Racial Inequality in the US

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Horatio Alger

This post contains a few short stories from Horatio Alger Jr. Read at least two (2) or more of the stories and answer the following questions:

1. What are the circumstances the main character finds him or herself in?
2. What must they overcome?
3. How are they doing at the end?
4. What seems to be implied that might not be very realistic?

Henry Trafton's Independence

James Trafton had never been a successful man. He had worked hard all the days of his life, but had never seen the time when he could say that he had one hundred dollars ahead. When he died — his wife had died three years before — his three children were left to shift for themselves. These children were all young. The oldest — Henry — was a boy of fourteen. Alice and George were respectively eleven and seven. Attached to the hired house in which they lived was an acre of moderately good land. The house itself was small, containing only four rooms, and the furniture was of the plainest kind. The furniture, with a few dollars in cash, was all that the orphans had to begin the world with — an inconsiderable inheritance, certainly. The morning after the funeral, as the children were sitting at their humble meal, the sound of wheels was heard, and a moment afterwards a tall, sour-looking man entered the room, without the preliminary ceremony of knocking.

“Good morning, Mr. Graves,” said Henry.

“Morning,” said the stranger, shortly. “Well, I’ve come after your brother and sister, and you’re to come with me too.”

“What do you mean?” asked Henry, surprised. “This is the first time I have heard of any such plan. Where do you propose to carry us?”

“Where do you expect? Your brother and sister are going to the poorhouse, and you’re to work for me for your victuals and clothes. That is, as you won’t earn so much the first year, your furniture is to be thrown in to make it right.”

By this time Henry’s cheeks were flushed with indignation, not only at the proposition, but at the coarseness with which it was conveyed.

“Mr. Graves,” said he, “you will find yourself mistaken. I don’t intend to work for you, nor shall my brother and sister go to the poorhouse.”

“They shan’t, hey?” sneered Mr. Graves, in surprise and anger. “Perhaps you’re going to support ’em yourself.”

“That is what I shall try to do.”

“Well, you needn’t expect the town will help you unless you go to the poorhouse.”

“I don’t expect the town to help me. I’m strong of my age, and I guess I can earn the little we shall need. I don’t know of any law that will make us paupers, whether we want to be or not.”

“Oh, you can do just as you please, but I reckon you’ll be glad enough to ask help of the town before six months are out.”

“Not if I have health. Good morning, Mr. Graves.”

“Well, he’s a little upstart. Pride and poverty always go together, they say. I should have liked to have had him work for me, because I could have got more than the money’s worth out of him. But I reckon he’ll have to come to it at last.”

Henry Trafton was a boy of spirit and energy — very different from his father in these respects — and he had that proper pride which made bitterly repugnant to him the thought of his young brother and sister becoming dependent upon the town for support. He felt considerable confidence in himself, and in the Providence which watches over all, however humble and obscure, and he was not disposed to give up without a stout struggle. Immediately after breakfast Henry went to call on Squire Castleton, of whom his father had hired the house. The squire had an excellent disposition and received Henry kindly.

“I called to inquire how much rent father used to pay you for our place.”

“Fifteen dollars a quarter,” said the squire. “I suppose you wish to give it up.”

“No,” said Henry, hesitating. “I thought if you were willing I should like to keep it.”

“Indeed! I thought that — at least Mr. Graves told me —”

“I suppose he told you that I was going to work for him, and my brother and sister were going to the poorhouse,” said Henry, coloring.

“Why, yes, I believe he did say that.”

“I did not hear of it till this morning; but, Squire Castleton, I can’t bear the idea of any of the family coming on the town, and I thought if you would still let us the place, I might, with what I could get off the land and what work I could get to do, be able to keep the family together. We shouldn’t expect to live very extravagantly, but it would be so much pleasanter if we could still be together.”

“Give me your hand, my boy,” said the squire, warmly. “Your resolution is a manly and noble one, and you shall not want my encouragement.”

“Then we may still have the house?”

“Yes, and at a reduced rent. I guess it won’t be any loss to me in the end if I let you have it at ten dollars a quarter instead of fifteen.”

“But indeed, Squire Castleton, you are too kind. I shan’t feel as if I was really depending on myself.”

“No scruples, Henry. Don’t you see that it is for my interest to have you stay? If you left I might be without a tenant for six months or a year, or else get one that abuses the house and perhaps neglects to pay the rent. Besides, if you get on well this year, I may increase next.”

Henry’s sensitive pride was appeased by this representation of the kind-hearted Squire, and he thanked him earnestly.

“And hark you, my boy,” continued Squire Castleton, “you’ll want all your money till you get well underway, so you can wait and pay me the rent all in a lump at the end of the year. No thanks— it will be just as convenient to me. How soon do you propose to plant your land?”

“I suppose it is about time now. I thought I would try to hire a man to come and plough it within a day or two.”

“As to that,” said the squire, “my oxen are not in use this forenoon, I will send them right over with my man Mike, and they can have it done by dinner.”

“I shall be very glad to make that arrangement, and will pay you whatever the regular price is.”

“Oh, that’s a trifle. I shan’t make any account of it. But I’ll tell you what you can do. You can get your seed of me. I have got some capital potatoes — an excellent kind — which I can recommend.”

“But you must certainly let me pay for those, Squire Castleton.”

Feeling that Henry would really feel more at ease if he permitted this, the squire proposed that he should pay in work, which Henry gladly agreed to do.

“I’ve got half a dozen cords of wood that I want sawed and split,” said the squire. “There’s no hurry about it, though. It will do when you have done planting. I will deduct the price of what seed I supply you out of your wages.”

When Henry left Squire Castleton’s house, it would be hard to tell which was the better pleased, he or the squire. The latter felt a warm glow at his heart, such as a good action always brings with it, while the former rejoiced in the bright prospect of independence, which he saw before him. Henry had hardly gone when Mr. Graves, who, by the way, was overseer of the poor, came to see Squire Castleton. He had come with the benevolent purpose of urging the squire to turn the cold shoulder upon our hero, and decline to let him the house in which he now lived.

“Good morning, squire,” said the overseer.

“Good morning,” returned the squire, rather stiffly, for he had never felt particularly friendly towards a man who was notorious for his meanness.

“I’ve just been over to see the Trafton children,” said Mr. Graves.

“Have you?” said the squire.

“Yes, squire, and what do you think? They’ve set their backs up — at least Henry has — that they won’t go to the poorhouse.”

“Have they, indeed?”

“Yes, ain’t it ridikilus? Of course they can’t expect to live where they do now.”

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Graves. They propose to do so.”

“What! You ain’t going to let them stay, are you?”

“I have agreed to do so.”

“Well, I can tell you one thing, Squire Castleton — I wouldn’t give you ten dollars for all the rent you’re likely to get out of them.”

“I conceive,” said the squire, coldly, “that this is a matter which concerns me only. I feel under no apprehensions on that score. Henry Trafton is a fine, manly boy, and I have the utmost confidence in him.”

Mr. Graves left the squire a little discomfited, muttering to himself, “Well, it ain’t none of my business, I s’pose; but I reckon the squire’ll find by this time next year that I ain’t quite so far wrong.”

Indeed, had all looked upon Henry with the same disfavor as Mr. Graves, the latter’s prophecy would very probably have been verified. But, for the credit of human nature be it said, the boy’s spirit made him friends. By way of illustration, let me mention that Mr. Burbank, of the firm of Burbank & Co., who kept the village store, offered to give Henry six months’ credit on such articles as he might need from the store — the favor being the greater that the business was conducted on the cash system. Henry thanked him, and said that he preferred to pay cash when he had it, but might like a temporary accommodation now and then.

It took Henry about a week to get his land planted. At the end of that time he entered upon the job which he had engaged of Squire Castleton. At the end of this time he received an offer from a shoemaker to work during the spare time he had in his shop, while at the same time work at binding shoes was offered to his sister Alice. But Henry was not willing that either Alice or George should give up school for the sake of work. He felt that this would be but a poor investment of time. Accordingly, it was only during their leisure hours that they were called upon to do their part towards the family support. Fortunately, Alice knew how to cook, having been accustomed to do all the family cooking before her father’s death, and she still continued to do it. The family was so small that it did not require her to work beyond her strength, or fill up a large part of her time. Fortunately, the harvest was excellent, and Henry, after selling off one-half of his vegetables, had enough left to last their small family through the year.

At the end of the first year, to his great satisfaction he found that he had enough to pay the rent and some over. Certainly he had reason to congratulate himself on the success of his attempt to keep the family together. True, they had not lived luxuriously, but they had lived comfortably, and above all, they had retained their independence and their self-respect.

Three years passed, and Henry was now seventeen years old. What was his surprise when Squire Castleton came to him and proposed to him to cultivate his (the squire’s) farm at the halves.

“What!” exclaimed Henry, in surprise. “Would you trust me, who am so young, with so important a trust?”

“You are but seventeen, I know, Henry,” was the reply, “but I have watched you closely for the last three years, and I have found in you qualities which I consider far more valuable than mere experience. I may tell you in confidence that the position which I offer you has been sought by Mr. Graves, whose petition I declined without a moment’s hesitation.”

“My dear sir,” said Henry. “I accept your proposal with grateful thanks, and I will endeavor to so exert myself that you shall not repent it.”

When it came out that Henry Trafton had taken the squire’s large farm at the halves, everybody was astonished, and none more so than Mr. Graves. He loudly asserted that the squire had acted like a “natural born fool,” and that he would find it out at the end of the first year. But five years have passed, and Henry’s engagement still continues. I am inclined to think there is no chance of its speedy termination, as Henry is engaged to the squire’s pretty daughter, who will soon become his wife.

(First appeared in Gleason's Literary Companion, April 28, 1860)

John Rawson's Christmas Present

It was a cold, forbidding day, as it well might be, for it was the day before Christmas, when a young man of twenty-seven, his face well bronzed by exposure, stood on the hill that overlooked the village of Wellburn, and with thoughtful gaze let his eyes rest upon the peaceful little village that had once been his home.

“It is ten years,” he thought, “since I saw Wellburn and it looks still the same — not a day older than when I left it. How full of changes and vicissitudes it has been to me. But all has turned out happily, thank God! I come home with money enough to make me rich in the eyes of my old neighbors. If only they are living to share it with me I shall be happy.” And who were they?

Ten years ago John Rawson had left home without his father’s permission. He had always been a headstrong boy, full of wild animal spirits, and impatient of control. Perhaps his father had not been forbearing enough with him. At all events their wills clashed, there was a bitter scene and mutual recrimination, and one morning John made up a little bundle of clothes and left home before sunrise. His father had never heard from him since.

He had led a life of vicissitudes. Shipping on board a vessel bound for the East Indies, he had gone thither and returned, and then made other voyages, spending as he went till five years previous he reached Australia and there turned over a new leaf. He became steady, for time favored him and he rapidly accumulated money. But why during all this time did he not write home? Did not the image of his grandmother and her sorrowful face ever come before him and lead him to yearn for tidings from home?

Yes, often, but he was proud. His father had predicted that he would never do well, and he wished to come home prosperous. For his father he did not fear. He was comfortably off, and poverty was the last thing he anticipated for him.

But nothing is more uncertain than money. Mr. Rawson rashly invested his money in some promising Western speculation, and lost it all. The money had been raised by a mortgage on his farm, and that had been foreclosed only three months before. Bodily infirmity came upon the farmer with his pecuniary troubles, and too ill to work he and his wife were glad to find a temporary shelter in a miserable little cabin which in his days of prosperity he would have deemed uninhabitable.

“What day is it, wife?” he asked in a dispirited voice, looking up from the arm-chair in which he sat.

“Thursday.”

“And tomorrow will be Christmas day?”

“Yes.”

He sighed.

“Merry Christmas, I used to call it, but I shall never have another merry Christmas.”

‘You must try to be resigned, dear husband. Doubtless our little calamities have come upon us for some good purpose. Otherwise God would not have sent them.”

“Perhaps so, Sarah. That is the right way to look at it, if one can, no doubt, but I can’t help regretting the past.”

“We did not know our own happiness then, husband. But after all, poverty is not the worst thing we can suffer.”

“What is there worse?”

“The loss of those we love,” said his wife in a low voice.

“I know what you are thinking of,” he said, sadly. “Of our son.”

“Yes. He might have been the staff and stay of our old age, but he was impetuous and unmanageable, and in our old age we are forsaken.”

“But not forsaken of God.”

“I hope not.”

“I am sure not. He may yet turn our sorrow into gladness.”

“It is too late for that, Sarah.”

“It is never too late for Him.”

It was easy to see that the wife’s faith was deeper and more earnest than that of the husband, as is generally the case. She still believed in and trusted God, he only partially.

The night passed away, and the morrow dawned — Christmas Day. It was bright and beautiful. The sunshine lay like a glory upon the broad fields, and everything looked bright and cheerful.

“Raise the curtain, Sarah,” said Mr. Rawson. “No, not that one, the one that looks towards our old house.”

She did as requested.

“How many Christmas Days I have spent there. I little thought I should ever have come to this.”

“Let us be thankful for even this shelter, husband. It might have been worse.”

“I don’t well see how.”

She did not answer him immediately, for he was not in a cheerful mood.

“What are we going to have for dinner?” he asked soon after.

“I thought we would warm up the meat we had yesterday,” his wife said hesitatingly.

“A rare Christmas dinner,” he said bitterly.

“I am afraid there are some who would feel themselves fortunate even with that.”

“What a provoking woman you are!” said he peevishly.

“Because I won’t look on the dark side,” she returned with a faint smile. “I would, if it would make me feel any happier.”

“Don’t talk to me of happiness. That will never come again for us.

“I don’t know how it is, husband, but I never felt more cheerful or light-hearted in my life. I can’t help feeling that some great happiness is in store for us.”

“If you mean that we are ever likely to get our money back, you need have no hopes of that. It is utterly and irrevocably gone.” He might have added that it was his own indiscreet act by which it had been lost, but we are apt to be indulgent in our own follies.

“No, it isn’t that,” said Mrs. Rawson. “I don’t know indeed what it is, but as we sometimes have presentments of evil, I think we may sometimes have a feeling of the approach of joy.”

There was a silence unbroken, till a vigorous knock was heard at the door.

Mrs. Rawson answered the summons herself. She saw herself the young man introduced at the commencement of the story, but either her eyes were dim or her maternal instinct failed her for she did not recognize in the well-knit and vigorous frame of the young man, the boy of seventeen, who ten years before had left her roof, and had never been seen or heard of since.

It was not without a quicker motion of the heart, that the young man looked upon the worn but well- remembered face of the gentle mother whom he had known so well.

“Is Mr. Rawson at home?” he inquired.

“Yes, sir. Would you like to see him?”

“If you please.”

“Please come in. My husband is a little infirm, at present, but I hope he will soon be able to be about as usual.”

The young man entered, and tears rose in his eyes when he saw the mean habitation with which his parents had to be contented. “Thank God,” he thought, “I shall be able to change all that.”

“Excuse the liberty I have taken in calling upon you, Mr. Rawson,” he said, ‘but I have some thoughts of purchasing the farm which you formerly owned, and have been referred to you for your information concerning it. It is really a valuable farm, is it not?”

“An excellent one — none better — and would have been mine today if I had not been drawn on to speculate in property which I had never seen. The result is, poverty in my old age.”

“You have been indeed unfortunate, sir, but the tide may turn.”

Mr. Rawson shook his head impatiently.

“That is what my wife tells me,” he said, “but there is little hope of that.”

“Should you regard five thousand dollars as too high a price for the farm, Mr. Rawson?”

“No, it is well worth that.”

“I am glad of it, for to tell the truth, I have already bought it.”

“Will you settle on it yourself? In that case we shall be neighbors.”

“Yes, I hope we may be very near neighbors, but I did not buy the farm for myself, but as a Christmas present for some dear friends of mine.”

“A Christmas present. It is a valuable one indeed.”

“Yes, but since it is intended for my father it cannot be considered too valuable.”

“Your father is fortunate in having so devoted a son.”

“I am not sure that he thinks so. I am afraid that I have been lacking in duty.”

“I beg pardon, sir, but you have not yet mentioned your name.”

“My name,” said the young man, deliberately, “is John Rawson.”

“John!” exclaimed the mother, rising and looking eagerly in his face.

“Yes, mother,” said the young man, embracing her, “the truant has returned. Is he welcome?”

“Oh, John, this is a happy day. I was sure something was going to happen to make it a merry Christmas.”

An hour was passed in relating his varied experience, and then John Rawson said,

“Father, I have bought the old farm back again, not for myself but for you. Here is the deed. It is yours wholly and without incumbrance.”

“But can you afford such a gift, my son?” asked his father, doubtfully.

“I could buy it thrice over, Father, if I pleased. I have been prospered in Australia, and am independent.”

“Then I shall accept it, John, thankfully. You can’t tell how I have mourned its loss, and how much joy I shall feel in going back. Just before you came my heart was full of repining. God has shown me my error by loading me with benefits. Blessed be His name!”

So the day which open inauspiciously, closed happily, and John Rawson felt that he had never passed a merrier Christmas.

(First appeared in Gleason's Literary Companion, December 28, 1867)

The Lottery Ticket

By Caroline Preston
(Horatio Alger Jr.)

I never taught school but once, and goodness knows I never want to again.

This is the way it happened.

I was a girl of sixteen when I left off school. I had always been a good scholar, and this, I suppose, was the reason that in the fall of the same year I received an application to teach the winter term of the school at Dogs Misery. How this beautiful name originated I don’t know, but can guess, having seen several dogs during my brief sojourn, parading the street with tin kettles fastened to their caudal appendages.

“The “deestrict ” agent offered me the munificent sum of a dollar and a quarter a week and board. The last teacher had received more, but I was a green hand, as he elegantly observed, and could not expect so much. I meekly consented to the terms, and when the time arrived took the village stage, and in due season was set down in the district known as Dogs Misery.

I was to board with Mrs. Abijah Higginson. I give the lady’s name, for the gentleman was of very little account, and I was not brought much into connection with him.”

I judged from Mrs. Higginson’s appearance that when she was built, material was plenty. She would weigh, probably, not less than two hundred pounds.

“We shan’t treat you with no ceremony, Miss Preston,” said she. “You must make yourself at home.”

“Certainly,” said I.

“We aint got no spare room, but I guess you can sleep between Amanda and Hepsy Ann.”

These were two girls of twelve and fourteen, built after their mother’s model. I said nothing, but the prospect filled me with dismay, particularly when I surveyed the accommodations destined for me.

On Monday morning I went over to the school-house, a red building of one story, which might have answered very well for a woodshed, but not so well for a nursery of learning.

Collected in front was a parcel of urchins, probably thirty in number, who surveyed me with considerable curiosity, as I advanced, with as stately and dignified a pace as I could command, towards them.

“Is that the schoolma’am?” I heard one of them say.

“She don’t look very strong. Guess she can’t lick very hard,” said another.

To tell the truth I had a secret misgiving of the same kind myself. There was some pretty large boys who looked, to my dismayed eyes, as if they might be tough customers.

My desk consisted of a ricketty table. In a drawer I found a small bell, which I rang with as much energy as I could muster. The scholars came trooping in, making as much noise as they con­veniently could. When all were seated I commenced a speech which I had composed for the occasion.

“Scholars,” said I, “education is one of the noblest gifts of God to man. Without it—

Here my speech was interrupted by a piercing howl from one of the boys.

“What’s the matter:” I demanded hastily.

“Tom Smith pinched me.”

“Thomas, did you pinch him?” I asked of a stout boy who sat next the victim.

“I guess it didn’t hurt him much. I only did it in fun.”

“It’s a very poor kind of fun—besides, you are here to study and not to play. Ahem! besides, as I was saying, Education is one of the noblest gifts of God to man. Without it—”

Here one of the girls giggled convulsively. Supposing she might be laughing at my speech, I stopped and looked sternly at the offender.

“What are you laughing at?” I asked.

“’Cause Melissa Thompson tickled me.”

“Melissa, what made you tickle her?”

“Please, ma’am, she tickled me first”

“I shall allow no tickling in school. I shall punish the next one who tickles another.”

Again I commenced my speech.

“Scholars, education is the noblest gift of God to man. Without it—”

Here one of the little girls laughed.

“Come here to me,” I said angrily.

The little girl came up looking rather frightened. “What were you laughing at?”

“I don’t know, ma’am.”

“Yes, you do know. Tell me instantly.”

“Please, ma’am, I hope you won’t be mad. I was laughing because you told us that three times.”

I sent the girl to her seat, and decided to omit my speech. I have it still in manuscript, and will sell it cheap to any one who is thinking of school teaching.

The next hour was spent in arranging classes, a work more difficult than interesting. One girl wanted to be in the highest class in geography. I accordingly decided to examine her.

“Where is Europe?”

“In Asia,” she said hesitatingly.

“Entirely wrong; try again.”

“It’s a town on the Mississippi river.”

I thought I would come nearer home.

“Where is Cape Cod?”

“It’s an island on the Mediterranean Sea.”

I decided to refuse the young lady’s application, not considering her fit for the advanced class.

By and by the class in spelling was called up.

“Tom Smith, you may spell onion.”

“U-n un, y-u-n, onion,” was the reply.

I will not give any further examples; this will serve as a specimen.

At length I got through the forenoon, and went home to a dinner of baked beans.

“How do you like the school?” asked Mrs. Higginson.

“Pretty well,” said I dubiously.

"It’s reckoned a pretty forrard school,” said Mrs H.

I    thought it best not to say anything.

‘Pears to me you don’t like beans,” she said after a pause.

" Not very well,” said I “I’ll wait for the pudding.”

“We ain’t got any. I don’t often have pudding. It’s so much trouble to make ’em.”

With a sad heart and an empty stomach I went back to the school-house. The boys had stuffed the stove fall of wood, and the heat was overpowering, which soon gave me the head-ache. After a while I discovered a boy stuffing a handkerchief into his mouth, apparently to keep from laughing.

“What is the matter now?” I demanded. “What are you laughing at?”

“Pat made me laugh.”

“How did he make you laugh?”

“’Cause he made a picture.”

“Pat, let me see the picture.”

Pat, a boy of ten, seemed very unwilling to show his artistic effort. He was finally compelled to do to. What I saw did not particularly please me. The “picture” represented a hideous ugly female with a nose of vast proportions. As I happen to have rather a long nose, I should have understood that the gifted young artist meant to represent me, even if he had not written below in printing letters not very properly spelled,

THE SKULE MARM

“Did you mean this picture for me?” I demanded, very red in the face.

“I dunno.”

“Well I do. Come out here.”

“I don’t want ter.”

“I can’t help what you want.”

I seized the boy by the collar, and dragged him into the middle of the room.

“You let my brother alone!”

This came from Bridget Hagan, sister of Pat.

“It’ll be your turn next,” said I provoked.

I draw a veil over the scene. My offended pride demanded satisfaction and received it. Both Pat and Bridget had an opportunity of ascertaining the hardness of my ruler, and both showed by the dismal loudness of their howls that they were gifted by Nature with lungs of extraordinary strength.

“There,” said I, “I guess you won’t want to make any more pictures of me.”

I resumed my duties in triumph, and called out the next class with the air of a conqueror. But there was another trial in store for me.

After recess I observed that neither Pat nor Bridget Hagan made their appearance. I inquired of the scholars where they were.

“They’ve gone home, ma’am.”

I inwardly resolved that I would give them another whipping the next day.

About twenty minutes later there was a furious knock at the door. One of the girls answered it.

“Tell the school-misthress I want to see her,” I heard in a decided brogue.

I accordingly went to the door. I beheld before me a stout Irish woman, her face as red as fire, and her sleeves rolled up, displaying a pair of brawny arms which looked as if they might be endowed with considerable strength.

“Are you the misthress?”

“Yes. Who are you?”

“I’m Mrs. Hagan, the mother of the poor children you bate black and blue. What did you do it for, I’d like to know?” and the woman put her arms akimbo.

“I didn’t beat them black and blue. I punished them because they didn’t behave themselves.”

“Shure, an you’ve abused the darlints. They’re the smartest childers in school, if it is their mother that says it, and I won’t have ’em touched. Bad cess to the likes of you if you do it again.”

“If they require it I shall do it again,” said I in a burst of courage.

“Then, by the bones of St Pathrick, I’ll give you a taste of the same,” exclaimed the virago, her eyes wild with rage, advancing towards me with fists doubled up.

As Mrs. Hagan was twice as big as myself, I should have stood a poor chance when opposed to her in single combat, but fortunately I retained my presence of mind.

“James” I exclaimed to an imaginary boy in tones of thunder, “bring me my horse-pistol. This woman has threatened me, and the law will bear me out in using it.”

No sooner had Mrs. Hagan heard these words than she broke and fled with a wild howl of dismay.

“She’s a desperate cratur, sure enough,” I heard her say.

She roused the whole neighborhood with her story of the school mistress’ attempt upon her life. In the excess of her fright she reported that I had fired at her, and she had heard the ball whistling by her ear. In less than fifteen minutes another crowd had collected round the school-house. Terrified mothers insisted on immediately removing their children from the charge of a mistress who kept pistols in her desk. They declared that their darlings were not safe with such a character. It was more than intimated that I had been confined in the State Prison for an assault upon some person unknown. In short, such was the excitement in the “deestrict” that I was obliged to resign my office as teacher, and another teacher soon occupied my place. I have never kept school again, and never want to.

(First published in Gleason Literary Companion, August 5, 1865)

QUESTIONS:  Answer for at least two of the above stories.

1.     What are the circumstances the main character finds him or herself in?

2.     What must they overcome?

3.     How are they doing at the end?

4.     What seems to be implied that might not be very realistic?

Class Matters

You will be going to the Class Matters website of the New York Times.  You will find a special section on class and social stratification.

Follow the directions on the document in your Google Drive labeled "Class Matters for (insert name here) -  a study of class in the US.

The main place to glean your information will be toward the top starting with the slide show of the four different people.  You then will move on to the right, filling out the online information as well as your document.

Minimum Wage

Go to the following website and complete the tasks:

ProCon.org

The overall question is "Should the minimum wage be raised?"

1. On a separate piece of paper:
2. Read the background information
3. Find what you consider the three best arguments for raising the minimum wage and summarize them briefly.
4. Find what you consider the three best arguments against raising the minimum wage and summarize them briefly.
5. What is your opinion regarding minimum wage and why?  (50+ words)  You may use information from the pro/con arguments if you like.