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By Elizabeth Stuart Phelps et al.
African Americans – Fiction
A Lost Hero
Elizabeth Stuart Phelps (Elizabeth Stuart Phelps Ward)
Herbert Dickinson Ward
WARD and HERBERT D. WARD
Illustrated by Frank T. Merrill
John Wilson and Son, Cambridge, U.S.A.
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE A LOST HERO Frontispiece THE EXPRESS FROM COLUMBIA 11 THE ENTERPRISE OF THE SUMMERVILLE MERCHANT 12 IN THE GROUP AT THE STATION STOOD A WHITE BOY 13 THE BOY TESTED THE HALTER, AND PATTED THE HORSE 15 STRAY GOATS AND MULES GAZED EXPECTANTLY 17 AN OLD NEGRO CAME UP 19 HE PLODDED SLOWLY UP THE TRACK 21 SNAPPED HIS HALTER, AND BROKE AWAY 23 HE GOT DOWN ON HIS HANDS AND KNEES AND CRAWLED 24 BIRDS SEEMED TO SING THROUGH THE AIR 25 HAD THE END OF THE WORLD COME? 27 THEY RAN 31 THE PAUPER DOG 32 THEY WERE ONLY COWS 33 RUN FOR ’T! RUN! 37 AS THEY CAME ABREAST OF THE SECOND LITTLE STATION 41 I SOLE FOR TWO THOUSAND DOLLARS ONCT 43 THE RAGGED OLD ARM THAT FELLED IT DOWN 45 THE LITTLE ONE CLIMBED LIKE A MONKEY UPON A SHELF 47 THE OLD MAN SEIZED THE TORPEDOES 48 THIS COMFORTED THE LAD INCREDIBLY 49 “I STUMP YE!” 53 THE STRONG, BLACK FIST WAS CLINCHED 55 HE LAID ONE TORPEDO ON EACH RAIL 57 PAPAe! PAPAe! 62 A LITTLE HUDDLING FIGURE 63 THE LOCALITY WHERE THE TRAIN STOOD WAS EXAMINED THOROUGHLY 67 HAD THE CURIOSITY TO PICK UP THE RAGS 72 FINIS 74
THE materials of heroism are everywhere; each day and all situations are full of them. The power to recognize them and the will to use them make the hero. He who saves life, no matter how obscure, how poor, how ignorant he may be, has a value which can never belong to the spiller of blood; and the crimson glories of war fade before the white honors of peace.
This little story, which was originally contributed to the “Youth’s Companion,” has sought to teach the young people of America something of the grandeur which waits upon a brave deed, and something of the beauty of supreme self—sacrifice.
E. S. P. W.
A LOST HERO.
The express from Columbia was due. It was almost nine o’clock on Tuesday night, the 31st of August, 1886. It had been a hot day, sultry toward night, and the loungers at the Summerville station were divided between pitying and envying their neighbors on the excursion train. In such weather, home seems either the most intolerable or the most comfortable place in the world. It had not rained for six weeks, and South Carolina panted.
There was a larger crowd than usual at the little station to see the Columbia excursionists come in. The enterprise of the Summerville merchant who placarded the pine—trees of this forest village with legends to the effect that his ice—cream would be found “Opp. the depot,” was well rewarded that scorching night. The streets thronged–if Summerville streets can ever be said to throng–with warm and thirsty loungers of both sexes and of every color. South Carolinians though they were, they objected to the heat of that day.
In the group at the station stood a white boy, about ten years old,–a neatly dressed, well—behaved little fellow, with an expression of crushing and delightful responsibility. He wandered back and forth restlessly and proudly from the track to a tree in the square, where an old horse and wagon were fastened with unnecessary security. The boy tested the halter, and patted the horse continually.
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