The great question with two of the members of our board, in hiring a teacher, was the price. Qualification was secondary. The first application was made by a long-armed, red-necked, fiery-headed youth of about nineteen years, who had managed to run himself up into the world about six feet two inches, and who had not worn off his flesh by hard study, and who carried about him digestive organs as strong as the bowels of a thrashing-machine. He "wanted a school, 'cause he had nothing else to do in the winter months."
He was accordingly introduced to our School Inspectors; the only one of whom I knew was Bates. The other two were rather more frightened at the presentation than the applicant himself.
Bates proposed first to try the gentleman in geography and history. "Where's Bunker Hill?" inquired Bates, authoritatively.
"Wal, 'bout that," said Strickett—our applicant called his name Izabel Strickett—"'bout that, why, it's where the battle was fit, warn't it?"
"Jes so," replied Bates; "and where was that?"
"Down at the east'ard."
"Who did the fightin' there?"
"Gin'rul Washington fit all the revolution."
"Where's Spain?"
"Where?" repeated Strickett—"Spain? where is it?"