but it makes me feel unhappy,
somehow. I never was much of a scribe, and it's too late for me to learn
now.

I don't feel so downcast when I examine the specimens of writing done by
the children of District No. 34. I can just see the young ones working
at home on these things, with their tongues stuck out of one corner of
their mouths.

"Rome was not built in a day
Rome was not built in a day
Rome was not built in a day"

and so on, bearing down hard on the downstroke of the curve in the
capital "R," and clubbing the end of the little "t." And in the higher
grades, they toil over "An Original Social Letter," describing to
an imaginary correspondent a visit to Crystal Lake, or the Magnetic
Springs. I can hear them mourn: "What shall I say next?" and "Ma, make
Effie play some place else, won't you? She jist joggles the table like
everything. Now, see what you done! Now I got to write it all over
again. No, I cain't 'scratch it out. How'd it look to the County Fair
all scratched out? Plague take it all!"

The same hands have done maps of North and South America, and
red-and-blue ink pictures of the circulation of the blood. It does beat
all how smart the young ones are nowadays. I could no more draw off a
picture of the circulation of the blood--get it right, I mean--why, I
wouldn't attempt it.

I am kind of mixed up in my recollection of the hall right next to the
Fine Arts. You know it had two doors in each end. Sometimes I can
see the central space between the doors, roped off and devoted to
sewing-machines with persons demonstrating that they ran as light as a
feather, and how it was no trouble at all to tuck and gather, and
fell; to organs, which struck me with amaze, because by some witchcraft
(octave coupler, I think they called it) the man could play on keys
that he didn't touch, and pianos, whereon young ladies were prevailed to
perform "Silvery Waves"--that's a lovely piece, I think, don't you?--and

"Listen to the mocking-bird, TEE-die-eedle-DONG
Lisen to the mocking-bird, teedle-eedle-EE-dle DONG
The mocking-bird still singing oer her grave,
toomatooral-oo-cal-LEE!"

And then again I can see that central, roped-off space given over
to reckless deviltry, sheer impudent, brazen-faced, bold,
discipline-defying er--er--wickedness. I had heard that people did
things like that, but this was the first time I had ever caught a
glimpse of such carrying