contained, in a tiny well, ink made of soot mixed with vinegar.

The master's great business was to mend the pens--a delicate work,
not without danger for inexperienced fingers--and then to trace at
the head of the white page a line of strokes, single letters or
words, according to the scholar's capabilities. When that is over,
keep an eye on the work of art which is coming to adorn the copy!
With what undulating movements of the wrist does the hand, resting
on the little finger, prepare and plan its flight! All at once, the
hand starts off, flies, whirls; and, lo and behold, under the line
of writing is unfurled a garland of circles, spirals and
flourishes, framing a bird with outspread wings, the whole, if you
please, in red ink, the only kind worthy of such a pen. Large and
small, we stood awestruck in the presence of these marvels. The
family, in the evening, after supper, would pass from hand to hand
the masterpiece brought back from school: 'What a man!' was the
comment. 'What a man, to draw you a Holy Ghost with a stroke of
the pen!'

What was read at my school? At most, in French, a few selections
from sacred history. Latin recurred oftener, to teach us to sing
vespers properly. The more advanced pupils tried to decipher
manuscript, a deed of sale, the hieroglyphics of some scrivener.

And history, geography? No one ever heard of them. What
difference did it make to us whether the earth was round or square!
In either case, it was just as hard to make it bring forth
anything.

And grammar? The master troubled his head very little about that;