But Hannah found no leisure to teach him.  And besides she thought it would be time enough some years to come for Ishmael to learn to read.  So thought not our boy, however, as a few days proved.

One night Hannah had taken home a dress to one of the plantation negroes, who were now her only customers, and it was late when she returned to the hut.  When she opened the door a strange sight met her eyes.  The Professor of Odd Jobs occupied the seat of honor in the arm chair in the chimney corner.  On his knees lay the open Bible; while by his side stood little Ishmael, holding an end of candle in his hand, and diligently conning the large letters on the title page.  The little fellow looked up with his face full of triumph, exclaiming: 

“Oh, aunty, I know all the letters on this page now!  And the professor is going to teach me to read!  And I am going to help him gather his herbs and roots every day to pay him for his trouble!”

The professor looked up and smiled apologetically, saying: 

“I just happened in, Miss Hannah, to see if there was anything wanting to be done, and I found this boy lying on the floor with the Bible open before him trying to puzzle out the letters for himself.  And as soon as he saw me he up and struck a bargain with me to teach him to read.  And I’ll tell you what, Miss Hannah, he’s going to make a man one of these days!  You know I’ve been a colored schoolmaster, among my other professions, and I tell you I never came across such a quick little fellow as he is, bless his big head!  There now, my little man, that’s learning enough for one sitting.  And besides the candle is going out,” concluded the professor, as he arose and closed the book and departed.

But again Ishmael held a different opinion from his elders; and lying down before the fire-lit hearth, with the book open before him, he went over and over his lesson, grafting it firmly in his memory lest it should escape him.  In this way our boy took his first step in knowledge.  Two or three times in the course of the week the professor would come to give him another lesson.  And Ishmael paid for his tuition by doing the least of the little odd jobs for the professor of that useful art.

“You see I can feel for the boy like a father, Miss Hannah,” said the professor, after giving his lesson one evening; “because, you know, I am in a manner self-educated myself.  I had to pick up reading, writing, and ’rithmetick any way I could from the white children.  So I can feel for this boy as I once felt for myself.  All my children are girls; but if I had a son I couldn’t feel more pride in him than I do in this boy.  And I tell you again, he is going to make a man one of these days.”

Ishmael thought so too.  He had previsions of future success, as every very intelligent lad must have; but at present his ambition took no very lofty flights.  The greatest man of his acquaintance was the Professor of Odd Jobs.  And to attain the glorious eminence occupied by the learned and eloquent dignitary was the highest aspiration of our boy’s early genius.