The teacher was strict but enthusiastic; she told the children, over and over, that German was a beautiful language, and her face always had a glow when she said this.  At such times the children looked patient; they supposed it must be so, because she was an adult and their teacher; and they believed her with the same manner of believing which those of them who went to Sunday-school used there when the Sunday-school teachers were pushed into explanations of various matters set forth in the Old Testament, or gave reckless descriptions of heaven.  That is to say, the children did not challenge or deny; already they had been driven into habits of resignation and were passing out of the age when childhood is able to reject adult nonsense.

Thus, to Ramsey Milholland, the German language seemed to be a collection of perverse inventions for undeserved torment; it was full of revolting surprises in the way of genders; vocally it often necessitated the employment of noises suggestive of an incompletely mastered knowledge of etiquette; and far inside him there was something faintly but constantly antagonistic to it—­yet, when the teacher declared that German was incomparably the most beautiful language in the world, one of the many facets of his mind submissively absorbed the statement as light to be passed inward; it was part of the lesson to be learned.  He did not know whether the English language was beautiful or not; he never thought about that, and no one ever said anything to him about it.  Moreover, though his deeper inward hated “German,” he liked his German teacher, and it was pleasant to look at her when that glow came upon her face.

Sometimes, too, there were moments of relaxation in her class, when she would stop the lesson and tell the children about Germany:  what a beautiful, good country it was, so trim and orderly, with such pleasant customs, and all the people sensible and energetic and healthy.  There was “Music” again in the German class, which was another alleviation; though it was the same old “Star Spangled Banner” over again.  Ramsey was tired of the song and tired of “My Country ’Tis of Thee”; they were bores, but it was amusing to sing them in German.  In German they sounded “sort o’ funny,” so he didn’t mind this bit of the day’s work.

Half an hour later there arrived his supreme trial of this particular morning.  Arithmetic then being the order of business before the house, he was sent alone to the blackboard, supposedly to make lucid the proper reply to a fatal conundrum in decimals, and under the glare and focus of the whole room he breathed heavily and itched everywhere; his brain at once became sheer hash.  He consumed as much time as possible in getting the terms of the problem stated in chalk; then, affecting to be critical of his own handiwork, erased what he had done and carefully wrote it again.  After that, he erased half of it, slowly retraced the figures, and stepped back as if to see whether perspective improved their appearance.  Again he lifted the eraser.