The difference between Anthony and the other boys lay in the reason
for as well as the degree of his abhorrence.
He had come into the world a naked, starving human soul; he longed to
clothe himself, and he was hungry and ever hungrier for knowledge;
but never within the four walls of the village schoolhouse could he
seize hold of one fact that would yield him its secret sense, one
glimpse of clear light that would shine in upon the darkness of his
mind, one thought or word that would feed his soul.
The only place where his longings were ever stilled, where he seemed
at peace with himself, where he understood what he was made for, was
out of doors in the woods. When he should have been poring over the
sweet, palpitating mysteries of the multiplication table, his vagrant
gaze was always on the open window near which he sat. He could never
study when a fly buzzed on the window-pane; he was always standing on
the toes of his bare feet, trying to locate and understand the buzz
that puzzled him. The book was a mute, soulless thing that had no
relation to his inner world of thought and feeling. He turned ever
from the dead seven-times-six to the mystery of life about him.
He was never a special favourite with his teachers; that was scarcely
to be expected. In his very early years, his pockets were gone
through with every morning when he entered the school door, and the
contents, when confiscated, would comprise a jew's-harp, a bit of
catgut, screws whittled out of wood, tacks, spools, pins, and the
like.
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