The American Spectator

“You can to that. But it just has to be to help other people.”

“I helped my Mom clean out the yard,” chirped Skipper. “Does that count?”

“No, you can’t do it for yourself or your family or even your troop. It has to be for the outside community, people that you don’t know. And you have to organize your whole troop to do it.”

“Wow, that sounds hard,” said Jose, who had been silent most of the trip.

“I don’t think I could do it,” said Squirrel, morosely.

“Don’t give up so easily,” said Newman. “You can always try.”

Just then a gust of wind blew down the mountain, surprising them. Jared’s hat flew off and in an instant disappeared off the cliff.

“My hat, my hat,” he shouted, running after it.

‘“Jared, don’t go near the edge,” said Newman. The boys followed an in an instant they were peering over the edge.

“My hat! My hat!” wailed Jared. “That’s my favorite hat.” It was lodged in a bush about four feet down. Below that a narrow ledge protruded out about twenty feet below. Beyond that yawned the sickening descent into the valley below.

“Jared, don’t go near. You might fall.”

Jared was on his belly, reaching over the edge precariously when suddenly the earth gave way. A clod of dirt kicked out and slid down the side and in an instant the boy was tumbling after. He bounced off the bush, sending the hat floating into the valley below. Then he rolled over several more times before hitting the ledge flat on his back. Jared rolled over toward the precipice so that his hand dangled over the edge and lay perfectly still. The boys watched in horror.

“Jared! Jared! Are you alright?” Newman shouted. The boys picked up the call. “Jared! Jared! Say something.”

“Quiet! We can’t hear him.” The troop fell silent. A faint murmur came from below.

“He’s crying. I think I hear him crying.”