“Hang Patrick Henry!  If you mention his name to me again I’ll box your ears!”

Ishmael dropped his eyes to the ground and sighed deeply.

“After all I have done for you, ever since you were left a helpless infant on my hands, for you to let me lie here and die, yes, actually die, for the want of a cup of tea, before you will spend one quarter of a dollar to get it for me!  Oh!  Oh!  Oh!  Oo-oo-oo!”

And Hannah put her hands to her face, and cried like a baby.

You see Hannah was honest; but she was not heroic; her nerves were very weak, and her spirits very low.  Inflammatory rheumatism is often more or less complicated with heart disease.  And the latter is a great demoralizer of mind as well as body.  And that was Hannah’s case.  We must make every excuse for the weakness of the poor, over-tasked, all enduring, long-suffering woman, broken down at last.

But not a thought of blaming her entered Ishmael’s mind.  Full of love, he bent over her, saying: 

“Oh, Aunt Hannah, don’t, don’t cry!  You shall have your tea this very evening; indeed you shall!” And he stooped and kissed her tenderly.

Then he put on his cap and went and took his only treasure, his beloved “History,” from its place of honor on the top of the bureau; and cold, hungry, and tired as he was, he set off again to walk the four long miles to the village, to try to sell his book for half price to the trader.

Reader!  I am not fooling you with a fictitious character here.  Do you not love this boy?  And will you not forgive me if I have already lingered too long over the trials and triumphs of his friendless but heroic boyhood!  He who in his feeble childhood resists small temptations, and makes small sacrifices, is very apt in his strong manhood to conquer great difficulties and achieve great successes.

Ishmael, with his book under his arm, went as fast as his exhausted frame would permit him on the road towards Baymouth.  But as he was obliged to walk slowly and pause to rest frequently, he made but little progress, so that it was three o’clock in the afternoon before he reached Hamlin’s book shop.

There was a customer present, and Ishmael had to wait until the man was served and had departed, before he could mention his own humble errand.  This short interview Ishmael spent in taking the brown paper cover off his book, and looking fondly at the cherished volume.  It was like taking a last leave of it.  Do not blame this as a weakness.  He was so poor, so very poor; this book was his only treasure and his only joy in life.  The tears arose to his eyes, but he kept them from falling.

When the customer was gone, and the bookseller was at leisure, Ishmael approached and laid the volume on the counter, saying: 

“Have you another copy of this work in the shop, Mr. Hamlin?”

“No; I wish I had half-a-dozen; for I could sell them all; but I intend to order some from Baltimore to-day.”