little roan up Not for the good he now can do, But will do when he's grown up."
The moral you can plainly see, To keep the tale from spoiling, The little colt you think is me-- I know it by your smiling.
And now, my friends, please to excuse My lisping and my stammers; I, for this once, have done my best, And so--I'll make my manners.
The little boy's name was Edward Everett. He grew up to become a famous man and one of our greatest orators.

WRITING A COMPOSITION

"Children, to-morrow I shall expect all of you to write compositions," said the teacher of Love Lane School. "Then, on Friday those who have done the best may stand up and read their compositions to the school."
Some of the children were pleased, and some were not.
"What shall we write about?" they asked.
"You may choose any subject that you like best," said the teacher.
Some of them thought that "Home" was a good subject. Others liked "School." One little boy chose "The Horse." A little girl said she would write about "Summer."
The next day, every pupil except one had written a composition.
"Henry Longfellow," said the teacher, "why have you not written?"
"Because I don't know how," answered Henry. He was only a child.
"Well," said the teacher, "you can write words, can you not?"
"Yes, sir," said the boy.
"After you have written three or four words, you can put them together, can you not?"
"Yes, sir; I think so."
"Well, then," said the teacher, "you may take your slate and go out behind the schoolhouse for half an hour. Think of something to write about, and write the word on your slate. Then try to tell what it is, what it is like, what it is good for, and what is done with it. That is the way to write a composition."
Henry took his slate and went out. Just behind the schoolhouse was Mr. Finney's barn. Quite close to the barn was a garden. And in the garden, Henry saw a turnip.
"Well, I know what that is," he said to himself; and he wrote the word turnip on his slate. Then he tried to tell what it was like, what it was good for, and what was done with it.
Before the half hour was ended he had written a very neat composition on his slate. He then went into the house, and waited while the teacher read it.
The teacher was surprised and pleased. He said, "Henry Longfellow, you have done very well. Today you may stand up before the school and read what you have written about the turnip."
Many years after that, some funny little verses about Mr. Finney's turnip were printed in a newspaper. Some people said that they were what Henry Longfellow wrote on his slate that day at school.
But this was not true. Henry's composition was not in verse. As soon as it was read to the school, he rubbed it off the slate, and it was forgotten. Perhaps you would like to read those funny verses. Here they are; but you must never, never, NEVER think that Henry Longfellow wrote them.
Mr. Finney had a turnip, And