The Morris County chronicle. [volume] (Morristown, N.J.) 1877-1915, 1900-12-07
!. The Boy Who Tried.
By Constance Merrifield.

Years ago when Duncan McIvor. af-
forwards known as 1.-THE Chronic" was
quite a little lad, his mother went one
day to the ordination of minister OF
the Kirk of Scotland.
She walked out of the old kirk very
quickly. She was always a quiet little
woman; but few could have imagined
the storm of thought and desire ana
resolve stirring within her! And the
seeds of the future We're sown that day
the seeds of the fate which was to be
Duncan McIvor's life-story.
His mother, from that hour, meant
that he should go the University OF
st. Rules, and stuey for the Kirk, and
when a woman of her calibre means
anything, the result is, humanity speak
ing, assured.
Duncan went, in due time, to school,
and he went, in due time, TO st. Rules
to college. During the summer he
helped his father in the croft and with
''the beasts"-a generic term which I'M
plies all the animals in the place-and
he also worked and studied for his
classes. His mother, doing up her
beautiful lace and embroidery, would
see him climb the attic-stairs, his books
under his arm. and smile secretly, we'll
st. Rules, his bag carefully packed, his
little store of oatmeal and scenes and
cheese accompanying him. He had an
attic-room, high up in a red-roofed
house, whence he could see the college
church tower.
Mrs. McIvor had never yet been able
to afford herself the joy of coming to
st. Rules to see the colleges and his
room. You see, there was not penny
to spare; she would come and see him
"capped"-that was her invariable
thought, and she would tell him so, ev-
cry year. when he begged her to come
with him. Year by year the Chronic"
known, alas! by this title now-heard
her say that and felt his heart sink
down like lead within him.
For alas; the Chronic was very, very
Drained, very, very Slow The
steep path Of knowledge seemed every
year more Alpine for his heavy feet.
He gained no steps, no heights It
wound on, and then on. Was it of any
use at all for him to struggle? But
for his mother the Chronic would
frankly, if heartbrokenly, have answer
ed this despairing question in the mega
tive, and have gone home to farm with
his father, leaving the thorny ways of
knowledge and learning to the clever
and the brilliant; but he dared not give
up. for her sake.
And this brings us now to the college
quadrangle, on a day of windy golden
sunshine in October, to the day of the
Chronic's last exam.
The examiner, in his gown, had given
him his notebook with half-pitiful
look. Examiners have hearts some
times, though that may be unbelievable
to some of the red gowns, and the
Chronic took the book with his humble
THANK you!" and then sat staring at
1t almost vacantly.
Presently he heard all the pens
scratching busily. He looked up at the
great dial of the clock. at the solemn,
serene old tower and then read over
the questions; and just as he did so
there suddenly dawned upon him his
mothers face.
She was growing to be an old woman
now, white haired; only her blue eyes
were bright STILL She was bent and
frail, and rested oftener in her arm
chair His father had died the pre-
vious year. The Chronic had heard her
tell a "neebour'' that it was a pity he
would never see Duncan "a placed
minister in his ain kirk"
His mothers face! She would walt
eagerly for the letter telling about this
exam. He must pass! He musti He
had worked-well, God only knew how
he had worked
And there was another face seeming
to dazzle in an aureole of light beside
his mother's-a winsome, .girlish one,
with floating locks He could hear her
laugh. see her light step.
Such a worker Jeanne was. for all
her education" his mother said proud
ly. She was a teacher in the Board
school, and so kind and gentle! Look
ing at her one day, the Chronic had
thoughts-long thoughts, and felt his
manhood stir, and new pulses throb.
Il say, Chronic, amt you going to
begin?" came in a faint whisper at his
side.
He looked round vacantly. Begin?
He shook his head in answer-that
was all.
And then it seemed to him that he
was in the college chapel again, and
the low monotone of the organ was
droning in sweet languor through the
place. A fine organ, finely played.
There was an Notwithstanding
about Sorrow and signing fleeing
away They shall obtain gladness
and joy!" Gladness and joy. after sor-
row and signing!
Half an hour was gone. He had writ
ten nothing-nothing except his name.
He understood nothing. And then the
peace of the chapel came over him
again, with the sound of that droning
bee, and he remembered the stained
windows, and the carving of the fine
tomb opposite, softened as If by
Times gentle hand" and the sunlight
catching the crest above the principals
carved stall. and the preachers low
voice.
He was saying something about a
crooked place being made straight
What was it?
Chronic old fellow, are you ill?"
He looked up then, and dimly saw a
students bending face, and then the
professors kindly eyes asking him
something. and the tired brain leapt to
a last effort of speech.
Give me time," he gasped pitifully.
rising and turning his flushed and hec-
tic face upon them all I'm desperate
ly slow. you fellows. and my head is so
bad--it's like knives running into it,!
But give me time, and I'll worry
through; l must, you know. 1t would
break her heart, you know-my mother
And l couldn't tell her-I couldn't!
oh, heavensl my head my head"
\, fol at ha ~ "a ~.