At the age of ten he was a well-grown, stout, stocky boy, strong and hearty, trained to hard work, and to patient obedience of his elders.  He was tolerably well drilled in Calvinism, and had his head pretty well filled with snatches of doctrine which he caught from his father’s constant discussions; but he was very backward in his education.  He was placed at the school of the Rev. Mr. Langdon, at Bethlehem, Connecticut, and it was hoped that the labors of this excellent tutor would result in making something of him.  He spent a winter at this school, and boarded at a neighboring farm-house, whose kind-hearted mistress soon became so much attached to him that she indulged him to an extent which he had never known at home.  With his gun on his shoulder, he passed the greater part of his hours out of school in tramping over the pretty Connecticut hills, in search of game, or, lying down on the soft grass, would pass hours in gazing on the beautiful landscape, listening to the dull whirr of the partridges in the stubble-field or the dropping of the ripe apples in the orchard.  The love of nature was strong in the boy, and his wonderful mistress taught him many of the profoundest lessons of his life.  He made poor progress at the school, however, and his father was almost in despair.  The whole family shook their heads in solemn forebodings over the failure of this child of ten to become a mental prodigy.

Miss Catharine Beecher, his eldest sister, was then teaching a young ladies’ school in Hartford, and she proposed to take the boy and see what could be done with him.  There were thirty or forty girls in the school, and but this one boy, and the reader may imagine the amount of studying he did.  The girls were full of spirits, and in their society the fun-loving feature of his disposition burst out and grew with amazing rapidity.  He was always in mischief of some kind, to the great delight of the girls, with whom he was extremely popular, and to the despair of his sister, who began to fear that he was hopelessly stupid.

The school was divided into two divisions in grammar recitations, each of which had its leader.  The leaders chose their “sides” with great care, as these contests in grammar were esteemed the most important part of the daily exercises.  Henry’s name was generally called last, for no one chose him except as a matter of necessity.  He was sure to be a dead weight to his leader.

“The fair leader of one of these divisions took the boy aside to a private apartment, to put into him with female tact and insinuation those definitions and distinctions on which the honor of the class depended.

“’Now, Henry, A is the indefinite article, you see, and must be used only with the singular noun.  You can say a man, but you can’t say a men, can you?’ ‘Yes, I can say Amen, too,’ was the ready rejoinder.  ‘Father says it always at the end of his prayers.’

“‘Come, Henry, now don’t be joking.  Now, decline He.’  ’Nominative he, possessive his, objective him.’  ’You see, his is possessive.  Now, you can say his book, but you can’t say him book.’  ’Yes, I do say hymn book, too,’ said the impracticable scholar, with a quizzical twinkle.  Each one of these sallies made his young teacher laugh, which was the victory he wanted.