My Schooling 



pine, hollowed throughout Its length with a 

 red-hot Iron. By means of this channel, one's 

 breath Is applied, from a convenient distance, 

 to the spot which Is to be revived. With a 

 couple of stones for supports, the master's 

 bundle of sticks and our own logs blaze and 

 flicker, each of us having to bring a log of 

 wood In the morning, if he would share In the 

 treat. 



For that matter, the fire was not exactly lit 

 for us, but, above all, to warm a row of three 

 pots In which simmered the pigs' food, a mix- 

 ture of potatoes and bran. That, despite the 

 tribute of a log, was the real object of the 

 brushwood-fire. The two boarders, on their 

 stools, In the best places, and we others sitting 

 on our heels formed a semicircle around those 

 big cauldrons, full to the brim and giving off 

 little jets of steam, with puff-puff-pufling 

 sounds. The bolder among us, when the 

 master's eyes were engaged elsewhere, would 

 dig a knife into a well-cooked potato and add 

 it to their bit of bread; for I must say that. If 

 we did little work In my school, at least we did 

 a deal of eating. It was the regular custom 

 to crack a few nuts and nibble at a crust while 

 writing our page or setting out our rows of 

 figures. 



135 



