Cherished his sight and touch by temperance
And since keen sense is love of perfectness,
Made perfect violins, the needed paths
For inspiration and high mastery."


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