ne
Winter when the biggest boy in the school stood at the tail-end of the
class most of the time, while at the head of the line, or always very near
it, was a freckled, check-aproned girl, who once at a spellin'-bee had
defeated even the teacher. This girl was ten years older than myself, and
I was then too small to spell with this first grade, but I watched the
daily fight of wrestling with such big words as "un-in-ten-tion-al-ly" and
"mis-un-der-stand-ing," and longed for a day when I, too, should take part
and possibly stand next to this fine, smart girl, who often smiled at me
approvingly. And I planned how I would hold her hand as we would stand
there in line and mentally dare the master to come on with his dictionary.
We two would be the smartest scholars of the school and always help each
other in our "sums."

Yet when time had pushed me into the line, she of the check apron was not
there, and even if she had been I should not have dared to hold her hand.

But I must not digress--the particular thing I wish to explain is that one
day at recess the best scholar was in tears, and I went to her and asked
what was the matter, and she told me that some of the big girls had openly
declared that she--my fine, freckled girl, the check-aproned, the
invincible--held her place at the head of the school only through
favoritism.

I burned with rage and resentment and proposed fight; then I burst out
crying and together we mingled our tears.

All this was long ago. Since then I have been in many climes, and met many
men, and read history a bit--I hope not without profit. And this I have
learned: that the person who stands at the head of his class (be he
country lad or presidential candidate) is always the target for calumny
and the unkindness of contemporaries who can neither appreciate nor
understand.

Not long ago I spent several days at Auburn, New York, so named by some
pioneer who, when the Nineteenth Century was very young, journeyed
thitherward with a copy of Goldsmith's "Deserted Village" in his pack.

Auburn is a flourishing city of thirty thousand inhabitants. It has
beautiful wide streets, lined with elms that in places form an archway.
There are churches to spare and schools galore and handsome residences.
Then there are electric cars and electric lights and dynamos, with which
men electricute other men in the wink of an eye. I saw the
"fin-de-siecle" guillotine and sat in the chair, and the jubilant patentee