“I know letters, read words, and can spell. I know my Primer to O. O—x (looking at the picture); that spells ‘cow.’”
“No, no, Ivy,” I said. “Look again and tell me what o—x spells.”
She pursed her lips, searched in the book, and then, with the most cherubic expression on her face, looked up at me and said:
“Damned if I know.”
These children of nature had never seen a bible, never went to church (in fact, there was not a place of worship within forty miles), and yet they came to school dressed in the latest fashions—gowns made of material and patterns that had come from New York. Sitting on the rough pine seats of this rustic, primitive school, these girls seemed like little princesses of some fairy tale—that is, until they spoke. I made up my mind that it was my duty to teach them—no creed—but a knowledge of the Bible.
The announcement was made by me that those who chose to give up the Wednesday half holiday would be told stories and shown drawings of people who lived thousands and thousands of years ago. The first week they all stayed out of curiosity, and after that nothing on earth could have kept them away from such things as:
“A long time ago a king of one tribe got into a fight with another tribe. On one king’s side was a boy named David.” Then the story of the challenge and pictures of each one. Continuing:
“What do you suppose they had in the way of guns? David had a pouch tied around his waist, and a sling.”
“What’s a sling?”
Not one of those thirteen children had ever seen a sling; so, of course, the rest of the afternoon had to be devoted to making one out of an old shoe. The next morning they all had slings, and before I arrived one of the boys had become expert enough to kill a woodpecker.