In the early days,
away back when sugar was sixteen cents a pound, the thing to do was
to learn Scripture verses by heart. If you were a rude, rough boy
who didn't exactly love the Sunday-school as much as the hymn made
you say you did, but still one who had rather sing it than stir up a
muss, you hunted for the shortest verses you could find and said them
off. From four to eight was considered a full day's work. But if
you were a boy who put on an apron and helped your Ma with the
dishes, a boy who always wiped your feet before you came in, a boy
that never got kept in at school, a boy that cried pretty easy, a
nice, pale boy, with bulging blue eyes, you came to Sabbath-school
and disgorged verses like buck-shot out of a bag. The
four-to-eight-verse boys sat and listened, and improved their minds.
There was generally one other boy like you in the class, and it
was nip-and-tuck between you which should get the prize, until
finally you came one Sunday, all bloated up with 238 verses in your
craw, and he quit discouraged. The prize was yours. It was a
beautiful little Bible with a brass clasp; it had two tiny silk
strings of an old-gold color for bookmarks, and gilt edges all
around that made the leaves stick together at first. It was
printed in diamond type, so small it made your ears ring when you
tried to read it.
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