these children about here, boy or girl, who cannot swim; and every
one of them has been used to tumbling about the little forest ponies-
-there's one of them now! They all of them know how to cook; the
bigger lads can mow; many can thatch and do odd jobs at carpentering;
or they know how to keep shop. I can tell you they know plenty of
things."

"Yes, but their mental education, the teaching of their minds," said
I, kindly translating my phrase.

"Guest," said he, "perhaps you have not learned to do these things I
have been speaking about; and if that's the case, don't you run away
with the idea that it doesn't take some skill to do them, and doesn't
give plenty of work for one's mind: you would change your opinion if
you saw a Dorsetshire lad thatching, for instance. But, however, I
understand you to be speaking of book-learning; and as to that, it is
a simple affair. Most children, seeing books lying about, manage to
read by the time they are four years old; though I am told it has not
always been so. As to writing, we do not encourage them to scrawl
too early (though scrawl a little they will), because it gets them
into a habit of ugly writing; and what's the use of a lot of ugly
writing being done, when rough printing can be done so easily. You
understand that handsome writing we like, and many people will write
their books out when they make them, or get them written; I mean
books of which only a few copies are needed--poems, and such like,
you know. However, I am wandering from my lambs; but you must excuse
me, for I am interested in this matter of writing, being myself a
fair-writer."

"Well," said I, "about the children; when they know how to read and