do it. Either his interest was aroused, and then he absorbed the matter
at hand in the way he breathed, without the least conscious effort; or
his interest remained unstirred, in which case no amount of mechanical
application would help. Learning by rote offered no escape in the latter
case, for his memory operated in the same way as the rest of his mind,
sucking up what fitted it as a blotter sucks the ink, and presenting a
surface of polished marble to any matter not germane according to its
own mysterious standards.

Soon he could read without any effort whatsoever--anything. Reckoning
came easy, too, but writing came hard. It seemed so much easier to take
in than to give out in any form. Grammar gave him no difficulty, because
it dealt with words, and words possessed a magic charm that always held
him. Gradually he began to dip into history and geography--wonderful
realms into which his imagination plunged headlong. He took almost as
eagerly to the old stories out of the Bible--stories of which he had
caught more than a glimpse at home--but the Catechism was like washing
in the morning: it had to be done because higher powers so decreed.

Yes, he learned a good deal for a little boy of his age, but he never
knew how it happened. The school was never quite real to him. His home
was real, and his play at home. So was his daily walk to and from school
with its innumerable opportunities for observation in the raw. There
were people in the streets, and shops along the road, and many different
kinds of vessels in the harbour. There was the guardhouse on the little
square halfway to school, kept by a small detachment of soldiers that
were relieved every noon and that never belonged to the same regiment
two days in succession. Watching them gave him many suggestions for
handling his own tin soldiers in a more business-like fashion.