THE BATTALION.
of the papers was in our hands. All
went to lunch: to come back at 2
o’clock. I could not eat from anxiety,
and having learned the names Of sev
eral of the young men favorably
spoken of for the place, I began to
scan through their papers, and then
compare them with Tipton’s. I saw
it was a neck and neck race, of the
cotton picker against four bright young
teachers, from 21 to 23 years old. 1
grew too restless to eat. and at 2
o’clock they were back punctually,
and eager to begin again. By five the
papers were in, and as I knew that no
amount of worry could change the
result. After arranging for Tipton to
ride towards home about ten miles to
his friends where he spent the night
before, I went to supper with the other
professors, that we might begin our
examination soon after. We worked
until after 12 at night and had cut out
all of the papers belonging to the boys,
except those of the four young teach
ers and those of my Hunt county boy.
We suspended until after breakfast
next morning, and then began the
15
critical comparison by laying the
papers on the same blocks together
and marking as fairly as we could. B>
noon the work was done except plac
ing the figures made by each in sep
arate columns-—these were halves and
fourths and eighths and no one could
guess who had won. But behold when
some belonging to each was found
the bare-footed cotton picker was
greater by 1-6. He was victorious. He
in due time received his appointment
from the State Senator from that dis
trict, and began his course at the
Normal. He there won the confidence
and esteem of students and teachers
a.nd in three years had his diploma as
a graduate. He moved west, carried
his mother and little brother. He was
very successful in teaching and gave
promise of eminent success, but in
four or five years he was promoted to
a professorship to outlast the ages.
When the clods of the valley part, and
the waves of the ocean separate to let
the dead come forth to the last roll-
call, one of the most ringing voices
will be that of Tipton Denton.
NO nORE.
You need but flash your eyes on me
To make me feel the world well lost
If only once or twice in all the years
Your voice beside the sun-stained sea
Shall by the trooping winds be tossed
Across the straits to thrill my happy ears.
Your voice evokes within the sense
That lives behind the hearing nerve
A million memories of gracious tones.
Diffused like fragrance intense
Through times and spaces, and they serve
To give me bliss unknown to kings on
thrones.
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