Hundreds of boys who had no other chance—for he gathered his scholars from the poorest of the poor—learned all they ever knew of books from this humble teacher. His happiest days were when some sunburned sailor or soldier would stop in his doorway, perhaps with a parrot or a monkey in his arms, saying, "Why, master dear, you surely have not forgotten me, I hope?"
John Pounds taught his little school for more than forty years, never asking nor accepting a cent of payment from any one.
At the age of seventy-two, on January 1, 1839, he suddenly died, while looking with delight at a sketch of his school which had just been made by an artist. For many days the children of the place were inconsolable, and by twos and threes they came and stood by the closed door which in John Pounds's time had always been open to the needy.
A life like this, so lowly yet so useful, contains lessons for us all.