far the childern; said her two little girls had learnt to read, and didn’t know the’r a-b abs afore Annie learnt ’em; well, the oldest one, Mary Patience, she did know her letters, I guess—­fourteen year old, she was; but Mandy, the youngest, had never seed inside a book afore that winter; and the way she learnt was jist su’prisin’.  She was puny-like and frail-lookin’ allus, but ever’body ’lowed she was a heap smarter ’n Mary Patience, and she was; and in my opinion she railly had more sense ‘n all the rest o’ the childern put together, ’bout books and cipherin’ and arethmetic, and the like; and John Wesley, the oldest of ‘em, he got to teachin’ at last, when he growed up,—­but, la! he couldn’t write his own name so ’s you could read it.  I allus thought ther was a good ’eal of old Ezry in John Wesley.  Liked to romance ’round with the youngsters ‘most too well.—­Spiled him far teachin’, I allus thought; far instance, ef a scholard said somepin’ funny in school, John-Wes he’d jist have to have his laugh out with the rest, and it was jist fun far the boys, you know, to go to school to him.  Allus in far spellin’-matches and the like, and learnin’ songs and sich.  I ricollect he give a’ exhibition onc’t, one winter, and I’ll never fergit it, I reckon.

The school-house would on’y hold ’bout forty, comfortable, and that night ther’ was up’ards of a hunderd er more—­jist crammed and jammed!  And the benches was piled back so’s to make room far the flatform they’d built to make the’r speeches and dialogues on; and fellers a-settin’ up on them back seats, the’r heads was clean aginst the j’ist.  It was a low ceilin’, anyhow, and o’ course them ’at tuck a part in the doin’s was way up, too.  Janey Thompson had to give up her part in a dialogue, ’cause she looked so tall she was afeard the congergation would laugh at her; and they couldn’t git her to come out and sing in the openin’ song ‘thout lettin’ her set down first and git ready ’fore they pulled the curtain.  You see, they had sheets sewed together, and fixed on a string some way, to slide back’ards and for’ards, don’t you know.  But they was a big bother to ’em—­couldn’t git ’em to work like.  Ever’ time they’d git ’em slid ’bout half way acrost, somepin’ would ketch, and they’d have to stop and fool with ’em awhile ’fore they could git ’em the balance o’ the way acrost.  Well, finally, t’ords the last, they jist kep’ ’em drawed back all the time.  It was a pore affair, and spiled purt nigh ever’ piece; but the scholards all wanted it fixed thataway, the teacher said, in a few appropert remarks he made when the thing was over.  Well, I was a settin’ in the back part o’ the house on them high benches, and my head was jist even with them on the flatform, and the lights was pore, wher’ the string was stretched far the curtain to slide on it looked like the p’formers was strung on it.  And when Lige Boyer’s boy was a-speakin’—­kind o’ mumbled it, you know, and you couldn’t half hear—­it looked far the world like he was a-chawin’ on that-air string; and some devilish feller ’lowed ef he’d chaw it clean in two it’d be a good thing far the balance.  After that they all sung a sleigh-ridin’ song, and it was right purty, the way they got it off.  Had a passel o’ sleigh-bells they’d ring ever’ onc’t-in-a-while, and it sounded purty—­shore!