Our Little Spartan Cousin of Long Ago

“A RACE! a race! Who will plunge first into Eurotas?”


The boy who shouted the challenge stood poised, ready for flight. His head was thrown back, his arms were extended, and one foot, thrust before him, touched the ground lightly.


It was Chartas who called, and at the sound of his voice the whole group of boys, fifteen in number, threw themselves into the same attitude, and, at a word, sped away to the banks of the river. Reaching there, they hastily threw off the one garment which each wore, and plunged into the stream.


“Chartas won!” they cried, as the challenger, whose lithe limbs gave him an advantage in running, splashed first into the water.


“He always wins in running,” said Brasidas, “but wait till we wrestle. His speed will not count for so much then.”


The splashing water almost drowned Brasidas’ words, for the fifteen boys were swimming, ducking, plunging, and frolicking like a school of young porpoises.


However, Chartas had heard. “Yes,” he answered, “I like to show my back in a race. ‘Twould be different if ‘twere a battle.”


“How about your back now?” asked a mischievous boy named Gelon. As he spoke he dived quickly, caught Chartas by the ankles, and tripped him, face forward, into the water.


Chartas quickly recovered himself, dashed after Gelon, and a lively tussle followed. The water flew in all directions, and the other boys, quickly taking sides, began throwing water upon the two wrestlers, dashing it into the face of the one they hoped to see defeated.


The boys were well matched, but the river bottom was slippery, and as Gelon gave a turn to his antagonist’s arms his foot slipped and he went down.


“Chartas wins! Chartas wins!” again shouted the boys, as Gelon came up sputtering, and shaking the water from his hair and eyes.