"Order!" said the chairman. "Mr. Harlan has the fl-floor,--the
c-c-cellar-door, I mean. Be q-quiet, J-J-Jackson, or I'll reprimand you
severely."
"I'm perfectly quiet," said Jackson. "Haven't spoken a word for an hour."
_JOHN HARLAN'S STORY._
Well, boys, I don't know that I can do better than tell you the story of
one of my mother's old school-mates. His name was Samuel Tomkins----
"Couldn't you give your hero a prettier name?" said Jackson; but the
president said "order," and the story went on.
He lived in one of the counties bordering on the Ohio River. It was a
rough log cabin in which his early life was passed. He learned to walk on
an uneven puncheon floor; the walls were "chinked" with buckeye sticks,
and the cracks daubed with clay, and a barrel, with both ends knocked
out, finished off the chimney. His father had emigrated from
Pennsylvania, and was what they call in that country a "poor manager." He
never got on well, but eked out a living by doing day's works, and
hunting and fishing. But Samuel's mother was a woman of education, and
had just given him a good start, when she died. He was then but eight
years of age. A few months later his father died of a congestive chill,
and little Sammy was thrown on the world.
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