"
And as if the year were not full enough of glory, the school-teacher
sent him a book with a wonderful poem in it.
That summer's teaching had been the freak of a college student, who
had gone back to his senior year strengthened by his experience of
village life. Anthony Croft, who was only three or four years his
junior, had been his favourite pupil and companion.
"How does Tony get along?" asked the Widow Croft when the teacher
came to call.
"Tony? Oh, I can't teach him anything."
Tears sprang to the mother's eyes.
"I know he ain't much on book learning," she said apologetically,
"but I'm bound he don't make you no trouble in deportment."
"I mean," said the school-teacher gravely, "that I can show him how
to read a little Latin and do a little geometry, but he knows as much
in one day as I shall ever know in a year."
Tony crouched by the old fireplace in the winter evenings, dropping
his knife or his compasses a moment to read aloud to his mother, who
sat in the opposite corner knitting:
"Of old Antonio Stradivari--him
Who a good century and a half ago
Put his true work in the brown instrument,
And by the nice adjustment of its frame
Gave it responsive life, continuous
With the master's finger-tips, and perfected
Like them by delicate rectitude of use."
The mother listened with painful intentness. "I like the sound of
it," she said, "but I can't hardly say I take in the full sense."
"Why, mother," said the lad, in a rare moment of self-expression,
"you know the poetry says he cherished his sight and touch by
temperance; that an idiot might see a straggling line and be content,
but he had an eye that winced at false work, and loved the true.
Pages:
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34