As I think back over my past life as a schoolmaster I keep wondering
how many inebriates I have produced in my career. I'd be glad to
think that I have not a single one to my discredit, but that seems
beyond the wildest hope, considering the character of my teaching. I
am a firm believer in temperance in all things; but, in the matter of
pedagogy, my practice cannot be made to square with my theory. In
fact, I find, upon reflection, that I have been teaching intemperance
all the while. I'm glad the officers of my church do not know of my
pedagogical practice. If they did, they would certainly take action
against me, and in that case I cannot see what adequate defense I
could offer. Being a schoolmaster, I could scarcely bring myself to
plead ignorance, for such a plea as that might abrogate my license.
So I shall just keep quiet and look as nearly wise as possible. It
is embarrassing to me to reflect how long it has taken me to see the
error of my practice. If I had asked one of my boys he could have
told me of the better way.

When we got the new desks in our school, back home, our teacher
seemed very anxious to have them kept in their virgin state, and
became quite animated as he walked up and down the aisle fulminating
against the possible offender. In the course of his sulphury remarks
he threatened condign punishment upon the base miscreant who should
dare use his penknife on one of those desks. His address was equal
to a course in "Paradise Lost," nor was it without its effect upon
the audience. Every boy in the room felt in his pocket to make sure
that it contained his knife, and every one began to wonder just where
he would find the whetstone when he went home. We were all eager for
school to close for the day that we might set about the important
matter of whetting our knives. Henceforth wood-carving was a part of
the regular order in our school, but it was done without special