The schoolhouse was not a large building nor was it, in the least,
imposing. It was built of wood with a foundation of rough stone and
there were heavy shutters which were always carefully closed at night
to keep out the tramps who might seek a lodging place within. And
there was a woodshed, too, where the boys romped upon rainy days and
where was fought many a schoolboy battle for youthful love and honor.
The building had once been painted white but the storm and sunshine of
many months had worn away the paint, and there remained only the dark,
weather stained, boards save beneath the cornice and the window ledge
where one might still find traces of its former glory. The chimney,
too, was old and some of the bricks had crumbled and fallen from the
top which made it look ragged against the sky. And the steps and
threshold were worn very thin--very, very, thin.

Wearied with his passion for Knowledge; tired of his cold facts;
hungering in his heart for a bit of wholesome sentiment as one in
winter hungers for the summer flowers; the man who sat before his fire
that night, with a too heavy and substantial book, crossed once more
with childish feet the worn threshold of the old schoolhouse and stood
within the entry where hung the hats and dinner baskets of his mates.
They looked very familiar to him--those hats--and, as he saw them in
his memory, each offered mute testimony to its owner's disposition and
rank in childhood's world. There were broad brimmed straws that
belonged to the patient, plodding, boys and caps that seemed made to
set far back on the heads of the boisterous lads. There was the old
slouch felt of the poor boy who did chores for his board and the
brimless hat of the bully of the school. There were the trim sailors
of the good little boys and the head gear of his own particular chum.
And there--the man who sought Knowledge only in facts smiled at the
fire and a fond light came into his eyes while his too solid and