“I wish I could go West and join the Indians so that I
should have no lessons to learn,” said an unhappy small boy who could discover
no atom of sense or purpose in any one of the three R’s.
“You never made a greater mistake,” said the scribe, “for
the young Indians have many hard lessons from their earliest days – hard
lessons and hard punishments. With them
the dread penalty of failure is ‘go hungry till you win,’ and no harder task
have they than their reading lesson. Not
twenty-six characters are to be learned in this exercise, but one thousand; not
clear straight print are they, but dim, washed-out, crooked traces; not
in-doors on comfortable chairs, with a patient teacher always near, but out in
the forest, often alone and in every kind of weather, they slowly decipher
their letters and read sentences of the oldest writing on earth – a style so
old that the hieroglyphics of Egypt, the cylinders of Nippur, and the drawings
of the cave men are as a thing of today in comparison – the one universal
script – the tracks in the dust, mud, or snow.