d over my shoulder and uttered her melodious
croak, for which I saw no reason. "That young whipper-snapper will go
far," she observed; nor did I understand this. But when they stopped the
band for me to announce the returns, one fact did dawn on me even
while I was reading: "Three-year-olds: Whole number of votes cast, 300;
necessary to a choice, 225. Second prize, Lewis Hendricks, receiving
300. First prize, largest number of votes cast, 11, for Salvisa van
Meter. No award. Eighteen-month class: Whole number of votes cast, 300;
necessary to a choice, 225. Second prize, Iona Judd, receiving 300.
Lillian Brown gets 15 for 1st prize. None awarded." There was a very
feeble applause, and then silence for a second, and then the sun-bonnets
rushed together, rushed away to others, rushed back; and talk swept like
hail through the place. Yes, that is what they had done. They had all
voted for Lewis Hendricks and Iona Judd for second prize, and every
family had voted the first prize to its own baby. The Browns and van
Meters happened to be the largest families present. "He'll go far! he'll
go far!" repeated Mrs. Brewton. Sport glittered in her eye. She gathered
her curtains, and was among the sun-bonnets in a moment. Then it fully
dawned on me. The agent for Mrs. Eden's Manna in the Wilderness was
indeed a shrewd strategist, and knew his people to the roots of the
grass. They had never seen a baby-show. They were innocent. He came
among them. He gave away packages of manna and a diamond ring. He
offered the prizes. But he proposed to win some. Therefore he made that
rule about only the immediate families voting. He foresaw what they
would do; and now they had done it. Whatever happened, two prizes went
to his manna-feds. "They don't see through it in the least, which is
just as well," said Mrs. Brewton, returning. "And it's little matter
that only second prizes go to the best babies. But what's to be done
now?" I had no idea; but it was not necessary that I should.

"You folks of Rincon and Sharon," spoke a deep voice. It was the first
man in the Pullman, and drops were rolling from his forehead, and his
eyes were the eyes of a beleaguered ox. "You fathers and mothers," he
said, and took another breath. They grew quiet. "I'm a father myself,
as is well known." They applauded this. "Salvisa is mine, and she got
my vote. The father that will not support his own child is not--does
not--is worse than if they were orphans." He breathe