nature; there were blocks that could be waked into life by a
little skill and kind management and a good deal of time; and
even the fly-away shock could be brought down to order and
reason by a long course of patience and firmness. But the
younger heads that had no thoughts at all, -- the minds that
were blank of intelligence, -- the eyes that opened but to
stare at the new teacher! What amount of culture, what
distance of days and months, would bring something out of
nothing!

It was hard, hard work. There was nobody to help the new
teacher; he wrought alone; that the teacher always did. The
days were days of constant, unintermitted labour; the nights
were jaded and spiritless. After spelling a great deal in the
course of the day, and making up an indefinite number of sums
in addition and multiplication, Winthrop found his stomach was
gone for Latin and Virgil. Ears and eyes and mind were sick of
the din of repetitions, wearied with confusions of thought not
his own; he was fain to let his own rest. The children "got
on," the parents said, "first-rate;" but the poor teacher was
standing still. Week passed after week, and each Saturday
night found him where he was the last. He had less time than
on the farm. Fresh from the plough, he could now and then
snatch a half hour of study to some purpose; there was no
"fresh from the school." Besides all which, he still found
himself or fancied himself needed by his father, and whenever
a pinch of work called for it he could not hold back his hand.

"How does it go, Winthrop?" said his mother when she saw him
wearily sitting down one summer night.