Читать книгу Prince Dusty. A Story of the Oil Regions онлайн

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It was quite late when he reached the front gate, where faithful little Cynthia was anxiously watching for him and wondering where he could be.

“Oh, Cynthia!” he cried, as he drew near and saw her, “I’ve had such a lovely time! I have been shooting a well with Brace Barlow, and I climbed up the derrick and got a hook that had slipped away from him, and brought it down; and he said I was a brave boy, and had saved his life, though I don’t see exactly how; and then we had a splendid Fourth of July time, blowing up the cans; and it sounded like a real truly cannon; and the very minute I get grown up I’m going to be a well-shooter.”

It was absolutely necessary for the enthusiastic little fellow to pour into sympathetic ear the tale of what he had done. He had performed a brave act, and in the first flush of his excitement he longed to be praised for it, as we all do whenever we have done anything that we consider especially good, or worthy of commendation. It is a reward of merit to which all who have earned it are entitled; and to withhold just praise is as cruel as to extend unjust censure.