The Life of Jean Henri Fabre 



was a plank fastened to the wall all round the 

 room, while in the middle was a chair bereft of 

 its straw, a blackboard and a stick of chalk. 



Morning and evening, at the sound of the bell, 

 there came rushing in some fifty young imps who, 

 having shown themselves hopeless dunces with their 

 Cornelius Nepos, had been relegated, in the phrase 

 of the day, to " a few good years of French." 

 Those who had found mensa too much for them 

 came to me to get a smattering of grammar. Chil- 

 dren and strapping lads were there, mixed up to- 

 gether, at very different educational stages, but all 

 incorrigibly agreed to play tricks upon the master, 

 the boy-master, who was no older than some of 

 them, or even younger. 



To the little ones I gave their first lessons in 

 reading; the intermediate ones I showed how they 

 should hold their pen to write a few lines of dicta- 

 tion on their knees; to the big ones I revealed the 

 secrets of fractions and even the mysteries of Euclid. 

 And to keep this restless crowd in order, to give 

 each mind work in accordance with its strength, 

 to keep attention aroused, and lastly to expel dulness 

 from the gloomy room, whose walls dripped melan- 

 choly even more than dampness, my one resource 

 was my tongue, my one weapon my stick of chalk. 



Things improved, however: a master came, and 

 came to stay. I myself secured tables on which 

 my pupils were able to write instead of scribbling 

 on their knees; and, as my class was daily increas- 

 ing in numbers, it ended by being divided into two. 

 As soon as I had an assistant to look after the 



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