Not of croup, or diphtheria, or measles, or any other physical disease, but of a moral weakness—a bad fault. His name is Oliver Perry. The Perry family, of Merriville, is a large one, and there are so many Georges, Johns, Joes, Harrys, etc., that this little boy was given an unusual name—Oliver Hazard Perry. Did you ever hear of a person by that name? If you have ever read United States History you will at once get an idea that there is something familiar in the name. Nolly, as they called this hero of mine, was the son of a poor widow—that is, she was called poor because she had but little money, though she was very well off in other things. She was well educated, a grand woman, and a Christian. Her two boys, Nolly and little Theo, were the very best boys in the place, everybody said; and any mother who can have that said truthfully of her children ought to be considered richer than Vanderbilt or Jay Gould & Co. Nolly was not only one of the best boys in town, but the best scholar in the school. He won his title and position fairly and squarely, too. He never thought of peeping into a book on the sly when reciting, or having some bigger scholar behind whisper the answer to him. Not he. His lessons were learned through persevering study. He wasn't so very "clever," but he had a good faculty for sticking to what he undertook to do. He always wanted to understand his lessons before he "learned them by heart;" so when once learned they were never forgotten. He rarely failed to answer a question to a lesson he had learned; but when he did fail it was due to his one great fault—heedlessness. This failing of Oliver had cost his mother much trouble and some money, and himself not a few tears. Twice in this particular summer he had laid his books down "just for a minute" by the roadside on his way to or from school, and, forgetting them, they had been caught in showers and ruined, or torn by dogs, or carried off by somebody. He had resolved each time that he would never do such a thing again, never. But he must have the last tag, and his books would drop—for he lost his book-strap and "couldn't keep track" of a string stout enough to tie them with. If it was not "tag" that went against his book-keeping, it was leap-frog, or "snap the whip," or fifty other things. It took so much cash to keep him in books that his mother could not afford to buy him a satchel or even a piece of canvas of which to make him one. He had a bright idea one day when he saw an old woman plaiting straw. In two weeks he had plaited enough straw to make him a very nice school-bag. "Now," he said triumphantly, "my books are safe! I'll have to lose my shoulders or my head before I lose track of my school-kit again." But one day at the close of the school session, as he was putting his books into the satchel, one of the boys outside called to him excitedly: "Nolly! Nolly! There's a snake out here in the grass—or a muskrat! Come quick and help catch it!" Oliver rushed to the door, his satchel in one hand and slate in the other. Sure enough there was something mysteriously moving about in the tall grass a rod away. All thoughts of books and slim portemonnaies and good resolutions vanished in a twinkling; the articles in his hands dropped—he did not know where—and he was on the hunt in two seconds, the merriest boy in Merriville. The largest girl in the school was Carrie Small, a great, overgrown, fleshy girl, pretty, good-natured, clumsy, and near-sighted. Highly pleased over something, she emerged from the school-room with what one of the "Natural Ph'los'phy" class called "her double accelerated quantity of motion." As she reached the last step there was a stumble, then a crackling like that of half-smothered fire-crackers. A long, surprised "W-e-l-l!" came from Carrie's lips, and the teacher and half a dozen girls appeared in the entry to see what was the cause of the exclamation. On the lower step Nolly Perry's slate lay in fragments, his arithmetic face downward in the gravel, and the strap of his satchel was still coiled about Carrie Small's foot—she quite unconscious that she was using the precious straw-work as a mat. Nolly was called, and met the facts with blank dismay at first. Then his anger arose. "You great, clumsy elephant, you!" he began, addressing himself to regretful-looking Carrie. "You never—" But the teacher stopped him. "Don't be so ungentlemanly as to call names, Oliver. You can't blame Carrie. How was she to know that you had made a book-shelf of the steps? and what did possess you to do it?" "I—I—didn't think," stammered the troubled boy. "That looks like multiplication of complex fractions," said a boy at his elbow. Nolly did not smile. He felt as if it were complex everything. He picked up the frame and the largest pieces of slate, and carried them home soberly enough. He laid them on the table before his mother and burst into tears. "I put it down on the step for only just one minute, mother," he sobbed, "and when I came back it—was—no—nowhere." "Carrie Thmall put her foot down on the thame plathe where it wath and cruthed it tho," exclaimed Theo, pressing his fat palms together. Mrs. Perry looked very, very sorry, and she sighed as she said gently:— "I don't know how you are to be kept at school at this rate, Oliver. I had hoped your fault would be overcome as you grew older; but, instead—" She said no more. Nolly wished she would whip him, or punish him in some way. He thought he could stand anything rather than to see her look so troubled. He took himself to task stoutly that night after he had gone to bed. "Oliver Hazard Perry," he said—he always gave himself the full name when he was disgusted with himself—"Oliver—Hazard—Perry, you'll have to be disciplined. Yes, sir, disciplined! You're old enough and big enough to have some judgment, and I saw somewhere that where there's judgment there's inquiry and decision. Now, sir, you will have to look into this and decide on something that will put a stop to such affairs in future." What was resolved upon was made known to his mother the next morning. Observing that he took the worst-looking corn-cakes and the most uninviting pieces of dry bread (and did not garnish these with either butter, gravy, or molasses), she tried to press upon him some warm cakes and gravy, but he thanked her and refused them. "I am going to diet," he said. Then, in reply to further questioning, he continued:— "Dr. Foote says when a person gets wrong, dieting is a good way to get set right again. There must be something wrong with my constitution, or I wouldn't be so careless when I really don't mean to be. I am going to discipline my constitution by dieting; and please, mother, don't ask me to eat anything but the barest sort of victuals for a week." Mrs. Perry at first thought of urging her son to give up the idea of curing heedlessness by such stern measures; but, on reflection, she wisely decided to let him alone as long as his earnest attempts at reform did him no harm. She soon saw that this self-discipline was just what was needed to make a true man out of her darling child. She feared his resolution might not hold out a week. It was a long time in which to deny himself what he loved so well—good things to eat. But he did hold out. No rock in the hills or no oak in the forest was more unyielding. When the week was ended, there was a tip-top dinner in that widow's cottage, and a splendid supper—it was good enough for a birthday. And there was something better. There was the stuff in at least one of the boys of that cottage out of which the world's heroes are made. Oliver is a young man now, gladly supporting his mother, and in a position of trust and honor which few so young men are called to fill. In speaking of his first act of self-discipline, he says:— "Of course I thought of my fault all the time I was dieting myself to cure it. I got a good start toward reform in that week, and as 'a good start is half the battle,' I found it much easier to remember after that. Every time I failed I repeated the prescription; and I shouldn't wonder if, after all, the ruin of that slate was the means of putting me into the way of becoming of some account in the world." Of course the spoiling of the slate did not help him one particle. If he had not put into strong actions the resolves which sprang from the crumbled slate-dust, the slate and spoiled books would have been a total loss to this day—"only that and nothing more."—Gracious Words.