"Do let's hear it," said Harry; "there has not been an idea in this crowd
for a month."
"Well," said Hans, "let's every fellow tell a story here on the cellar
door, turn about, on Friday evenings."
"All except m-m-me," stammered Sampson, who was always laughing at his
own defect; "I c-c-couldn't g-g-get through be-be-fore midnight."
"Well," said Miller, "we'll make Will Sampson chairman, to keep us in
order."
They all agreed to this, and Sampson moved up to the top of the
cellar-door and said: "G-g-gentlemen, th-th-this is th-th-the proudest
m-m-moment of my life. I'm president of the C-c-cellar-d-d-door C-club!
M-m-many thanks! Harry Wilson will tell the first st-st-story."
"Agreed!" said the boys. After thinking a minute, Harry began.
_HARRY WILSON'S STORY._
I will tell you a story that my father told me. In a village in
Pennsylvania, on the banks of the Schuylkill River, there lived a wealthy
man.
"Once upon a time," said Jimmy Jackson.
"B-be st-still! Come to order th-th-there, Jackson," stammered the
chairman, and the story went on.
Yes, once upon a time, there lived a wealthy man who had two sons. The
father was very anxious to make great men of them, or at least, educated
men.
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