"That boy'll be off to College too," he said, — "after his brother."
"He'll not be likely to go after anything wrong," said Mrs.
Landholm.
"No —that's pretty certain. Well, I'll do all I can for him!"
"Whatever he undertakes I think he'll succeed in," the mother went on remarking.
"I think so too. He always did, from a child. It's his character. There's a sharp edge to Rufus's metal, — but I think Winthrop's is the best stuff. Well I ain't ashamed of either one on 'em!"
Winthrop took the school. He found it numbering some thirty heads or more. That is, it would count so many, though in some instances the heads were merely nominal. There were all sorts, from boys of fifteen and sixteen that wanted to learn the Multiplication table, down to little bits of girls that did not know A, B, and C. Rough heads, with thoughts as matted as their hair; lank heads, that reminded one irresistibly of blocks; and one fiery red shock, all of whose ideas seemed to be standing on end and ready to fly away, so little hold had they upon either knowledge, wit, or experience. And every one of these wanted different handling, and every one called for diligent study and patient painstaking. There were often fine parts to be found under that rough and untrained state of nature; there were blocks that could be waked into life by a little skill and kind management and a good deal of time; and even the fly-away shock could be brought down to order and reason by a long course of patience and firmness. But the younger heads that had no thoughts at all, — the minds that were blank of intelligence, — the eyes that opened but to stare at the new teacher! What amount of culture, what distance of days and months, would bring something out of nothing!
It was hard, hard work. There was nobody to help the new teacher; he wrought alone; that the teacher always did. The days were days of constant, unintermitted labour; the nights were jaded and spiritless. After spelling a great deal in the course of the day, and making up an indefinite number of sums in addition and multiplication, Winthrop found his stomach was gone for Latin and Virgil. Ears and eyes and mind were sick of the din of repetitions, wearied with confusions of thought not his own; he was fain to let his own rest. The children "got on," the parents said, "first-rate;" but the poor teacher was standing still. Week passed after week, and each Saturday night found him where he was the last. He had less time than on the farm. Fresh from the plough, he could now and then snatch a half hour of study to some purpose; there was no "fresh from the school." Besides all which, he still found himself or fancied himself needed by his father, and whenever a pinch of work called for it he could not hold back his hand.
"How does it go, Winthrop?" said his mother when she saw him wearily sitting down one summer night.
"It doesn't go at all, mother."
"I was afraid that it would be so."