Frank, the Young Naturalist | Page 2

thing else he undertook, overcame all obstacles; and
he was further advanced, and his knowledge was more thorough than
that of any other boy of the same age in the village. He never gave up
any thing he undertook because he found it more difficult than he had
expected, or hurried over it in a "slipshod" manner, for his motto was,
"Whatever is worth doing at all, is worth doing well."
At the time of which we write Frank was just entering upon what he
called a "long vacation." He had attended the high-school of which the
village boasted for nearly eight years, with no intermission but the
vacations, and during this time he had devoted himself with untiring
energy to his studies. He loved his books, and they were his constant
companions. By intense application he succeeded in working his way
into the highest class in school, which was composed of young men
much older than himself, and who looked upon him, not as a
fellow-student, but as a rival, and used every exertion to prevent him
from keeping pace with them. But Frank held his own in spite of their
efforts, and not unfrequently paid them back in their own coin by
committing his lessons more thoroughly than they.
Things went on so for a considerable time. Frank, whose highest
ambition was to be called the best scholar in his class, kept steadily
gaining ground, and one by one the rival students were overtaken and
distanced. But Frank had some smart scholars matched against him,
and he knew that the desired reputation was not to be obtained without
a fierce struggle; and every moment, both in and out of school, was
devoted to study.
He had formerly been passionately fond of rural sports, hunting and
fishing, but now his fine double-barrel gun, which he had always taken
especial care to keep in the best possible "shooting order," hung in its
accustomed place, all covered with dust. His fishing-rod and basket
were in the same condition; and Bravo, his fine hunting-dog, which
was very much averse to a life of inactivity, made use of his most
eloquent whines in vain.
At last Frank's health began to fail rapidly. His mother was the first to
notice it, and at the suggestion of her brother, who lived in Portland,

she decided to take Frank out of school for at least one year, and allow
him but two hours each day for study. Perhaps some of our young
readers would have been very much pleased at the thought of so long a
respite from the tiresome duties of school; but it was a severe blow to
Frank. A few more months, he was confident, would have carried him
ahead of all competitors. But he always submitted to his mother's
requirements, no matter how much at variance with his own wishes,
without murmuring; and when the spring term was ended he took his
books under his arm, and bade a sorrowful farewell to his much-loved
school-room.
It is June, and as Frank has been out of school almost two months,
things begin to wear their old, accustomed look again. The young
naturalist's home, as his schoolmates were accustomed to say, is a
"regular curiosity shop." Perhaps, reader, if we take a stroll about the
premises, we can find something to interest us.
Frank's room, which he called his "study," is in the south wing of the
cottage. It has two windows, one looking out toward the road, and the
other covered with a thick blind of climbing roses, which almost shut
out the light. A bookcase stands beside one of the windows, and if you
were to judge from the books it contained, you would pronounce Frank
quite a literary character. The two upper shelves are occupied by
miscellaneous books, such as Cooper's novels, Shakspeare's works, and
the like. On the next two shelves stand Frank's choicest books--natural
histories; there are sixteen large volumes, and he knows them almost by
heart. The drawers in the lower part of the case are filled on one side
with writing materials, and on the other with old compositions, essays,
and orations, some of which exhibit a power of imagination and a
knowledge of language hardly to be expected in a boy of Frank's age.
On the top of the case, at either end, stand the busts of Clay and
Webster, and between them are two relics of Revolutionary times, a
sword and musket crossed, with the words "Bunker Hill" printed on a
slip of paper fastened to them. On the opposite side of the room stands
a bureau, the drawers of which are filled with clothing, and on the top
are placed two beautiful specimens of Frank's handiwork. One is a
model of a "fore-and-aft" schooner, with