I am sorry that I cannot reproduce the withering sarcasm which Fletcher put into his tone in the last sentence.

When Demosthenes was practising oratory, he sought the sea-shore; but Fitzgerald repaired instead to a piece of woods about half a mile distant.  It was rather an unfortunate selection, as will appear.

It so happened that Tom Carver and Hiram Huntley were strolling about the woods, when they espied Fletcher approaching with an open book in his hand.

“Hiram,” said Tom, “there’s fun coming.  There’s Fitz Fletcher with his ‘Speaker’ in his hand.  He’s going to practise reading in the woods.  Let us hide, and hear the fun.”

“I’m in for it,” said Hiram, “but where will be the best place to hide?”

“Here in this hollow tree.  He’ll be very apt to halt here.”

“All right!  Go ahead, I’ll follow.”

They quickly concealed themselves in the tree, unobserved by Fletcher, whose eyes were on his book.

About ten feet from the tree he paused.

“I guess this’ll be a good place,” he said aloud.  “There’s no one to disturb me here.  Now, which shall I begin with?  I think I’ll try The Raven.  But first it may be well to practise an appropriate little speech.  Something like this:”—­

Fletcher made a low bow to the assembled trees, cleared his throat, and commenced,—­

“Ladies and Gentlemen:  It gives me great pleasure to appear before you this evening, in compliance with the request of the committee, who have thought that my humble efforts would give eclat to the fair.  I am not a professional reader, but I have ever found pleasure in reciting the noble productions of our best authors, and I hope to give you pleasure.”

“That’ll do, I think,” said Fletcher, complacently.  “Now I’ll try The Raven.”

In a deep, sepulchral tone, Fletcher read the first verse, which is quoted below:—­

  “Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
  Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
  While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
  As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. 
  ‘’Tis some visitor,’ I muttered, ’tapping at my chamber door—­
  Only this and nothing more.’”

Was it fancy, or did Fletcher really hear a slow, measured tapping near him—­upon one of the trees, as it seemed?  He started, and looked nervously; but the noise stopped, and he decided that he had been deceived, since no one was visible.

The boys within the tree made no other demonstration till Fletcher had read the following verse:—­

  “Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
  Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than before. 
  ‘Surely,’ said I, ’surely that is something at my window lattice;
  Let me see then what thereat is, and this mystery explore—­
  Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore;
  ‘Tis the wind, and nothing more.’”