David Hill's uncle, John, wished to get up his ox-team, but as the oxen ran anywhere between the Bosque river and Comanche Peak, it was nearly a fortnight before he could collect them all. Finally the five yoke were in the lot, with the exception of old Bright.

Old Bright was a steady, stout old fellow who, when he was on the road, had almost always a wild mate to help break, besides being accustomed to pull more than double his share of the load. But this time he had made up his mind that as he had plowed all the spring he would stay out and eat grass all the summer.

Therefore, whenever he saw a horseman whom he suspected to be in pursuit of him, or even heard a cow-whip, he would run quickly to the river-bottom near by, taking care to go where it was not very easy to follow him.

His owner, knowing where he was, let him run till the last, but finally when all the other oxen were up, asked David to go and bring in old Bright.

As soon as the old fellow saw David coming he hastened to his retreat with more speed than usual, for he feared that unless he got a good start David would be more than a match for him.

And now they had it. Into the river and out again, through the deepest thickets, up the steepest banks, and at last out on the broad, open prairie. But the race had just begun. Old Bright was determined not to go home; David was equally resolved that he should go, and Smasher's views of the case perfectly agreed with his master's.

After two hours' hard riding, David got the ox as far as the small village through which he had to pass. Old Bright was very much heated, and looked around for some place in which he might escape both from David and the sun. He spied the open door of a house not far out of his course, and suddenly wheeling his heavy body, ran towards it, and plunged in.

In the room which the animal entered David's Sunday School teacher lay slightly ill. The poor lady was greatly frightened when she was awakened by an enormous ox rushing into her small room. There he stood panting, and looked, she thought, as though he would next take her on his great horns. He reached from the door to the opposite window.

I cannot tell how she managed to spring over the head of the bedstead and leave the room by another door. Some one then went to the window on the outside, and flourished a stick over Bright's head, until he thought prudent to quit the premises. The next day he was quietly engaged in hauling more than his share, as usual, of a heavy load of corn.

But what more of David? I am ashamed to tell you that as soon as he saw Bright enter the room of the teacher whom he so much loved, he put spurs to his horse and galloped home.

He went directly to his mother and told her what had happened, saying how bad he felt, and how he should never again dare to look his teacher in the face. But this did not help the matter, and was wrong. He ought rather to have followed the ox to the lady's house, expressed his regret at Bright's behavior, and driven him out of the room.

Boys, whenever you have caused any unintentional mischief, do not for a moment hesitate to acknowledge it, but apologize, and so far as you can, repair the harm you have occasioned.